“If he's not in his room” Chutsky said, “and even if he is in his room and we take him out —either way, I'm sorry to say it, buddy, but our vacation is over.” He nodded at Rogelio. “Sooner or later they find this, and then it's big trouble. We gotta get the hell out of Dodge.”

“But what about Weiss?” I said. “What if he's already gone?” Chutsky shook his head. “He's got to run for his life, too,” he said. “He knows we're after him, and when they find Rogelio's body somebody will remember them together -1 think he's already gone, heading for the hills. But just in case, we gotta check his room. And then beat feet out of Cuba, muy rapido!

I had been terribly afraid he would have some high-tech plan for getting rid of Rogelio's body, like dipping it in laser solution in the bathtub, so I was very relieved to hear that for once he was speaking sound common sense. I had seen almost nothing of Havana except the inside of a hotel room and the bottom of a mojito glass, but it was clearly time to head for home and work on Plan B. “All right” I said. “Let's go.” Chutsky nodded. “Good man” he said. “Grab your pistol.” I took the cold and clunky thing and shoved it into the waistband of my pants, pulling the awful green jacket over it, and as Chutsky closed the closet door I headed for the hallway.

“Put the Do Not Disturb sign on the door” he said. An excellent idea, proving that I was right about his experience. At this point it would be very awkward to have a maid come in to wash the coat hangars. I hung the sign on the door knob and Chutsky followed me out of the room and down the hallway to the stairs.

It was very, very strange to feel myself stalking something in the brightly lit hall, no moon churning through the sky over my shoulder, no bright blade gleaming with anticipation, and no happy hiss from the dark back seat as the Passenger prepared to take the wheel; nothing at all except the lump-thump of Chutsky's feet, the real one and the metal one alternating, and the sound of our breathing as we found the fire door and climbed up the stairs to the eighth floor.

Room 865, just as I had guessed, overlooked the front of the hotel, a perfect spot for Weiss to place his camera. We stood outside the door quietly while Chutsky held his pistol with his hook and fumbled out Rogelio's pass key. He handed it to me, nodded at the door, and whispered, “One. Two. Three.” I shoved the key in, turned the door knob, and stepped back as Chutsky rushed into the room with his gun held high, and I followed along behind, self-consciously holding my pistol at the ready, too.