Which is how it was that I came to have a girl in the passenger seat of my Chevy as, about a week later, I drove southwest along Cuba’s central highway to Santiago, at the opposite end of the island. The irony of this experience did not escape me; in seeking to escape from being blackmailed by a secret policeman, I had managed to put myself in a position where a brothel madam who was much too clever to threaten me openly felt able to ask a favor that I hardly wanted to grant: to take a chica from another Havana casa with me on my “fishing trip” to Haiti. It was almost certain that Doña Marina knew Lieutenant Quevedo and knew he would have held a very dim view of my taking any kind of a boat trip; but I rather doubted she knew he had threatened to have me deported back to Germany, where I was wanted for murder, unless I agreed to spy on Meyer Lansky, the underworld boss, who was my employer. Either way, I had little choice but to accede to her request, although I could have felt a lot happier about my passenger. Melba Marrero was being sought by the police in connection with the murder of a police captain from the Ninth Precinct, and there were friends of Doña Marina who wanted Melba off the island of Cuba as quickly as possible.

Melba Marrero was in her early twenties, although she hardly liked anyone to know that. I suppose she wanted people to take her seriously and it’s possible that this is why she had shot Captain Balart. But it’s more likely that she had shot him because she was connected with Castro’s communist rebels. She was coffee-colored with a fine gamine face, a belligerent chin, and a stormy-weather look in her dark eyes. Her hair was cut after the Italian fashion—short, layered locks with a few wispy curls combed forward across her face. She wore a plain white blouse, a pair of tight fawn trousers, a tan leather belt, and matching gloves. She looked like she was going riding on a horse that was probably looking forward to it.

“Why didn’t you buy a convertible?” she asked when we were still a way short of Santa Clara, which was to be our first stop. “A convertible is better in Cuba.”

“I don’t like convertibles. People look at you more when you’re driving a convertible. And I don’t much like being looked at.”

“So are you the shy type? Or are you just guilty about something?”

“Neither. Just private.”

“Got a smoke?”

“There’s a packet in the glove box.”

She stabbed the lock on the lid with a finger and let it fall open in front of her.

“Old Gold. I don’t like Old Gold.”