“Coffee’s the best in Havana.”

“I don’t think there’s any great risk in your doing this, being a foreigner. But there might be some.”

“That’s honest, at any rate. All right. I’ll do that for you, Señor López.”

“Please. Call me Fredo.”

“Okay, Fredo.”

“Shall we say eleven o’clock, tomorrow morning?”

“If you like.”

“You know, it may be that there’s something I can do for you.”

“You can buy me a cup of coffee. I don’t want a will any more than I want a pamphlet.”

“But you will come.”

“I said I’ll be there. And I’ll be there.”

“Good.” López nodded patiently. “Tell me, have you met Noreen’s daughter, Dinah?”

I nodded.

“What did you think of her?”

“I’m still thinking.”

“Quite a girl, isn’t she?” He raised his eyebrows suggestively.

“If you say so. The only thing I know about young women in Havana is that most of them are more efficient Marxists than you and your friends. They know more about the redistribution of wealth than anyone I’ve ever met. Dinah strikes me as the type of girl who knows just what she wants.”

“Dinah wants to be an actress. In Hollywood. In spite of everything that’s happened to Noreen with the House Committee on Un-American Activities. The blacklist. The hate mail. I mean, you can see how all that might upset Dinah.”

“I got the impression that wasn’t what’s worrying her.”

“There’s any number of things to worry about when you have a daughter as headstrong as Dinah, believe me.”

“It sounded like just the one thing to me. She mentioned something about Dinah’s being in with the wrong crowd. Anything in that?”

“Friend, this is Cuba.” López grinned. “We’ve got wrong crowds like some countries have different religions.” He shook his head. “Tomorrow. We’ll talk some more. In private.”

“Come on. Give. I just saved you from a late night out with the militia.”

“The militia’s not the only dangerous dog in town.”

“Meaning?”

There was a squeal of tires at the bottom of the drive. I looked around as yet another car purred up to the house. I say a car, but the Cadillac with its wraparound windshield was more like something from Mars—a red convertible from the red planet. The sort of car on which the built-in fog lamps might easily have been heat rays for the methodical extermination of earthlings. It was as long as a fire truck and probably as well equipped.

“Meaning, I think you’re about to find out,” said López.