We rode the elevator up to the penthouse, where we were met by Waxey. Seen from up close, his face was like that of a Mexican wrestler—the kind that usually wears a mask. Come to think of it, the rest of him looked like a Mexican wrestler, too. Each of his shoulders resembled the Yucatán peninsula. He didn’t say anything. He just frisked me with hands like Esau’s black-sheep uncle.

The penthouse was modern and about as comfortable as a space-ship. We sat at a glass table and watched each other’s shoes while we ate. Mine were locally sourced and none too clean. My host’s shoes were shinier than a brass bell and every bit as loud. To my surprise the food was kosher, or at least Jewish, since the tall, good-looking woman who served it was also black. Then again, maybe she was a convert to Judaism. She was a good cook.

“The older I get, the more I like Jewish cooking,” Max explained. “I guess it reminds me of when I was a kid. All the food the other kids had, but never me, because my bitch of a mother ran off with a tailor, and Abe and I never saw her again.”

When we got to the coffee, he relit his half-smoked cigar, while I fetched one from his cemetery-sized humidor.

“So let me tell you how you can help me, Gunther. For one thing, you’re not Jewish.”

I let that one go. A quarter-Jew seemed hardly worth mentioning these days.

“You’re not Italian. You’re not Cuban. You’re not even American, and you don’t owe me a damn thing. Hell, Gunther, you don’t even like me that much.”

I didn’t contradict him. We were big boys now. But I didn’t underline it, either. Twenty years was a long time to forget a lot, but I had more reason to dislike him than he would ever know or remember.

“All of this makes you independent. Which is a very valuable quality to possess in Havana. Because it means you owe no one allegiance. None of that would matter if you were a potchka, but you’re not a potchka, you’re a mensch, and the plain fact of the matter is that I could use a mensch who has grand hotel experience—to say nothing of your years with the Berlin police. Why? To help me keep things straight here, that’s why. I want you to take on the role of general manager. In the hotel and in the casino. Someone I can trust. Someone who doesn’t give me any shit. Someone who shoots straight from the hip. Who better than you?”

“Look, Max, I’m flattered, don’t think I’m not. But I don’t need a job right now.”