The police captain finished lighting a little cigarillo and said, “It’s possible Señor Reles was shot during last night’s fireworks,” he said.

“For Chinese New Year? That would certainly have covered up the sound of any gunshots.”

He was a smallish, handsome, clean-shaven man. His neat olive-green uniform seemed to complement the light brown color of his smooth face. He spoke English with only a trace of a Spanish accent. And all the time he was speaking he leaned casually on the doorjamb, as if doing nothing more pressing than offering a halfhearted solution for fixing a broken-down car. Almost as if he didn’t really care who had murdered Max Reles. And perhaps he didn’t. Even in Batista’s militia there were plenty of people who didn’t much care for the presence of American gangsters in Cuba.

“The fireworks started at midnight,” continued the captain. “They lasted approximately thirty minutes.” He moved through the open sliding glass door and out onto the terrace. “My guess is that during the noise, which was considerable, the assassin shot Señor Reles from out here on the terrace.”

We followed the captain outside.

“Possibly he climbed up from the eighth floor using the scaffolding erected around the hotel sign.”

Meyer Lansky glanced over the wall. “That’s a hell of a climb,” he murmured. “What do you think, Jake?”

Jake Lansky nodded. “The captain is right. The killer had to come up here. Either that or he had a key, in which case he would have to have gotten past Waxey. Which doesn’t seem likely.”

“Not likely,” said his brother. “But all the same, it is possible.”

Waxey shook his head. “No fucking way,” he said. Suddenly his normally whispering voice sounded angry.

“Maybe you were asleep,” said the police captain.

Waxey looked very indignant at this suggestion, which was enough to have Jake Lansky stand between him and the police captain and try to defuse a situation that threatened to get ugly. Anything involving Waxey would have threatened that much.

With one hand placed firmly on Waxey’s chest, Jake Lansky said, “I should introduce you, Meyer. This is Captain Sánchez. He’s from the police station around the corner on Zulueta. Captain Sánchez, this is my brother, Meyer. And this”—he looked at me—“this is . . .” He hesitated for a moment, as though trying to remember not my real name—I could see that he knew what that was—but my false one.

“Carlos Hausner,” I said.

Captain Sánchez nodded and then addressed all of his remarks to Meyer Lansky. “I spoke to His Excellency the president just a few minutes ago,” he said. “First of all, he wishes me to express his sympathies to you, Señor Lansky. For the terrible loss of your friend. He also wishes me to reassure you that the Havana police will do everything in its power to catch the perpetrator of this heinous crime.”