“If you say so.”

Noreen went to the drinks trolley and began fixing herself a large one. López was smoking a cigarette and looking sheepish while pretending to read a magazine from a rack as big as a newspaper kiosk.

“What brings you down here?” she asked.

So far she had done a great job of not meeting my eye. Not that I was trying to put it in her way, exactly. But both of us knew that I knew what she and López had been doing. You could actually smell it on them. Like fried food. I decided to offer a swift explanation and then make myself scarce.

“I came to see if Dinah was all right,” I said.

“Why shouldn’t she be all right? Has something happened?” Noreen was looking at me, her embarrassment now temporarily overcome by concern for her daughter. “Where is she? Is Dinah all right?”

“She’s fine,” I said. “But Max Reles isn’t looking his best right now, on account of how someone pumped seven bullets into him late last night. As a matter of fact, he’s dead.”

Noreen stopped making her drink for a moment. “I see,” she said. “Poor Max.” Then she pulled a face. “Listen to me. What a damn hypocrite I am. As if I’m actually sorry he’s dead. And it’s not like I’m in the least bit surprised, given who and what he was.” She shook her head. “I’m sorry to sound callous. How’s Dinah taken it? Oh, Lord—she wasn’t there, was she, when he . . . ?”

“No, she wasn’t,” I said. “Dinah’s just fine. Already getting over it, wouldn’t you know?”

“Do the police have any idea who killed Max?” asked López.

“Now, that’s a question, isn’t it?” I said. “I formed the impression that this is one crime the police are hoping will solve itself. Either that or someone else will solve it for them.”

López nodded. “Yes, you’re probably right, of course. The Havana militia can hardly start asking too many questions without the risk of upsetting the whole rotten apple cart. In case it turns out that one of Havana’s other gangsters should prove to be responsible for Max’s murder. There’s never been a gangland murder in Cuba. Not of a boss, anyway. The last thing I imagine Batista needs is a gangland war on his doorstep.” He smiled. “Yes, I think I’m pleased to say that the politics of this thing look fiendishly complicated.”

As it turned out, things were a lot more complicated than that.

Chapter 15

15