Free Havana by Stephen Hunter Page B

awesome breasts, nor at the undulations of high, proud buttocks, nor at the firm, luscious legs held just so tensely atop a pair of spindly black heels, for he had ascertained that so dressed, she probably didn’t conceal a machete or a hand grenade, and had passed on to other concerns.
    â€œYes, sir,” said Earl, in his dullest cop voice.
    â€œLet’s see where she goes,” said the boss, still consumed by the presence of the undulating brown woman. “Just, you know, for the damned heck of it.”
    â€œYes, boss.”
    The car oozed down the narrow street, over ancient cobblestones laid by slaves in the previous century or two. Lights danced or sparkled, illuminating the brown flesh.
    The woman, all ajiggle on staked heels and thongs that cut into her ankles, at last found her destination, and saucily halted. She turned to confront the men in the close-by Cadillac, and threw a lascivious wink right at the boss. Then she opened a door bathed in red light, and slipped inside.
    â€œBoss, I think she likes you.”
    â€œI think she do, too. Don’t you, Earl?”
    Earl thought: she’s a whore. She’s paid to like you. That’s what whores do. That’s why they’re whores.
    â€œShe looks available,” was all Earl could think to say.
    â€œPepe, you pull over here. You follow her up, Pepe, and see what’s what. You give me a good report.”
    Pepe started to get out.
    â€œNow hold on, sir,” said Earl. “Mr. Congressman, this is not a good idea. This here is a very tough part of town, that I know. That gal is a whore, sure as rain and heat. You don’t know who’s up there, some pimp fellow with a knife, some robbers, it’s all the kind of thing a man in your position cannot be involved in, let me tell you that. Nothing here for you but bad trouble, sir.”
    â€œNow, Earl,” began Boss Harry, but it was Lane Brodgins who took over.
    â€œDamn, Swagger, it ain’t up to you to judge and call shots. This here is a United States congressman and he will go and do as he pleases and your job isn’t to second-guess him but to make goddamn clear and sure he is safe. That is your only job, goddammit.”
    â€œEarl, you go with Pepe and you see what’s what. We’ll wait here. Pepe, come here a second.”
    The tough little Cuban leaned close, and Harry whispered something in his ear. Pepe nodded sagely.
    Earl didn’t say a thing. Didn’t seem like there was much to say. His hand fled to the big Colt Super .38 resting in the holster hung under his left shoulder, to remind himself, yep, it was there. Then he went along with Pepe, under the glow of the red bulb, and watched as Pepe knocked. In time, a small square hatch in the door opened at eye level, and someone examined them from within, up and down. Then the hatch snapped shut, the door opened, and in they went.

Chapter 9
    Speshnev never followed directly. He had learned that lesson the hard way, in Barcelona, in 1937, when two members of the Anarcho-Syndicalists had observed him, counter-ambushed, and sent him crawling through the alleys with a Luger bullet in his belly.
    So he ran his operation carefully using classic technique, drawing on a hundred years of tsarist and Cheka-NKVD collective espionage experience. He still did the small things well. He never went out of town. It was impossible to follow on the dusty Cuban roads. But in Havana, it was different. He trailed by taxicab, but never directly. Sometimes he paralleled, other times, if streets were busy, he crosscut and switched back. He had a bagful of hats and changed them every hour, from the white straw boater so popular in the streets to the more elegant felt fedora, to a shapeless straw rural head cover, to, finally, a red bandanna, knotted tightly about his head. He never wanted to stay in the same profile. He had two ties and a bolo, which came on or off as circumstances warranted; his jacket too