Free Adios Muchachos by Daniel Chavarría Page A

her finger, Victor caressed her golden knee.
    Alicia made herself comfortable.
    “Leave that for some other time; let’s get down to business.”
    Victor smiled and took a drag of his cigar. He searched the inside pocket of his jacket and, without saying a word, placed on the table before her a photograph of a very handsome mulatto man dressed in full African ritual regalia.
    Alicia took the picture and made a sideways nod of approval: “Well, now, who is this?”
    “His name is Cosme. We saw him dancing a few days ago and Elizabeth has taken a fancy to him.”
    Without taking her eyes off the photograph, Alicia arched her eyebrows in admiration: “Damn, your Elizabeth has good taste. Where do I meet this piece of brown sugar and spice?”
    “At the National Folk Ensemble.”
    “I love dancers. They’re flexible and can twist into almost any shape …”
    “Be careful, you can’t always bend everything.”
    Alicia laughed, finished off her shake, put the picture away in her purse, and stood up.
    “Leaving already?”
    “Yes. I have a few things to do. When do you want the show with the mulatto?”
    “If you could get him there Sunday evening it would be perfect.”
    “That doesn’t give me much time. I’ll get on his ass this afternoon. If I hook him, I’ll give you a ring on your cell.”
    “We’ll be ready at nine.”
    She nodded, bent over for the goodbye peck, put on her dark glasses, and started off across the terrace, the summer sunlight projecting an X-ray of her generous thighs through her white skirt.
    Watching her walk away in the blazing sunlight, a young waiter with a glass in his hand came to a sudden halt. The glass he was about to set before a customer also stopped halfway between the tray and the customer’s table. And there it stayed, frozen in time and space, until Alicia pulled away in the convertible and drove off around the first bend.
    When the young man recovered, he looked at Victor and sighed with an air of absolute despondency.
    Only then did the glass reach the table.

Chapter
Eighteen

    Sunday morning. In the elegant golf club in the suburban neighborhood of Capdevila, Victor was playing tennis. Confident, he hit his last serve, exchanged a threeshot volley, and scored. Game point! He approached the net, shook hands with his opponent, and made for the benches on the side of the court. He dried some of the perspiration off his face and neck with a towel and began putting his rackets and balls into his bag. When he finished, he left the court area and walked slowly down a red gravel path.
    He opened his car door, dropped his rackets and gear into the back seat, removed a can of tonic from a miniature cooler, and took a long drink. As he was about to light a cigarette, he heard the crunch of tires on gravel and turned to see who it might be. To his immense surprise, he saw van Dongen getting out of a car with a broad smile across his face. The Nose was wearing a white turtleneck with white trousers and dark heelless loafers. In his hand he had a small leather bag.
    “Do you play tennis, too? What a coincidence!”
    “No coincidence. I came to see you.”
    “Anything urgent?”
    “Not urgent, but very serious.”
    Victor studied him with mounting concern. “It must be very serious to need venting on a Sunday!”
    “Why don’t we walk a little?”
    Victor agreed, took the towel from around his neck and dropped it in the car, and then got in stride beside van Dongen, eager to find out what was up.
    Van Dongen took the typed text of the report out of his little leather bag, unfolded the paper, and handed it to Victor. “I received that from INTERPOL a few days ago.”
    At the mention of INTERPOL, a tremor passed through Victor’s body. He knit his brow and took a furtive look at van Dongen. He was growing paler by the second.
    Finally, he lowered his eyes and read rapidly through the first page, scanned through the second, and gave the report back. “Yes! It’s all true,”