Dry Bones (39 page)

Dunne had a vague memory of the exchange:
Providence.
A third-rate city in a third-rate state. Or something more. It remained to be seen.

The plan they agreed on took advantage of the presence of Roberta and Frieda. They’d rendezvous on New Year’s Eve at nine p.m. in the Barcelona’s second-floor ballroom—tourists enjoying a festive supper with good food and a Latin band, and none of the overpriced excesses associated with the high rollers at the splashy nightclubs and casinos.

After the midnight revel, the women would retire to their rooms. The three men would go for a stroll, mixing with the crowds who filled the streets, rich and poor mingling in a raucous but good-natured melee of drinking, singing, and dancing. They’d gradually make their way west to Calle Consulado, where the presence of several well-known but discreetly run brothels added to the celebratory mix.

Once they’d taken care of the bodyguard and chloroformed Heinz, they’d drive to a prearranged spot on the Prado, where Frieda and Roberta would be waiting in a car hired by Schwimmer. (He’d dropped a wad of dollars on the driver to get him to take the
night off and, after a stormy disagreement with his sister, consented to let her act as driver.) They’d transfer Heinz and proceed to the pier where the boat to Mexico was moored.

In the morning, they did a dry run, visiting each location and going over every detail. A bottle of champagne with compliments of the management was delivered to Fin and Roberta’s room in the late afternoon. They left it untouched. When they were on the boat to Mexico, they’d have a real celebration.

The ballroom at the Barcelona was filled to capacity. They did their best to look as if they were enjoying the New Year’s festivities, taking turns on the dance floor with Roberta and Frieda, who, unlike the men, genuinely seemed to be having fun. They bantered with two other American couples at nearby tables, toasting with champagne-filled glasses they conveniently misplaced or spilled.

By half past twelve, the reserve exhibited earlier in the evening had fallen away. The band was playing louder. Everybody was up dancing. A conga line formed. Roberta and Frieda made an inconspicuous exit. Dunne led Schwimmer and Bassante out among the tide of swaying dancers, strolling guitarists, bongo players, and sloshed
yanqui
tourists surging through the streets.

They turned onto Calle Consulado. Roused by a burst of fireworks, a squadron of bats swooped around the dome of the Capitolio. Heinz’s car was where they expected it to be. The driver puffed on a cigarette, ignoring the antics of giddy, inebriated pedestrians.

They huddled in a darkened doorway across from the brothel. Schwimmer pushed back his sleeve and nervously eyed his wristwatch. “Heinz will be out any minute. Let’s take our positions.” He turned to Bassante. “Ready?”

Bassante carefully removed the syringe from its case. “Ready.”

“Soon as Fin and I get to the other side, make your move.”

Dunne surveyed the street. Perfect setup for an easy snatch. Too perfect. Too easy.

“Let’s go.” Schwimmer stepped out of the doorway.

Dunne grabbed his arm. “Wait.”

“For what?” Schwimmer spit out the words in a tight, angry whisper.

“For Heinz to come out.”

“For Christ’s sake, that’s not what we agreed to.” He shoved Dunne’s hand away.

“Heinz may not be in there.”

“If you’re backing out, fine. Bassante and I will take care of this.”

Dunne stepped close to Schwimmer. “Are you sure that’s Heinz’s regular driver?”

“What are you getting at?”

“Maybe this is a diversion.”

“If it isn’t, we’re blowing our best—and probably last—chance to grab him.”

“What’s the harm in waiting until Heinz comes out? We’ll still have the advantage of surprise.”

“Fin is right. If we go ahead and he isn’t in there, we’ll be exposed.”

“It’s already ten after one.” Schwimmer glowered at Bassante “This is a hell of a time to change plans.”

“It’s better to make sure before we move.” Bassante repocketed the syringe.

“I guess you two have made up your minds.” Schwimmer stalked away. Dunne followed him to the other side of the street. They loitered silently in the gloomy space beneath the portico of shuttered building beside the brothel. A few tipsy patrons emerged and went their way. Heinz wasn’t among them. His car and driver stayed where they were. Bassante peeked out of the doorway once or twice. One thirty came and went.

Schwimmer began to pace. “I think we should go in and see if he’s there.”

“I doubt the madam will give us a guided tour.”

The crowd in the street thinned until all that was left was a woman in a long gown and her escort in a bedraggled tuxedo. They fell asleep on a doorstep.

At two o’clock, a portly, cigar-smoking man in a guayabera and paper party hat stepped out of the brothel. He pulled a string of firecrackers from his pocket, lit the fuse with his cigar, and tossed them into the street. He stopped in front of the portico and smiled at Schwimmer. “
¡Feliz año nuevo!
”

Schwimmer smiled back, unprepared for the left hook that crashed into the side of his head and sent him reeling toward the street. Brass knuckles flashed in the light of the street lamp as a second blow hit. Schwimmer swayed but didn’t fall.

Dunne pivoted. His neck was noosed by a thick forearm that jerked him back. The choking pressure made him feel as if he might pass out. He rammed his elbow backward, swung around, grabbed his attacker’s hair, pulled his head down, and shot a knee into his face. A geyser of blood spurted from his nose.

Schwimmer lay in a ball on the ground—knees drawn up, hands covering his face—trying to protect himself from a ceaseless succession of kicks. Dunne pulled his gun from his pocket and slammed Schwimmer’s attacker at the base of his skull, knocking off his party hat and sending him to his knees.

“Fin!” Bassante wobbled toward him from across the street. He stopped and collapsed face first. His head hit the curb with an ugly, hollow thud. Whoever he’d been struggling with hopped into the car supposedly waiting for Heinz. The driver stomped on the gas pedal and the car roared away.

Dunne knelt beside Bassante and rolled him on his back. The syringe he’d held at the ready was stuck in his wrist. Dunne dragged him under the portico. Schwimmer lay moaning in the shadows.

Their attackers had fled. Dunne pounded on the door of the brothel. It stayed closed. A car turned the corner from the direction of the Capitolio. Dunne stuck the gun in his belt, planted himself in the middle of the street, and waved his arms back and forth as the headlights approached.

The car stopped. The passenger door opened. Roberta ran toward him. “Fin, we waited on the Prado. Finally, Frieda insisted we look for you. Where are the others?”

“Help me get them into the car.” He led her to the portico. They lifted Bassante and Schwimmer, who were both unconscious, into the back. She gasped when she saw their battered faces.

Dunne got in the front seat. At his feet was a small ice-filled bucket with a bottle inserted upside down. “What’s this?”

Roberta popped her head up from the back. She pressed a handkerchief to Bassante’s bloodied face. “It’s the bottle that was sent to our room. Frieda and I thought we’d celebrate once we got to the boat.” She held out her hands. “Pass me the ice.”

Dunne plucked a chilled bottle of champagne from the bucket. “You got a little ahead of yourself, don’t you think?” He lifted the bucket and shifted it to her over his shoulder. “‘The best-laid schemes o’ mice an’ men gang aft agley.’”

He read her eyes in the rearview mirror: more irritation than fear. She scooped out a handful of ice, wrapped it in her handkerchief, and held it to Bassante’s face.

As Frieda drove down Calle Consulado, he gave them both an abbreviated version of what had happened. Frieda banged the dashboard with the heel of her hand. “Heinz fooled us.”

People were streaming toward the Malecón. The celebration seemed to be spontaneously reviving. “Do you know where he lives, Frieda?”

“I rode past with Stefan. It’s off La Rampa. I’m sure I can find my way.”

“We have to get these two to a hospital.” Roberta leaned into the front seat. “Heinz must be gone by now.”

Frieda veered onto the Malecón and sped toward the Vedado. “We won’t know for sure until we see for ourselves.” They turned left when they reached La Rampa. The car in front braked to a sudden stop. She had to swerve to avoid hitting it. Lights were coming on everywhere. Cuban flags sprouted from windows.

“Pull over.” Dunne stopped a crowd of teenagers. “
¿Qué pasa?
”

They danced around him. “
¡Batista se fue! ¡El Presidente ha huido!
”

A band of men wearing red-and-black armbands—the colors of Castro’s Twenty-sixth of July Movement—marched down the middle of the street. They surrounded the car. Several waved revolvers. A twentyish-looking youth lowered his revolver, stuck his brown, handsome, smile-creased face into the car. He glanced around and yelled, “
¡La revolución está aquí!
”

Frieda looked at Dunne. “What should I do?”

“For starters, put the car in park.” Dunne reached down, grabbed the bottle of champagne, opened the door, and got out. He ripped off the gold foil, untwisted the wire around the top, and levered the cork with his thumb until it shot into the air with a loud, celebratory
pop
. Fizzing, bubbling liquid gushed out. A cheer went up

Dunne raised the bottle to his mouth, gulped. The contents spilled across his chin. He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand and passed the bottle to the revolver-wielding youth, who took a generous swig as he simultaneously pointed his revolver into the air and fired a shot. There was more cheering. “
¡Acompáñenos!
” The youth put his arm through Dunne’s. The crowd moved off with Dunne in tow.

“Oh God.” Frieda sounded close to tears. She rested her forehead on the steering wheel. “What else can go wrong?”

Roberta climbed out of the rear seat. Dunne was stopped at the corner. Several men were around him. He had one hand on the
shoulder of the young man with the revolver; with the other, he gestured toward the car. The young man nodded. He raised the champagne bottle, as if making a toast. Dunne turned and walked back.

“I was afraid they wouldn’t let you go.” Roberta took his hand. “What did you tell them?”

“The truth.” He opened the rear door. “I explained my two friends in the back had a run-in with the police, and I had to get them to a hospital. The champagne helped. They were sympathetic. They’re headed to the casinos to show that the Cuban people are taking back their country. Batista has already fled”—he snapped his fingers—“just like that. It’s the gangsters and the American government they blame. They bear no grudge against the American people. At least for now.” He gave her a gentle shove. “Get in.”

Frieda drove slowly. The swelling mobs parted reluctantly to let the car proceed. In the distance, there was a telltale percussive rattle, either Batista’s loyalists making a last stand or, as seemed more likely from the growing numbers in the streets, the rebels celebrating their triumph. Maybe both.

Stefan Schwimmer lay still. Bassante let out a moan. His eyes were closed. The ice-laden handkerchief Roberta held against his mouth was soaked with blood. “Let’s get these two to a doctor. We’ve had enough bad luck for tonight. We can try again in the morning.”

“We’re getting close.” Frieda looked around intently. “I know it.”

“Roberta’s right,” Dunne said. “There’s just no sense trying to make our way through this chaos.”

Frieda pulled onto a side street and parked. “The house is right around here.” She grabbed her shoulder bag, hopped out of the car, and started down the street.

“You’ve got to stop her!” Roberta said. “I’ll stay here with these two.”

He stared at the dashboard. He ran his hand back and forth over the surface. It looked like metal but felt like water, cold and liquid. Which was it? He pushed on it with the tip of his index finger.

She poked him hard. “What are you waiting for?”

“The dashboard.”

“What about it?”

He felt it again. The water turned back to metal. How could that be?

“Fin, are you all right?”

“Fine.” He stepped out of the car into the street. The outlines of the large, impressive houses that lined both sides of the street loomed in the darkness behind a wall of protective shrubbery. Frieda passed beneath the watery light of the street’s lone lamppost. He followed her. The light grew brighter as he approached until it was so intense he had to shield his eyes. When he was directly below, he looked up. The moon and lamp had melded into an eye the size of a giant grapefruit. Surrounded by a green iris, the pupil was translucent. Yellow light streamed through it.

“This is it, Fin. I’m sure of it.” Frieda was calling to him in a low voice from a few yards away. She stepped around the shrubbery into a driveway. The carpet of finely ground coral crunched beneath her feet. Ahead was a gracefully arched porte cochere. She mounted three stone steps onto the veranda of the house

As Dunne walked onto the doorway, the bits of coral scurried away. He heard them cry. They were alive. He tiptoed as lightly as could, trying not to crush them. He joined Frieda on the veranda as she peered through a locked set of French doors into a room that was empty except for some scattered pieces of sheet-covered furniture. She shook her head. “I’m afraid we’re too late. He’s already gone.”

He put his face to the glass. The sheets rotated around one another in a dance-like motion. As they circled, they fell to the
floor, revealing not chairs or sofas, but piles of bones. The bones stirred, snapped together, toes to feet to ankle bones, pelvis and ribs, self-constructing skeletons, each crowned by a smiling skull. They joined hand to bony hand.

“Christ almighty!” Dunne twisted and jiggled the unyielding doorknob.

Frieda seized his arm. “What are you doing?”

“Look in there!”

“Lower your voice, Fin. We don’t know who might still be around.”