Dexter by Design (Dexter 4)

“What’s this?” I asked.

“Cuban Gatorade,” Chutsky said. “Cheers.” He drained his glass and put the empty down on the cart, so I allowed myself to be shamed into doing the same. The drink tasted mild, sweet, slightly minty, and I found that it did, indeed, seem to be kind of refreshing in the way that Gatorade is on a hot day. I put the empty down next to Chutsky’s. He picked up another one, so I did, too. “Salud,” he said. We clinked glasses and I drank. It really did taste good, and since I’d had almost nothing to eat or drink in the scramble of getting to the airport, I let myself enjoy it.

Behind us, the elevator door slid open and our bellboy dashed out clutching our bags. “Hey, there you are,” Chutsky said. “Let’s see the room.” He drained his glass, and I did, too, and we followed the bellboy down the hall.

About halfway down the hall I began to feel a little bit odd, as if my legs had suddenly been turned into balsawood. “What was in that Gatorade?” I asked Chutsky.

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“Mostly rum,” he said. “What, you never had a mojito before?”

“I don’t think so,” I said.

He gave a short grunt that might have been intended as a laugh. “Get used to it,” he said. “You’re in Havana now.”

I followed him down the hall, which had suddenly grown longer and a little brighter. I was feeling very refreshed now. But somehow I made it all the way to the room and through the door. The bellboy heaved our suitcases up onto a stand and flung open the curtains to reveal a very nice room, tastefully furnished in the classical style. There were two beds, separated by a nightstand, and a bathroom to the left of the room’s door.

“Very nice,” said Chutsky, and the bellboy smiled and gave him a half bow. “Thanks,” Chutsky said, and held out his hand with a ten-dollar bill in it. “Thanks very much.”

The bellboy took the money with a smile and a nod and promised that we only had to call and he would move heaven and earth to help fulfill our slightest whim, and then he disappeared out the door as I flopped facedown onto the bed nearest the window. I chose that bed because it was closest, but it was also much too bright with the sun rocketing in through the window so aggressively, and I closed my eyes. The room did not spin, and I did not suddenly slip into unconsciousness, but it seemed like a very good idea to lie there for a while with my eyes closed.

“Ten bucks,” Chutsky said. “That’s what most of the people here make in a month. And boom-bah—he gets it for five minutes’ work. He’s probably got a PhD in astrophysics.” There was a short and welcome pause, and then Chutsky said, in a voice that seemed much farther away, “Hey, you all right, buddy?”

“Never better,” I said, and my voice was kind of far away, too. “But I think I’ll just take a nap for a minute.”

THIRTY-ONE

WHEN I WOKE UP THE ROOM WAS QUIET AND DARK and my mouth was very dry. I fumbled around on the nightstand for a moment until I found a lamp, and I switched it on. In its light I saw that Chutsky had closed the curtains and then gone out somewhere. I also saw a bottle of drinking water beside the lamp, and I grabbed it and ripped the top off, gratefully sucking down about half the bottle in one fell swoop.

I stood up. I was a little bit stiff from sleeping on my face, but other than that I felt surprisingly good, as well as hungry, which was not surprising. I went to the window and opened the curtains. It was still bright daylight, but the sun had moved off to one side and calmed down a little, and I stood looking out at the harbor and the seawall and the large sidewalk that ran along beside it filled with people. None of them seemed in any hurry; they were strolling rather than going anywhere, and groups of them collected here and there for talking, singing, and, from what I could gather from some of the visible activity, advice to the lovelorn.

Farther out in the harbor a large inner tube bobbed in the swell, a man dangling through its center and holding what looked to be a Cuban yo-yo, which is a spool of fishing line with no reel or pole. And farther still, just on the inside of the horizon, three large ships were steaming past, whether freighters or passenger liners I couldn’t tell. The birds wheeled above the waves, the sun sparkled off the water; all in all it was a beautiful sight, and it made me realize that there was absolutely nothing to eat at the window, so I found my room key on the bedside table and headed down to the lobby.

I found a very large and formal dining room on the far side of the elevators from the front desk, and tucked into a corner beside it was a dark wood-paneled bar. They were both very nice, but not really what I was looking for. The bartender told me, in perfect English, that there was a snack bar in the basement, down the stairs at the far side of the lobby, and I thanked him, also in perfect English, and headed for the stairs.

The snack bar was decorated in tribute to the movies, and I had a bad moment until I saw the menu and realized they served more than popcorn. I ordered a Cuban sandwich, naturally, and an Iron Beer, and sat at a table contemplating lights, camera, and action with just a trace of bitterness. Weiss was somewhere nearby, or about to be, and he had promised to make Dexter a big star. I did not want to be a star. I much preferred toiling in shadowy obscurity, quietly compiling a record of flawless excellence in my chosen field. This would soon be utterly impossible unless I managed to stop Weiss, and since I was not really sure how I planned to do that, it was a very distressing prospect. Still, the sandwich was good.

When I had finished eating, I went back up the stairs and, on a whim, down the grand marble staircase and outside to the front of the hotel, where a line of taxis stood guard. I walked aimlessly by them and up the long sidewalk, past a row of ancient Chevys and Buicks, and even a Hudson—I had to read the name off the front end. Several very happy-looking people leaned against the cars, and all of them were eager to take me for a ride, but I smiled my way past them and headed for the distant front gate. Beyond these was an untidy heap of what seemed to be golf carts with brightly colored plastic shells attached to them. Their drivers were younger and not quite so high end as those attending the Hudson, but they were equally eager to prevent me from having to use my legs. Nevertheless, I managed to get through them as well.

At the gate I paused and looked around. Ahead of me was a crooked street that led past a bar or nightclub. To my right a road led downhill to the boulevard that ran along the seawall, and to my left, also down a hill, I could see what looked like a movie theater on the corner and a row of shops. And as I was contemplating all this and trying to decide which way to go, a taxi stopped beside me, the window rolled down, and Chutsky called to me urgently from inside. “Get in,” he said. “Come on, buddy. In the cab. Hurry up.” I had no idea why it was so important, but I climbed in and the cab took us on up to the hotel, turning right before the front door and pulling into a parking lot that butted up against one wing of the building.

“You can’t be wandering around out front,” Chutsky said. “If this guy sees you, the game’s over.”

“Oh,” I said, feeling slightly stupid. He was right, of course; but Dexter was so unused to daytime stalking that it had not occurred to me.

“Come on,” he said, and he climbed out of the cab, holding a new leather briefcase. He paid the driver and I followed him through a side door that led past a few shops and right to the elevators. We went straight up to our room with nothing else to say, until we got inside. Chutsky threw the briefcase on the bed, flung himself into a chair, and said, “Okay, we got some time to kill, and it’s best to do it right here in the room.” He gave me a look that one might give to a very slow child and added, “So this guy doesn’t know we’re here.” He looked at me for a moment to see if I understood him and then, apparently figuring out that I did, he pulled out a battered little booklet and a pencil, opened the book, and began to do Sudoku.

“What’s in your briefcase?” I said, mostly because I was a little irritated.

Chutsky smiled, pulled the case toward him with his steel hook, and flipped it open. It was full of cheap souvenir percussion instruments, most of them stamped CUBA.

“Why?” I asked him.

He just kept smiling. “You never know what might turn up,” he said, and turned back to his no-doubt-fascinating Sudoku puzzle. Left to my own devices, I pulled the other chair in front of the television, switched it on, and watched Cuban sitcoms.

We sat there peacefully enough until very close to dusk. Then Chutsky glanced at the clock and said, “Okay, buddy, let’s get going.”

“Going where?” I said.