CHAPTER 70
CRUZ PARKED THE Mercedes fleet car under the one streetlight on North Western, a seedy block in the heart of Hollywood. Metal security doors had been rolled down over the surrounding storefronts: Quality Market, Lupita’s beauty salon, AAA discount mufflers. Iglesia Cristiana Fuente de Salvación, a church housed in what looked like a former appliance store, was also closed for the night.
Across the street, a yellow neon sign showing a cocktail glass turned on its side and the name Havana marked an otherwise nondescript cinder-block building. Cruz undid his ponytail, finger-combed his hair, replaced the band, then got out and set the car alarm. He straightened his jacket.
The muscle at the club’s door was in his thirties, shaved head, small metal-framed glasses, bulked up. Cruz said, “Buenas noches.”
The bouncer said, “You have a reservation?”
“I’m Emilio Cruz, here to meet a lady called Karen Ricci. She told me she was leaving my name at the door.”
The bouncer looked Cruz over, took a long thirty seconds. He said, “You packing?”
“I’m licensed.”
“Doesn’t matter. No guns.”
Cruz sighed, took his gun out of his shoulder holster, shook out the ammo, and handed the gun to the bouncer. The bouncer put the gun in a box attached to the top of a pedestal, handed Cruz a ticket with a number, and opened the door.
Cruz entered a vestibule. There was a narrow flight of stairs and he climbed it, thinking about his gun. The stairway opened into a small room featuring one piece of furniture, what looked to be a hand-carved wardrobe, an armoire.
A hostess was standing beside the wardrobe. She was in her late twenties, Hispanic, big brown eyes, very trim, and wearing a tight pink satin dress. Definitely his type. Although she barely looked at him. Most women at least looked.
She opened the wardrobe door, said, “You go through here and then down the stairs.”
Cruz asked, “I go through the closet?”
The woman nodded. “Si.”
Cuban shirts were hanging on the pole, making a curtain.
Cruz pushed the guayaberas aside and saw that the closet was a cleverly concealed doorway that led directly to the top landing of a spiral staircase. Latin music and loud chatter came up from the bar below.
As Cruz headed down, he took in the dark saloon, richly colored in red and gold, and had the feeling of being sent back in time to a Cuban rum bar, circa the 1920s.
Electric-candle chandeliers lit the place with soft, flattering light. Small tables at the perimeter of the room were occupied, but most of the customers were packed around the white-marble-topped bar, the back of it stacked with rum bottles, maybe seventy different brands.
As Cruz reached the bottom step, he saw that behind the bar was a hallway leading to a cigar bar, designed to look like a back alley in Havana.
Just then, raucous applause broke out.
A dancer came onto a small stage, the spotlight right on her, making gold sequins glitter. She tossed her hair and began to move sensually to a Caribbean beat.
Cruz stood at the sidelines, searching the crowd until he saw one woman drinking alone at a table near the fire exit. He worked his way through the mob, and when he got to her table, he said, “Karen Ricci? I’m Emilio Cruz.”
She said, “Have a seat.”
Cruz pulled out a chair and sat down. Karen Ricci was dark haired, a natural beauty wearing no makeup. It took Cruz a moment to realize that she was in a wheelchair.
“You have my package?” she asked.
Cruz opened his jacket so she could see the edge of the envelope peeking out from his inside breast pocket.
He closed his jacket and said, “May I buy you another drink?”