Live by Night

“We own that?” Joe indicated the whorehouse with a tilt of his chin.

“We own a piece.”

“Then our piece says the girls don’t do alley work.”

Dion looked at him to be sure he was serious. “Fine. I’ll look into it, Father Joe. Can we concentrate on the issue at hand?”

“I’m concentrating.” Joe checked his tie in the rearview mirror and got out of the car. They walked up a sidewalk already so hot at eight in the morning he felt it in the soles of his feet even though he wore good shoes. The heat made it harder to think. And Joe needed to think. Plenty of other guys were tougher, braver, and better with a gun, but he’d match wits with any man and feel he had a fighting chance. It would help, though, if someone dropped by to shut off the fucking heat.

Concentrate. Concentrate. You are about to be presented with a problem that you have to fix. How do you relieve the U.S. Navy of sixty crates of weaponry without them killing or maiming you?

As they walked up the steps of the Circulo Cubano a woman came out the front door to greet them.

The truth was, Joe did have an idea about how to remove the weapons, but now it went right out of his head because he was looking at the woman and she was looking at him, recognition blossoming. It was the woman he’d seen on the train platform yesterday, the one with skin the color of brass and long thick hair as black as anything Joe had ever seen except, perhaps, her eyes, which were just as dark and locked on him as he approached.

“Senor Coughlin?” She held out a hand.

“Yes.” He shook her hand.

“Graciela Corrales.” She slipped her hand out of his. “You’re late.”

She led them inside across a black and white tile floor to a white marble staircase. It was much cooler in here, the high ceilings and dark wood paneling and all the tile and marble managing to keep the heat at bay for a few hours longer.

Graciela Corrales spoke with her back to Joe and Dion. “You are from Boston, yes?”

“Yes,” Joe said.

“Do all men from Boston leer at women on train platforms?”

“We try to stop short of making a career out of it.”

She looked back over her shoulder at them. “It’s very rude.”

Dion said, “I’m originally from Italy.”

“Another rude place.” She led them through a ballroom at the top of the stairs, pictures on the wall of various groups of Cubans gathered in this very room. Some of the shots were posed, others catching the feel of the dance nights in full bloom, arms flung in the air, hips cocked, skirts twirling. They moved quickly, but Joe was pretty sure he saw Graciela in one of the photos. He couldn’t be certain because the woman in the photo was laughing, with her head thrown back, and her hair down, and he couldn’t imagine this woman with her hair down.

Past the ballroom was a billiards parlor, Joe starting to think some Cubans lived pretty well, and past the billiards parlor was a library with heavy white curtains and four wooden chairs. The man waiting for them approached with a broad smile and a vigorous handshake.

Esteban. He shook their hands as if they hadn’t met last night.

“Esteban Suarez, gentlemen. Good of you to come. Sit, sit.”

They took their seats.

Dion said, “Are there two of you?”

“I’m sorry?”

“We spent an hour with you last night. You shake our hands like we’re strangers.”

“Well, last night you met the owner of El Vedado Tropicale. This morning you meet the recording secretary of Circulo Cubano.” He smiled as if he were a teacher humoring two schoolchildren who’d likely repeat the grade. “Anyway,” he said, “thank you for your help.”

Joe and Dion nodded but said nothing.

“I have thirty men,” Esteban said, “but I estimate I’ll need thirty more. How many can you—”

Joe said, “We’re not committing any men. We’re not committing to anything.”

“No?” Graciela looked at Esteban. “I’m confused.”

“We’ve come to hear you out,” Joe said. “Whether we get involved from that point remains to be seen.”

Graciela took her seat beside Esteban. “Please don’t act like you have a choice. You’re gangsters who depend on a product supplied by one man and one man only. If you refuse us, your supply dries up.”

“In which case,” Joe said, “we go to war. And we’ll win, because we’ve got numbers and, Esteban, you don’t. I’ve looked into it. You want me to risk my life against the United States military? I’ll take my chances against a few dozen Cubans on the streets of Tampa. At least I know what I’ll be fighting for.”

“Profit,” Graciela said.

Joe said, “A way to make a living.”

“A criminal way.”

“What do you do?” He leaned forward, his eyes scanning the room. “Sit around here, counting your Oriental rugs?”

“I roll cigars, Mr. Coughlin, at La Trocha. I sit in a wooden chair and do this from ten every morning until eight every evening. When you leered at me on the platform yesterday—”

“I didn’t leer at you.”

“—that was my first day off in two weeks. And when I’m not working, I volunteer here.” She gave him a bitter smile. “So don’t let the pretty dress fool you.”