“No kidding,” Gomez said, trying not to sound scared. He seemed to remember somebody getting eaten by a leopard in a movie.
After five minutes of ducking under trees and climbing over banyan roots that had buckled the old walkway, they came to another gate. This time, the gate swung open automatically into a courtyard and there was a little Chinese guy standing there in red silk pajamas. He had a silver tray in his hand with some kind of drink in a tall silver cup.
“Every new guest receives one,” Ling-Ling said. “It’s called Poison. Try it.”
“I love poison,” Gomez said, and took a sip. It was the best thing he’d ever tasted in his life.
“You make this stuff?” he asked the Chinaman. The little fellow giggled and scurried away. Probably doesn’t speak a word of English, Gomez thought, hardly surprised.
“This way,” Ling-Ling said. “My brother is probably at the bar in the casino.”
They walked around a pool about half the size of a football field that had a huge splashing fountain in the middle of it. The fountain had some guy with a giant pitchfork riding in some kind of Roman chariot pulled by a bunch of dolphins and whales. Guy had his arm around this mermaid. Biggest damn mermaid tits you ever saw. Solid gold? Had to be.
Gomez heard a shriek and saw a girl climb out of the pool, naked, and watched her get chased by this old fat guy into one of the cabanas that lined both sides of the pool. The girl was wearing the same kind of gold collar around her neck as Ling-Ling.
He noticed that a lot of the cabanas were occupied and most of them had the thick striped curtains closed. He also saw more beautiful girls wearing gold collars at the far end of the pool. He took another swig of his drink and tried not to stare too hard.
At the far end of a wide grassy strip lined with a double row of tall palms stood a big pink building with white shutters that had to be four stories high. Could have been a hotel at one time. Or some dictator’s house.
“I like this club,” Gomez said, following Ling-Ling into the cool shade of the main house.
She stopped and looked at him. “There is one rule,” she said. “There are many famous people here. If you recognize someone, you don’t look at them or speak to them. Okay?”
“Got it,” Gomez said, searching the faces at the roulette tables for someone he recognized. He saw one cat looked a lot like Bruce Willis, but he wasn’t a hundred percent sure because of the dark glasses.
They found her brother sitting at the far end of the long mahogany bar, talking quietly to some guy with a long black ponytail. “Ciao, Manso,” her brother said to him, and the ponytailed guy immediately stood up and turned away.
“Rodrigo,” Ling-Ling said. “This is Señor Gomez. He is someone I thought you would like to meet.”
Rodrigo stood and stuck out his hand to Gomez. Manso, the ponytailed guy he’d been talking to, wandered off through the casino. Probably famous, because he was careful not to show his face. Swishy walk, Gomez thought, watching the guy. Gay bar? No way. Too much stuff running around bare-ass naked.
“Buenas tardes,” the man said. “A cordial welcome to Club Mao-Mao.” Smooth as silk, man.
Still, Gomez almost lost it.
The man’s eyes were completely colorless.
There was the normal white part. And then, in the middle, where the color usually is, they were totally transparent. Like the guy had a pair of clear marbles in his eye sockets.
“Do I frighten you, señor? Sorry. I sometimes have that effect on strangers.”
“No. I just—”
The guy was a piece of work all right. Tall and thin and movie-star handsome. Dressed in a white linen suit with a pale blue silk shirt. Thin gold chain around his neck. Had the same mocha latte skin as his sister. Same peroxide blond hair, too. But those eyes were out of some horror movie.
“What do you do, Señor Gomez?” Rodrigo asked. “If I may ask?”
“United States Navy. I’m a sailor. Stationed over at Guantánamo.”
“So, what brings you to our ancient capital?”
“A two-day pass. My mother, she’s, uh, in the hospital. She’s dying. Stomach cancer.”
“You are cubano, no?”
“Yes. My mother stayed here when my father took me from Mariel Harbor to Miami in eighty-one. He died last year at Dade County. Prostrate cancer.”
“Prostate.”
“What?”
“I believe the word is prostate, señor. In any case, I’m sorry to hear of his passing. Won’t you have another drink?” He signaled the bartender and another silver cup arrived.
“Thank you,” Gomez said. “These are great.” He was already feeling the first one, but what the hell. Stuff was frigging delicious.
“You had an unfortunate experience at the hospital, I understand,” Rodrigo said.
“Yeah, this goddamn American embargo. My mother is in such pain that—wait a minute, how’d you know about the hospital?”
“My sister. We talk on the phone all the time. You are opposed to the American policy?”
“You could say that.”
“The americanos try to punish Cuba but they only hurt women and children. Do you like to gamble, Señor Gomez? Blackjack? Baccarat? Chemin de fer?”
“Twenty-one,” Gomez said. “Is that the same as Blackjack?”
“Exactamente,” Rodrigo said. He opened a white marble box that was sitting on the bar. It was full of chips, one hundred–, five hundred–, one thousand–dollar chips. He counted out ten one thousand–dollar chips and stacked them in front of Gomez.
“Compliments of the house,” he said, flashing a big white smile. “Ling-Ling, would you introduce Señor Gomez to our head croupier? Make sure he’s well taken care of at the tables, darling.”
“Of course,” Ling-Ling said. “Won’t you come with me, Señor Gomez?”
“Love it,” Gomez said. “And, could I, uh, get one more of these poison things?”
Gomez followed Ling-Ling’s sashaying little spandex butt out toward the casino floor, thinking, have I absolutely died and gone to heaven here or what?
“Jack!” he said, passing a guy in a very sharp sharkskin suit who was rolling the bones. Guy had to be Nicholson. He recognized the haircut and shades from People magazine. “My man, what’s up?”
“Jesus Christ,” Ling-Ling hissed at him. “Didn’t you hear what I fucking told you?”
“Yeah, right. Sorry.”
Chick was pissed. All right, we can deal with that. How many times in his life is a guy going to rub elbows with Jack Goddamn Nicholson? A little slack here, Ling-Ling, please.
“Autograph out of the question, I guess,” he said, following her through the maze of tables.
“You got a pen?” the chick says, giving him a look over the shoulder. “I’ll autograph your dick if there’s enough space to write on.”
“Hey, ease up. I said I was sorry.”
“Here’s your table, sailor boy. This is Francisco. He will take care of you. Okay? Bonne chance. Ciao. Whatever.”
The chick started to walk away. He grabbed her arm.
“Hey. Question. What’s with your brother’s eyes?” Gomez asked her. “You don’t mind me asking.”
She turned and stared at him.
“My brother was imprisoned for twelve years,” Ling-Ling said. “He was kept in a small room with no light. None. No natural. No artificial. The lack of light just leaches all the color out.”
“Man. So, how did he get out? Seems to be doing okay now, I mean.”
“He said that if they’d let him out for just one day he would do anything. Literally anything they asked. They gave him something to do that was extremely—unpleasant. He was permanently released the following day. Now my brother and I are together again.”