Even in La Cosa Nostra, it seems, there existed competitive kings.
Chapter Twelve
The soldados
Bolan had bathed away an accumulation of Atlantic salt, sweat, and dust. The clothing remained a problem; he had elected to stick with the swim trunks. During the meal, quietly supplied by Margarita, Toro advised Bolan that his personal effects at the Tidewater Plaza had been "sent for," and were being delivered to the camp in Bolan's rented car.
Bolan thought about that for a moment, then replied, "I guess you considered the possibility of a police stake-out."
"Si. This is not for concern. There was no search of unoccupied rooms." He smiled and produced a watersogged registration card from the hotel. "As you see, there is no record of a Senor Blanski at the Plaza."
Bolan grinned. "You're pretty sharp, Toro. And I envy your intelligence network."
"It is in our good interests to have the knowledge, senor,"
Bolan accepted that without further question. He finished the simple meal and declined a cigar from his host. Margarita eased into a chair next to Bolan and offered him an odd-looking cigarette from an unfamiliar package. He accepted it. The dark tobacco grains were rolled in leaf instead of paper. The girl watched his face as she lit the cigarette. He did not disappoint her, grimacing under the impact of the harsh smoke.
She laughed delightedly and said, "Gringo no fum-" then cut it off and gazed guiltily into the disapproving eyes of Toro.
"Margarita does not speak the English well," he told Bolan. "I teach her but she does not apply the lessons. I tell her she must speak the English with El Matador."
Bolan took a long drag on the cigarette and wafted the smoke over the girl's head. He smiled at her and told Toro, "Anyone who looks that good, amigo, doesn't need to be worried about diction."
Toro laughed and translated the compliment to Margarita. It embarassed her. She hastily left the chair and began busily clearing the table.
Bolan watched the girl and idly asked, "How's your strike force, Toro?"
The Cuban sighed, puffed at his cigar, then replied, "We grow daily."
"I don't mean size, I'm thinking about effectiveness. How good are you?"
Toro shrugged. "Good enough to every now and then step upon El Culebra de Cuba. We are-"
"I didn't get that," Bolan protested, grinning.
"Sorry — the snake. Is it not the snake who beguiles the innocents and then perverts them? And so this Culebra de Cuba, yes — he is the betrayer of my country, my Cuba. And we walk upon him with each opportunity."
"You launch your raids from this base? Against Cuba?"
Toro smiled. "Did I say that?"
Bolan grinned back. "No, I didn't hear you say that, Toro. How are your weapons? Modern?"
The stocky Cuban again shrugged his shoulders. "The very best our modest funds can acquire, senor."
"Money is your big problem, huh?"
"Si, is this not always the case? We work the jobs, any-"
"That reminds me," Bolan interrupted. "As a bellman you spoke almost perfect English. Ever since we left the hotel, you've gotten more and more Cuban. If it gets any worse, amigo, we're going to need an interpreter."
"I am sorry, sir. Is this better?"
Bolan grinned. "No, I guess I like you better the other way."
Toro smiled and explained, "To speak the English properly, one must think in English. Comprende? To think in Spanish is to speak the English with the accent. As a bellman, I do not mind this thinking in the English. But, amigo, Toro is Cuban — not English."
"Yeah, okay amigo. What were you telling me about the money problem?"
"The problem is not that much. As I was saying, we work the jobs, we pool the money, and we do what we can do with what we have. Not all Cubans are with us, naturally . . . or we would no longer be in exile." His gaze dropped to the floor and his voice took on a sorrowing tone as he added, "Many Cubans have lost the vision of the free Cuba, you see, and have become as Yanquis. I do not blame them. It is a lonely vigil, senor, this wait to return to the homeland. But . . ." The eyes flashed up, with a return of the old fire. "To many of us, to lose the vision is to lose the reason for living. We work and we plan and sometimes we strike! And we know, Matador, that one day we shall walk the length and the breadth of our Cuba."
"Killing snakes," Bolan put in quietly.
"Si, killing the snakes."
"Your war is impossible enough, Toro. You should have stayed out of mine."
Toro laughed scornfully. "Reverse the situation, Matador. Could you have stayed out?"
"I guess not," Bolan murmured. He made a quick decision. "If my vehicle gets here exactly the way I left it, Toro, I'm going to . . ."
"Senor?"
"What do you call a modern weapon?"
Toro intently studied his guest's face for a moment, then replied, "A gun manufactured since the end of the first World War, this is a modern weapon in this camp."
Bolan shot back, "How about a Stoner? — a Honeywell? — have you ever fired an M-16, an M-79, an M-60?"
An expression of vague frustration swept the Cuban's face. "This is not modern, Matador. This is ultra modern."
Bolan sighed. "That's what I thought. Listen, Toro, when you're going against the odds you've got to take every advantage available. And you start with weapons."
"Si, comprendo." He smiled and turned his palms upward. "So, now you see our nakedness. We are a ragged band, no?"
"No," Bolan replied. "You just need some support. And I think I know how to-"
Toro winced and hastened to interrupt the declaration. "Senor Bolan," he said quietly, "Toro must confess the ulterior motive."
Bolan was getting the prickly feeling again at the nape of his neck. He said, "Okay, maybe I'm ready for that, too. Go ahead."
"When I first recognize you, at the Plaza, I am thinking . . . for La Causa de Cuba— here is a big fish, no? Here is the thing for which Toro has prayed and pledged his life and his fortunes, here is . . ." He caught the look in Bolan's eyes and quietly ran out of words.
Bolan said, "You weren't thinking of collecting on that open contract, amigo?"
Toro's eyes dropped. "The thought was there, amigo. One hundred thousand Yankee dollars will buy many ultra modern weapons, no?" The eyes lifted again, and this time there were lights twinkling deep within. "But I could not do a thing like this to El Matador. I realize this while we swim for the boat. No, amigo, this I could not do. But . . ."
"Yeah?" Bolan prompted him, uneasily.