Clothes had been waiting for me, and the sizes well estimated— a dark gray sport coat, black sport shirt, even darker gray slacks. I still had my own shoes and socks, but was damn glad to be rid of those lousy coveralls.
Still in her peasant blouse and skirt, Gaita sat at the dressing table, the stiff-bristled brush in her hand crackling through her lustrous hair, her eyes on me in the mirror while a faint smile played with the corners of her mouth.
“You are right, Señor Morgan. This is a burdel.”
Whorehouse. Rose by any other name.
I took a pull of the beer. “I didn’t say anything.”
“Ah, but you have an awareness. It shows.”
“Not on my face it doesn’t.”
“In your eyes, it does.”
I let out a laugh. “Well, a bordello like this usually has out-of-the-way approaches. Like those damn alleys and tunnels we took to get here.”
Her smile was a little too knowing. “You have been in other establishments like this before, señor?”
“Perhaps.”
“...or perhaps not?”
“Really, no perhaps about it. Some of my best friends are putas.”
For a second the brush paused in mid-stroke. “You do not seem like one who would need to make use of such facilities. To turn to the recourse of a woman who requires payment, this does not seem right.”
I finished the beer. “I didn’t say I paid any of them, kitten —but in my racket these places come in handy now and then. You can hide out in a whorehouse, because nobody’s supposed to be there.”
“Well put, Morgan. A most intelligent answer.”
“Must come from having damn near a complete college education.” I grinned at her. “Ask anybody—I’m an intelligent guy...in some ways.”
One eyebrow arched though both eyes were half lidded. “Could not such intelligence have been put to better use?”
“Not by me. I’m one of those guys born in the wrong era that you hear about. Baby, I wasn’t made for this world.”
“Possibly it wasn’t made for you either.”
“I get by.”
“Do you?” She put the brush down and stood abruptly, still facing the mirror, hands on her hips, legs apart, then took a deep breath. “You seem relaxed for what you have been through in recent days. Almost...placid. Why is that, Señor Morgan?”
“Just ‘Morgan,’ querida. Why not be relaxed? I’m not going anywhere—not until you tell me the score.”
Gently, she pivoted like a dancer to face me. “Those who look for you...they will be here. They will know of this place. Perhaps some have been patrons.”
I frowned. “Yeah?”
“But they will not find you. Fortunately for your sake, this is the...house extraordinario.”
“Delicate way to refer to a whorehouse,” I said.
“Our clientele appreciates that it is so.” She looked at me, and when I stayed quiet, she said, “It is surprising how many men of stature in business and government prefer private, uh...outlets for certain personal activities beyond the doors of their own homes.”
“It’s an old story, kid.”
“It is also an old story that such men often seem to prefer women who are not so pale of skin, nor skinny, nor fat. Behind closed doors, with these strange dark women...” Her tone was arch now, her smile wicked, mocking. “...such men can shed the sexual inhibitions of modern civilization that they find so limiting to their pleasures.”
My eyebrows had long since hiked in surprise.
She noticed that, and nodded. “Yes, señor, I too have studied in the college. The university. Does this surprise you?”
“Not anymore it doesn’t.”
“But there is learning, señor,” she said, “and then there is learning.”
Gaita walked to the carved oak bar in the corner, poured herself a finger of rum, and tossed it down like a thirsty sailor. “This place is, in itself, the university. The pupils learn, but the instructors, they do not realize they instruct.”
I wasn’t sure I was following her. Curiouser and curiouser, as Alice said.
“The world is in a state of, how do you say it? Flux. Of change. There is much trouble ahead. Not long ago, my people were promised that Castro would be gone and Cuba ours again—then your president was shot like a dog in the street, and where are our dreams now?”
I shrugged. “Your people had the CIA and the Mob and everybody else helping you, not long ago. But those days are over.”
“Perhaps. But the struggle goes on. And men in your government, when they come to this place that they find so enjoyable, they are the instructors. The...” She searched for just the right word. “...the unwitting instructors.”
“Pillow talk,” I said, smiling a little, getting it now.
She smiled back, drifting nearer where I sat. “And we are the ones who learn, and who pass what we learn along to those who can use it most profitably.”
“Nice,” I said. “So who gets squeezed in the middle?”
“You do not yet understand.” She sucked in her breath and began to prowl the room, as cat-like as her name promised, touching decorative items idly along the way. “We are pro-American, but for all the Americas.”
“Then you have others besides U.S. citizens on your client list?”
“Naturally.” She turned, smiling again. “Many men from below the border have a passion for your pale blonde women. This...type also has a place here in this house. It is very profitable.”
“I would imagine.”
Her hair tossed as she slowly shook her head. “By profitable, I do not mean in the monetary sense...at least not primarily.”
This was a whorehouse dealing in state secrets and probably blackmail, and the money the girls made was only incidental.
I leaned back in the chair and opened the other beer she had set out. “Sooner or later you’re going to get to the point, honey.”
Her laugh was sudden and low, but with a lilt to it. “We have a quarry, one Jaimie Halaquez, who must be found. It is a matter of necessity and pride and as an example that will prove a deterrent for others in the future.” She stopped, her mouth pursed. “The trail to Señor Halaquez is not so obscure as you might think.”
“Really?”
“Oh yes. Señor Halaquez was a frequent guest here, and as such, certain things were learned about him. Not from him as much as about him. In retrospect, we should not have been surprised by his betrayal.”
“Pedro said it was a complete surprise.”
She sighed. “We knew that Halaquez was a traitor by definition— after all, he worked for Castro, took money from that regime, and yet he helped us. This blinded us to his most obvious trait.”
“That his chief loyalty was to himself.”
“Si, señor.”
I smirked at her. “You really couldn’t have stopped him?”
“For over a year he lay in wait. Then he moved quickly. He had to. My people have a vengeful nature.”
I nodded. “Do you have him located?”
“Not yet. But we do know where he has been, and one other thing—and this, señor, is most important—we know the single weakness that will trap him eventually.”
I leaned forward, the beer almost forgotten. “What?”