least.’ Morrison grinned. ‘What time in the morning? I’m still set on getting that tuna.’
‘No need to be too early. I’ll meet you on the jetty at eight.’
‘I’ll be looking forward to it.’
The American moved away through the crowd and Manning put the money in his hip pocket and ordered a large rum. As he lit another cigarette, the drum rolled and the dance floor cleared at once. The lights dimmed and a spot picked out the archway beside the band.
When Maria Salas stepped through the bead curtain, there was a sudden general sigh as if the crowd had caught its breath. She was wearing black leather riding pants, a white silk shirt knotted at her waist and a black Cordoban hat tilted at an angle, shading her face.
For a moment she stood there as if waiting for something and her fingers gently stroked the guitar and she started to sing.
She didn’t really have a voice and yet there was something there, a touch of the night perhaps, a dying fall that caught at the back of the throat. Probably no more than half a dozen people in the room understood what she was singing about, but it didn’t matter.
Manning remembered their first meeting that hot July afternoon. The fishing boat from Cuba packed with refugees, drifting helplessly in the gulf. It had been her tremendous quality of repose, of tranquillity almost, in spite of the situation, that had first attracted him.
It was not that she was beautiful. Her skin was olive-hued, the blue-black hair tied with a scarlet ribbon and yet, in that dramatic costume, every other woman in the room faded into insignificance.
As her song died away, there was a moment of breathless stillness followed by a roar of applause. She took it like a torero in the plaza at Mexico City, hat extended in her right hand, feet together. As Manning ordered another rum, she launched into a flamenco, dancing as she sang, stamping her high-heeled Spanish boots. She finished on a harsh, strident note that was infinitely exciting.
This time the applause was prolonged. She vanished through the bead curtain and returned to stand stiffly, heels together, turning slowly, her gaze travelling over the whole crowd. As her eyes met Manning’s, he raised his glass and she nodded slightly. She gave them one more song and at the end danced out through the bead curtain still singing, her voice dying away into the distance.
The calypso band struck up another goombay and Manning pushed his way through the crowd and went into the casino. As yet it was early and business was slack. One or two people stood at the roulette table, but the blackjack dealer was playing patience to kill the time until the rush started.
Kurt Viner, the owner of the Caravel, was sitting at a desk in the far corner checking the previous night’s takings, his manager hovering at his shoulder. A thin, greying German of fifty or so, he wore his white dinner jacket with a touch of aristocratic elegance.
As Manning entered the room, he looked up and waved. ‘Harry, how goes it?’
Manning took the two hundred and fifty dollars Morrison had given him and dropped them on the desk. ‘A little something on account. I’ve been letting the tab run away with me lately.’
Viner got to his feet and nodded to the manager. ‘Credit Mr Manning’s account. If you want me I’ll be in the office.’ He turned to Manning. ‘Let’s have a drink, Harry. Away from the noise.’
He crossed the green baize door in the corner and Manning followed him through. The room was beautifully furnished in contemporary Swedish style, the walls of natural wood panels alternating with handmade silk paper. A small bar curved out from the corner beside the window and Manning sat on one of the stools while Viner went behind.
‘Morrison must be a good client. What’s he do for a living?’
‘Real estate or something like that,’ Manning said. ‘Does it matter? They’re all the same. Paunchy, middle-aged businessmen with too much money looking for excitement. The first thing they do when they get here is unpack, dress like something out of Hemingway, come down to the wharf and expect to have a tuna handed to them on a platter.’
‘For which they pay handsomely, remember,’ Viner said. ‘And in dollars. Such a useful currency these days.’
‘A fact of which I’m duly grateful.’
‘You don’t like Morrison, then?’
‘Thanks to him I lost a harpoon gun, but he insisted on paying for it and he knows I’m insured. I suppose he’s better than most.’
‘He must be. Two hundred and fifty dollars is a fair day’s pay by any standards.’ Viner hesitated and then said slowly, ‘You know, your credit’s always good here, Harry, but it’s quite obvious you aren’t even making a living at the moment.’
‘Have you got a better suggestion?’
The German refilled his glass and said slowly, ‘You go to Miami occasionally, don’t you?’
Manning nodded. ‘So what?’
‘The Grace Abounding is a good-sized boat. You could carry passengers.’
Manning frowned. ‘You mean Cuban refugees? Illegal immigrants? Have you any idea what the penalties are?’
‘The rewards could be high.’
‘You’re telling me. Five years in jail. That coast is alive with small naval craft, especially since the Cuban crisis. What’s your interest, anyway? You don’t need that kind of money.’
‘You could say I have an affinity for refugees. I was one myself for several years after the war.’ Viner smiled. ‘Think it over, Harry. The offer is still open.’
Manning emptied his glass and stood up. ‘Thanks all the same, but things aren’t quite that tough. See you later.’
He left the room and went through the casino into the bar. For a moment he hesitated and then went out into the foyer past the reception desk and mounted the stairs to the first floor.
He was immediately conscious of the quiet. He passed along the broad carpeted corridor and somewhere a woman laughed, the sound of it curiously remote. The music from below might have come from another world.
He opened the door at the end of the corridor and went in. The room was a place of shadows, one shaded lamp standing on a small table in the centre. The French windows stood open to the terrace, the curtain lifting slightly in the wind as he crossed the room.
She was sitting in the darkness in an old wicker chair, a robe wrapped closely about her against the chill of the night air.
‘Hello, Harry!’ she said softly.
He gave her a cigarette. As the match flared in his cupped hand, she leaned forward, the lines of her face thrown sharply into relief, the eyes dark pools.
‘What kind of day have you had?’
‘No worse than usual. It’s a great life if you don’t weaken.’
He was unable to keep the bitterness from his voice and she shook her head. ‘You
