Читать книгу Outnumbered - Mandi Eizenbaum - Страница 11

6

It was either the casino at the Hotel Capri or the club at the Hotel Nacionál. To make up for all the teasing and ridiculing of Bobo’s failed “agua de coco” scheme, I decided to treat the guys to a night at the Parisien Cabaret at the Hotel Nacionál. My compadres and I dressed up in freshly ironed linen guayaberas (shirts pinched from Abuelo’s closet) and new polished loafers (shoes pinched from the family factory). Despite our clean-shaven baby faces and scrawny, boyish builds, we doused ourselves in cologne and greased back our hair with thick dabs of Brylcreem the way we saw the older wealthy hotel guests do. We were dressed to the nines and ready for the night’s regalia, entertainment, and jackpots. I fantasized about how we might run into Ava Gardner or even Meyer Lansky himself. Los Cuatro Compadres were looking good and feeling lucky.

Bobo, Chaki, Beto, and I swaggered into the nightclub in a single file and made our way to a dark, concealed corner table. It would be a few more hours until the club filled beyond capacity, so it was smart that we arrived a bit early in order to secure a table. It was all worth it to just be able to catch a glimpse of the rich and famous who came to drink, dance, and escape into our island paradise. We self-consciously squirmed our way past three women who were already holding vigil at the bar. A well-endowed rhumba dancer in a costume adorned with loud splashes of color, sparkly sequins, and long feathers stood by the side of the small raised platform stage, readying herself for her first show of the evening. The tourists ate up this flamboyant provincial show. The boys and I melted into the overly ostentatious décor and the heavily smoke-filled atmosphere. I quickly scanned the room with my eyes.

It was grueling to wait for the night to get going. We were worked up with innocent anticipation. The three women sitting at the bar stared over at us. Giggling and batting their thick fake eyelashes, we couldn’t help but stare back and gawk at them like schoolchildren. All three were wearing skirts that exposed way too much leg and blouses that showed way too much cleavage. Two men emerged from the lasting haze of cigar smoke and approached the women at the bar. My compadres and I could hear the men stumble through some typical vulgar pick-up lines, making the girls giggle even louder. Beto’s face blushed from his forehead down to his bobbing Adam’s apple.

Chaki joked, “I think I’ll play number fifteen tomorrow in la bolita—the same number for both pretty girl and dog. It has to be a winner!”

“Nah, the winning numbers tomorrow will be ten and forty-nine—dinero and borracho,” I chimed in with a slightly impish tone of my own. “Look at that fat drunk over there next to the stage. He’s sure to lose all his money tonight!”

I counted each patron in the room. My fingers twitched. I fiddled with the gold star hanging around my neck.

There were six others scattered about the room, not counting the four restless waiters already preparing for the crowds that would be showing up later and generously spending their money on drinks and tips. The rhumba dancer by the stage continued to primp and pose, two barmen wiped down the long, sleek bar, and the three women remained perched on their barstools. I was beginning to think that it might be a slow and boring night. I counted 72 ceiling tiles (twelve of them cracked), 122 black-and-white floor tiles, and 4 dusty chandeliers. But it was the number fifty that began whispering in my ears and flashing behind my eyes. Trouble was coming.

“¿Que pasa, Jefe? Your face is white like una fantasma, a ghost!” mumbled Beto.

Chaki was busy making eyes with the big-breasted redhead who sat at the end of the bar. She was seductively dressed in a low-scoop black tank top, a tight red miniskirt, and black high-heeled strappy sandals. Her plump red lips pulled hard on the end of her cigarillo negro that she let hang from her clenched front teeth. An ethereal cloud of blue smoke filled the space all around her as she winked at Chaki.

“Jefe, Beto’s right. You really do look terrible!” Bobo squealed in his usual high-pitched tone. “You want something to drink? Maybe a malta?”

I shivered with a sudden unexplainable wave of paranoia. My fingers began to tremble.

“Come on, consortes. We’ve got to leave here, ahora! Now!”

“No way! We just got here!” argued Chaki. “I’m not going anywhere until I meet that redhead over there. Don’t you see how she’s looking at me?” Chaki’s chest inflated with immature, boyish pride and the dimples in his cheeks deepened in his smooth cheeks.

Beto and Bobo let out a pair of jealous chuckles at Chaki’s flirtations but kept their eyes focused on me. I couldn’t shake the dreadful feeling that we needed to get out of there as fast as possible. Over and over, the number fifty flashed like a neon sign behind my stinging eyes. The assembled band on the stage began pounding out the popular African beat, “Toque Oyo.”

My body began to shiver with chilly spasms. I scrambled quickly to the ground and managed to crawl on hands and knees, hiding under the tables and crossing the hardwood floors, toward the nightclub’s front doors. An odd feeling told me to take cover.

Just then, there was a burst of panicky movement and a crash of glass from behind the bar. The small crowd of patrons screamed and scrambled to the back corners of the smoky lounge. The women at the bar puckered their red lips and crunched their eyebrows. They jumped up nervously and pressed their way past their drunken suitors. Since the room was still pretty empty, I was more paranoid that I and my compadres were all the more noticeable. Just then, the police came crashing through the front doors and everything seemed to freeze.

From my prone position on the floor by the nightclub’s doors, I managed to reach the hotel’s main entryway, push through the heavy front doors, and sprint down the boardwalk that ran along the ocean’s edge. I raced past all the blaring sirens and the distant blasts and the commotion that was beginning to spill out of the hotel onto the street. It was a risk to be on the streets and in the nightclubs; the president’s authorities were prickly to make trouble for anyone found in the wrong place at the wrong time. I had to get out of there and back home as fast as possible. I couldn’t afford another drama in my life.

I kept running forward all the way down the seawall and broad esplanade roadway to the nearby neighborhood of my mother’s home. I was quickly winded and gasping for puffs of air that numbed the tip of my tongue all the way back to my throat, but I kept going.

My mother’s house was coming into view up in front of me. With no time to get to my grandparents’ place nearer to Centro Habana, I quickly decided that I would have to stop and stay with Mamá and Saul that night. Second mistake of the evening.

I tiptoed inside the familiar house and headed straight for my old bedroom. I was thankful to find Mamá and Saul both asleep, Saul snoring loudly in the still darkness. Dizzy and panting deeply, I felt a wave of relief slip over me, despite knowing Saul was there.

I got into my old bed, still fully clothed, and squeezed my eyes shut, the number fifty still flashing behind my eyelids. It was the undisputable Charada number for police. Lying on my bed, I shuddered with fear before my wheezing slowed and a fitful slumber finally overtook me.