Havana Best Friends Read Online Free PDF Page B

six-foot-five.
    “Thank heaven. You know the name of these trees?” the man asked, with a sweep of the hand that included all the ficus in the park.
    “Ficus.”
    “Can you spell it for me?”
    Pablo said “F” and paused. One of his frequent confusions in English was to pronounce the “i” as an “e” and vice versa. He produced a small notebook and a ballpoint from a pocket of his
guayabera
, wrote down the name, then tore out the page.
    “Well, thanks,” the tall, overweight man said as he took it. “Most amazing trees I’ve seen in this country.”
    “Is that so?” Pablo was taking in the stranger, his mental wheels turning fast. The big bastard wore a navy-blue polo shirt, khaki shorts, white cotton socks, and sneakers.
    “I hadn’t been able to learn their name. Not many people here speak English.”
    “Yeah.”
    “And what’s the name of this park?”
    “Parque de la Quinta.”
    “What does it mean?”
    “Well …” Pablo scratched his bald head, as if picking his brain for the right translation.
“Quinta
in Spanish is … like a country house, know what I’m saying? Like a villa.”
    “So, it’s the Park of the Country House.”
    “Yeah.”
    “Well, thanks for the information,” the big man said. “Wait a minute,” he added, fishing for his wallet and producing a twenty-dollar bill. “Here you are. Thanks.”
    Pablo pounced on the bill thinking it was a fiver. When he saw the Jackson portrait, he was dumbfounded. Twenty bucks for the name of a tree and a park? What would this huge asshole fork out for being taken around town?
    “Well, sir, this is very” – Pablo groped f
or generous
unsuccessfully as he thrust the bill into a pants pocket – “very good of you. If I can help … in any other way?”
    His eyes on Pablo, head cocked, a budding grin on his lips, the tourist seemed to ponder the offer.
    “Maybe you could. This is my first trip here, I don’t know my way around, and I was hoping for a good time, catch my drift?”
    Pablo grinned. “You mean fun, girls?”
    “That’s exactly what I mean.”
    “I think … no, I thought so. But now, it’s morning. In the mornings, beautiful girls sleep. In the evenings, they have fun. We meet in the evening, I take you to the most beautiful girls in Havana.”
    A bunch of lies, the big guy figured. “Tell you what. You take me to the most beautiful girls in Havana, I’ll pay you a hundred bucks. You take me to
the
most beautiful girl in Havana, I’ll pay you two hundred. How’s that?”
    “That’s excellent, Mr.…?”
    “Splittoesser.”
    “Pardon?”
    “Just call me John.”
    “Okay, John. So, where do we meet?”
    “Let’s see …” John pretended to reflect. “There’s this bar-restaurant where I had dinner last night, La Zaragua … something.”
    “Spanish food? In Old Havana?”
    “That’s it.”
    “La Zaragozana.”
    “You’ve been there?”
    “John, I’ve been to all the right places in Havana.”
    The tall, overweight man considered this for a moment. “Swell. At eight then?” he said.
    “Eight’s fine with me.”
    “Can I drop you somewhere?” John asked.
    “No, thanks. My office is right across the street.”
    “See you then,” John said and extended his right hand. Pablo’s hand got lost in the man’s paw. The Cuban walked on,occasionally craning his neck, watching the tourist unlock his car. John waved him goodbye; Pablo did the same before crossing Fifth Avenue.
Is this a lucky break or is this a lucky break?
he was thinking.
    John Splittoesser spent the afternoon completing the reconnaissance he had started three evenings earlier, driving around Santa Maria del Mar and Guanabo, two adjoining beach resorts twenty-five kilometres to the east of Havana.

    After dinner at La Zaragozana, Pablo suggested a leisurely stroll into Old Havana. Leaving the rental in the custody of the restaurant’s parking valet, they walked down Obispo, a street turned pedestrian mall. Passersby