Tropic of Darkness Read Online Free PDF Page B

she believed, was that it was fading. And how she’d love to join it. Simply fade away, the way the light was doing. Dim out into nothingness.
    She’d felt this way throughout most of her waking hours, most of her life, ever since she’d had explained to her precisely who she was and what the future held in store.
    She let the board drop back into place, then squeezed her eyes shut, trying to cry. As usual, nothing came. Her tears seemed to have dried up many years ago. The misery was hidden, churning around inside her, trapped. And ten times worse for that.
    After a while, she picked up her candle in its cast-iron holder. And, moving with her usual creeping softness, she began to look around where she was—the dining room—making sure that everything was in its proper place.
    The sisters would be waking soon. And the gods help her if they found anything had been moved.
    *   *   *
    Jack was right. No one tried to bother him when he walked back across the Parque Central. The hustlers, still at their lampposts, remained where they were and kept their faces turned away from him. And even the street urchins kept their distance, watching him through troubled eyes.
    Jack went through the cool, echoing lobby of the Portughese to the bar, and spotted Pierre Melville immediately. Not too difficult a trick, admittedly. The word “big” was the best one to describe the hirsute Frenchman—even though he stood at only five-foot-nine—and it wasn’t merely his girth.
    More a matter of the bullish broadness of his shoulders and the density of muscle in his thickly matted limbs. The way he moved his hands, with power and direction. And the fire in his eyes.
    He was seated alone at a table in the center of the room. Had a thick black cigar stub screwed into one corner of his mouth, practically singeing his beard. A daiquiri was clutched in one enormous, sunburned fist, and Pierre was staring around unabashedly at the bar’s other occupants, for all the world like some overly nosy child.
    He caught the eye of a pretty young blond woman as Jack watched. Melville grinned at her, tipped his head to one side, and then winked.
    Her boyfriend, sitting right next to her, glowered at him angrily, but the Frenchman did nothing to avert his gaze.
    Where had they first met? Jack tried to remember. Pierre was one of those people who, if you moved around a lot, you kept on running into. But there were two things you were wholly certain of, within a few minutes of meeting him.
    Number one, he made his money any way he could, neither law and nor morality counting for an awful lot. And number two, he was interesting to be around.
    Although not always in a good way.
    â€œSir? Hey, sir ?”
    The blond woman’s boyfriend straightened on his barstool, his cheeks flushing angrily.
    â€œWould you kindly look elsewhere? Or perhaps you’d like me to ask you less politely?”
    Pierre made no move, save that one black eyebrow lifted.
    Jack started across, noticing as he drew closer that there were two more half-finished daiquiris on the table, one of them with lipstick on its rim. Pierre had brought along some company, apparently.
    He reached across, clasped his friend by the shoulder, and then smiled apologetically at the boy.
    â€œYou must excuse my friend, he’s French. His English isn’t—”
    But before he’d time to say another word, Pierre Melville was on his feet, both great arms clamping around Jack, practically crushing his ribs. And Pierre was shouting.
    â€œGilliard, you asshole! Great to see you, Jackie! Welcome to Havana, boy, home of La Revolución !”
    Jack endured it with good grace.
    â€œI’m pleased to see you, too. But . . . Pierre . . . can I breathe now?”
    The trouble with the younger guy was forgotten, at least. He staggered back a little as the man released him, then they sat down side by side.
    Jack inspected