The Consummata (6 page)

Now I sat in the big, comfortable chair with a cold can of beer in hand and gave my new surroundings some thought. It took a while, but it finally came to me.

This was a man’s room, browns, yellows, tans, touches of black, furniture with strong simple lines suggesting strength but comfort...but a suite decorated by a woman
for
a man, with masculine comfort in mind, designed to instill male confidence.

Oh, there were enough feminine touches to inspire the beginnings of masculine passion, like the modern paintings that somehow suggested female figures, nude ones, with orange and red tones. From then on, comfort and confidence could take over.

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?”

“His thirst for sexual gratification,” Gaita said. “His vanity and his physical need for a woman. Not just
any
woman, Morgan—only the most beautiful will do.”

“So what’s his kink?” Sounded like a game show.

“His tastes run to the...rough. He likes them young, but he also likes a woman of experience—any woman older than thirteen and younger than fifty, if she is beautiful and willing to...to play his sick games.”

An S & M freak. Hell, it was a place to start.

She looked at me for a long moment. “With just that one thing, you should be able to find him.”

“If it’s that easy, why don’t you just run him down yourself?”

Gaita’s face was absolutely impassive, but there was a strange expression in her eyes.

“Because, Morgan, he is a totally deadly person—a ruthless man trained to kill, who
enjoys
killing...and is more than the match for anyone we might send after him.”

Well, maybe not
anyone....

She went on: “We have many who have volunteered for the mission, but these are brave Cuban boys we cannot afford to lose—young men of bravery but who were...what is the expression? In water over their heads.”

“But you’re okay risking a
gringo
’s life?”

“That is not fair,
señor
.” Her expression turned grave. “Three who took the assignment on their own initiative were successful enough to locate him, only to die painfully for their efforts. Slow deaths,
señor
. With a knife. Here.”

She touched her belly.

“Since then,” she said, “we have discouraged any such attempts. All those three succeeded in doing was to warn
Señor
Halaquez...and now he will be more wary than ever.”

I drank half the beer and put the can down. “He’s only safe with the money when he gets to Cuba. You don’t head west to get there. He could go south and try to cut across from Mexico, but my bet is you have pipelines into there, too, and he’d be picked up or your people alerted.”

She nodded.

“He wouldn’t chance getting caught in open country by somebody with a rifle, so he’d have to stay where any hostile contact would be made personally, so he could handle it, and that would mean sticking to the cities, and those Mexican
cities sure wouldn’t be friendly to him at all. If he went north, his only available exit points would be international ports, and even there your people and sympathizers might lay hands on him.”

She nodded again, slowly. “
Where
then, Morgan?”

“Right here in his own back yard,” I said, “where he has previously established contacts. He’s close to Cuba, if he can make escape arrangements, he knows the area, and the probable moves of your organization...and all he has to do is wait for the right time and place to skip on out. Do you have any theory about why he hasn’t already skipped?”

“We do not.”

“I do. He needs to launder that money—well, not launder it, exactly. He’ll need to get it exchanged for currency that’s legal in Cuba—money from a country with normalized relations.”

“Would that be difficult for him?”

“No, but he would likely go through underground channels. And because he’s keeping his head down, he’s probably using middlemen. That may give me a lead on him. It’s the one thing that would force him out of hiding.”

Her eyes tightened. “Unless...”

“Unless what?”

“His own lust for the perverted sex, that may also...as you say, force him out.”

I looked around the room. “Well, he’s not coming here.”

“No. But there are other such places. And there is one other possibility.”

“Yeah?”

“When he learns,
señor
, that one capable of matching his skills is hunting him down? He may come after you. The hunted may prefer to become the hunter.”

I snorted a laugh. “So
that’s
how I got picked for the job. You fine folks want me to do the flush job.”

She shrugged, smiled just a little. “It was you who volunteered,
Señor
Morgan.”

I picked up the beer, finished it and leaned back again. “Hell, kid, I’m not complaining. Everything was getting too damn dull anyway. I was getting stale. I can use a break in the routine, to pick up my thinking again.”

She stood there in front of me, that enigmatic smile playing with the corners of her mouth again. Her hand went up to her throat, her fingers wove inside the drawstring of the blouse, and this time when she moved her shoulders the blouse came slipping off to her waist and she was like one of those bare-breasted Tahitian natives Gauguin loved to paint.

Once again her hands and arms moved, flowing behind her with swift, definite purpose, then the full skirt fell, taking the blouse with it, a fabric waterfall that pooled around her feet and she was a naked, lovely thing with olive skin that had a sheen to it and midnight hair that ornamented her to perfection. She pulled down white panties to fully reveal the dark delta that had already been showing through, and she kicked them away.

“You can have me,
Señor
Morgan, for a...break in your routine.”

“But I won’t,” I said.

Her eyes changed again. Surprise. Disappointment? “Why, Morgan?”

“I don’t like to be tested, baby.”

She luxuriated in an animal-like stretch, her lips opening in a smile, her pelvis jutting forward sensuously, the suckedin breath lifting her breasts even higher until she looked more like an artist’s conception than the living, vital thing she was. The expression in her eyes was clear now. It was one of relief.

She let her breath out slowly, a look of pleasure crossing her face. “Yes,
Señor
Morgan. You
are
man enough to take Jaimie Halaquez. He could not stand before you.”

I saw the tip of her tongue dart pinkly between her teeth. “And now since you have passed the test...you may
really
have me, if you wish. Not as a reward or a bribe or even a gesture of thanks. But because I
want
you to.”

And it wasn’t an act this time.

My throat felt tight. “Honey,” I said, “haven’t you heard? I’m a married man....”