Teo did have the shirts and was obviously white. He could be French, for that matter, or even English. His appearance was not what the correspondents considered typically Spanish. Tavalera, on the other hand, was dark, no doubt from Andalusia in the south of Spain and was, they said, very likely part Gypsy.
Teo, in his dark suit and vest, slender, poised, standing now at the bar with Tavalera, removed his gloves as he stared at Tyler. Tyler and Charlie Burke at the same table they'd occupied earlier with Neely. Victor Fuentes did not appear eager to join them; he stood by the table telling them something. But what? Leave? It was too late for that. Lionel Tavalera, a few minutes ago in the lobby, had evidently asked Tyler to step outside to meet with Teo, and Tyler, it seemed, had refused. Why wouldn't he? If Teo had something to say to him... Sure, let him put his prejudices aside--the Spaniard's reluctance to enter this hotel and associate with so many Americans in one place--come in here and say it.
Which seemed about to happen.
Neely's view was from the entrance, standing with Amelia Brown, who was getting looks from all over the room. The correspondents openly appraised Amelia whenever she made an appearance and were free with their comments. That's Rollie Boudreaux's baby doll. Isn't she a dish? Imagine taking that to bed whenever you feel like it. But she looked so sweet and innocent. Oh, is that so?
What they needed was a table. They couldn't stand at the bar with Teo and Lionel Tavalera. Ladies didn't stand at the bar. And they couldn't very well join Tyler and his partner. What if Boudreaux came in looking for her? The only available tables were here by the door, away from what was about to happen. If words were exchanged they wouldn't be able to hear what was said. Neely turned to Amelia.
"There aren't any good seats left."
Amelia said, "What are you talking about?" and led the way to center stage, where else but to the table where Tyler and Charlie Burke rose to their feet, surprised, naturally, but immediately asked the two to join them, please. Amelia said, "Are you sure we won't be in the way?" taking the chair Neely pulled out for her.
Tyler said, "In the way of what?"
At this moment Amelia looked away from him to see the Guardia, Tavalera, coming over to the table and that seemed to answer the question. Tyler was now the only one still on his feet. He said, "Lionel, I thought you were gonna have a talk with the boy."
Neely took that to mean with Teo, still at the bar waiting, looking this way.
Tavalera said, "My name is not Ly-nel, what you call me. It's Leyonel."
Tyler said, "I'll try to remember that, Lionel."
"You just call me that again."
Neely noticed that something about Tyler had changed, along with his tone as he said, "Why don't we get to it? Tell me what's on your mind."
"All right. Teo wants to speak to you. At the bar."
"Tell me why I'm suppose to go to him." "Man, he isn't ordering you." "I hope to tell you he isn't."
"It's for privacy. No one else's business."
"He has something to say, Lionel, he can come over here. We're all friends."
Neely watched Tavalera hesitate, trying to decide--it looked like--if he wanted to make any more out of the way Tyler pronounced his name, Neely wondering if Tyler was doing it on purpose, to be irksome. Tavalera made up his mind, evidently not to say any more about it. He turned in kind of a military about-face and went back to the bar, exchanged a few words with Teo and now Teo was on his way over.
He brought a card from his vest pocket with the tips of two fingers, a calling card, it looked like, and with a very solemn expression on his face offered it to Tyler--Tyler, still on his feet, one might say waiting for him. Neely noticed Teo holding his black kid gloves in his left hand. He also noticed Tyler was the taller of the two and possibly ten years older. He'd have to check on that, Neely pretty sure he had a story here he'd be writing as a feature. He watched Tyler look at the card and then at the young hussar officer, more a dandy than a fop, with his neat little waxed mustache. Tyler said, "Teobaldo," and glanced at the card again. "Teniente. What can I do for you?" As easy about it as you please.
It surprised Neely that Teo didn't acknowledge Amelia first, ask her pardon for interrupting, walking up to the table unannounced. Amelia's eyes were glued to the two men facing each other, Teo saying now in a very formal manner, "I request that you meet me tomorrow..." with an accent but the words clear enough: that Tyler meet him in the morning at first light in the Prado by the statue of Her Majesty Queen Isabella, Teo saying his second, Major Lionel Tavalera, would bring the pistols and Tyler would be given his choice of which one he would prefer to use.
Look at Amelia's eyes, big as saucers, the sweet thing hanging on every word.
Tyler said, "I thought you wanted to sword fight."
She loved it, looking at Tyler almost adoringly, her new hero, her lips slightly parted.
Tyler saying, "Now you want to shoot me. "Cause I wouldn't saddle a horse for you?"
Neely would tell her later her mouth was open and it distracted him, made it hard to concentrate on details, and he didn't want to take out his notebook--how would that look? He'd have to remember what was said.
Teo was saying now, "You insult me." Tyler asking him, "How do I do that?" "The way you speak. You show no respect." "Why should I respect you?" "There. You see?"
"What you need to do," Tyler said, "is get over your touchiness. You understand what I mean? You're too sensitive, got a thin skin on you. I'm not gonna stand out there by a statue and let you aim your pistol at me, not over something as piddling as you wanting your own way."
There was no missing the hussar officer's expression of hostility. Neely noted the narrowing of his eyes to slits; he glanced at Amelia to see the adorable creature completely absorbed.
Spellbound.
Tyler saying now to Teo, "You have a war going on. Doesn't it give you enough people to kill?"
Teo didn't waste a moment. Neely watched him shift his gloves from his left to his right hand and crack Tyler across the face, stinging him good with those kid gloves--harder in fact than need be, only the formality of a slap required and ordinarily accepted as a challenge. What was in no way part of duello rites was Tyler cocking his left fist and driving it hard into Teo's wide-eyed expression, sending him stumbling back off-balance all the way to the bar, where Lionel Tavalera caught him around the shoulders and kept him on his feet.
Neely could see that Teo, now the center of attention, wanted no help from anyone. He used his elbows to free himself of Tavalera, and Neely thought, Now what? Rant and rave?
Promise the American he'll kill him for sure on the morrow?
No, what Teo did, he drew a short-barrel pistol from in side his suit--a.32, it looked like--extended the weapon in what must be a classic dueling pose in the direction of Tyler, barely more than six paces away, and while he was taking deliberate aim, intent on an immediate finish to this business, Tyler pulled a big .44 revolver from inside his new alpaca coat and shot Teo Barban in the middle of his forehead. My Lord, the sound it made! And there, you could see the bullet hole like a small black spot, just for a moment before Teo fell to the floor.
Neely thought of Amelia.
In that moment, the sound of the shot still ringing in his head, he actually thought of Amelia.
Not a sound came from her. All eyes, her pretty mouth still open, her expression one of awe in the silence that followed, gun smoke hanging in the air... No, wait.
Neely got out his notebook, his pencil inside where he'd made his last entry, the one about Charlie Burke not able to find any chewing tobacco.
There.
Charlie Burke, old-time cowpoke who liked nothing better than a good "'chaw'" couldn't believe it. All the tobacco that was grown in Cuba, famous the world over for its fine cigars, not one pinch of it goes into the production of chewing tobacco, scrap or plug. Idea for a heading: See a Spittoon Anywhere?
Neely began to write:
As gun smoke hung heavil
y in the air and a young man lay dead (presumably) in the bar of the Hotel Inglaterra, on a sultry evening only three days following the destruction of the United States battleship Maine in Havana harbor... Or how about: As gun smoke hung heavily in the air and a young Spanish officer lay dead...?
He wished Teo had been smoking a cigarette. Like in "The Death of Rodriguez," the boy appears before the firing squad smoking his last cigarette. How did Harding Davis put it? "Not arrogantly nor with bravado," something about being nonchalant and so "shockingly young for such a sacrifice."
That idea, get some emotion into it, but not so the reader sympathizes with Teo, a Spaniard.
Remember the scene, Neely told himself, the tableau.
Tyler kneeling over Teo's prostrate form, Teo obviously gone from this world.
Tavalera standing, looking down.
Amelia not moving a muscle, her expression, though, fairly calm.
Tavalera looking toward the entrance. Nodding.
And now uniformed Guardia Civil, armed with carbines, were coming into the bar.
Chapter Seven.
THIS TIME THEY SAT IN THE INNER courtyard of the home in Vedado, each with a glass of dark sherry while Rudi Calvo gave his report. As before, earlier this evening, Palenzueta's collar was off and his suspenders hung below his hips, this time the chief of municipal police preparing for bed when Rudi arrived. It was almost two A.M. and Palenzuela sat with his legs stretched out, now and then yawning.
"There were witnesses?"
"More than we need," Rudi said. "All the regulars in there, the correspondents, all professional observers. They were attentive because Amelia Brown entered and took a seat with the Americans."
"Alone?" The police chief sounding surprised.
"Mr. Boudreaux was still in the dining room, with his partners in the railroad venture." "How do you know this?" "Fuentes."
"What would you do without him?"
"He was in the bar and witnessed the shooting, but was gone when I looked for him after. And of course I was a witness, no more than a few steps from Barban when he drew his pistol."
"After the American struck him."
"Which was after Barban struck the American." "The slap, that was a formality,." "Does the American know that?" "Everyone knows it."
"But it was a hard slap, more an act of aggression than a formality."
"Why does this have to be complicated?"
"It isn't," Rudi said. "Barban struck the American and the American struck him back. Barban drew a pistol to shoot the American and the American drew a pistol and shot Barban first. To me that doesn't seem complicated."
"You know what I mean, with the fucking Guardia Civil. Why did they have to be there?"
"Tavalera was acting as Barban's second."
"With a squad outside?"
"He said they were waiting to report to him about the ship that brought, the horses, and came in when they heard the shot. Tavalera took the pistol from Barban's hand, a Smith & Wesson.32, the one with the very short barrel, and also disarmed the American, taking his revolver in the name of the law."
"The.44 Russian you mentioned. I have a matched pair," Palenzuela said, "made in Spain by Obea Brothers and presented to me by the Butcher himself, Weyler." Palenzuela paused. "I don't remember the occasion."
"Perhaps one of your anniversaries in office."
"Yes, I suppose."
Rudi Calvo saw his boss as a member of the establishment who took advantage of his position and would be crazy if he didn't. Still, in his years here he had come to sound more Cuban than what he actually was, of the Spanish-born elite, a peninsula re Rudi was sure that if his boss was careful and continued to appear harmless, he could become a member of whatever establishment caae after the present one. Naturally Andres was nervous--the Spanish still in power but hanging on by their fingernails.
"We don't want it to be complicated," Rudi said, "but it serves the purpose of the Guardia to confuse us. I identified myself to Lionel Tavalera and requested that he give me both weapons. I explained they would be introduced at a judicial hearing to determine exactly what happened here. Tavalera said, "You saw this man shoot and kill Lieutenant Barban. That's what happened." He said, "Concern yourself with city ordinances and the inspection of buildings, what you're paid to do; this is a military matter.""
His chief frowned, not wanting to hear this Guardia opinion of his office, but he didn't comment on it. No, what he said was, "Don't tell me the American turns out to be a spy."
"The Guardia wants to believe he is, either a spy or he's giving aid to the enemy. So both the Americans will be held while the Guardia hopes to find evidence to bring them before a military tribunal."
"What kind of evidence?"
"Contraband, arms. They believe they'll find guns aboard the ship that brought the horses; but when they went to search it, the ship had already left. So now they go to Matanzas and hope to board the ship there."
"Because they didn't pay the tax on all the livestock,"
Palenzuela said. "Remember, you asked why was it the business of the Guardia? All right, now we know."
"What?" Rudi said. "The custom man accepted a bribe to believe there were ten horses instead of thirty. In fact, Tavalera said it was what made him suspicious. Why ship horses if you can't make a profit on them? But that doesn't mean the ship was carrying contraband."
"They'll find out. They'll question the custom man, see what he knows about it."
"And the man is never seen again," Rudi said. "Locked in a Morro dungeon and forgotten."
His chief shrugged. "He shouldn't have taken the bribe. But listen, the part I don't understand--if they believe the Americans are delivering contraband, why wait until the one shoots the hussar officer before they arrest him?"
Rudi said, "Well," taking his time, "if the duel took place and Barban killed the American, they wouldn't have to bother dealing with him. Or perhaps Tavalera has his own reason, something personal between him and the American we don't know about."
"Do we care?" Palenzuela said, looking at Rudi, who didn't answer. "Where will they put them," the chief said now, "theqVlorro or La Cabafia, one or the other, uh?"
"The Morro for political prisoners," Rudi said. "It's full of people no one has heard frommsome since the time of the Ten Years War or even before that. How old is the Morro, three, four hundred years old?"
Palenzuela said it again, "Do we care what happens to the two Americans?"
This time Rudi said, "They may be friends of Mr. Boudreaux." "Ask your source, Fuentes," Palenzuela said.
He looked up as a woman's voice said, "Andres?" but waited until she called his name again before he said, "Yes?" "Are you coming to bed?" "In a moment."
The woman's voice said, "You were going to bring me a glass of sherry." It was his mistress, Lorraine. She said, "I'm waiting."
Now the chief of police waited, but that was all she said. He saw his expert investigator, a man he trusted, looking at him.
"What's the matter?"
Rudi shook his head. "Nothing."
"They become like wives," Palenzuela said. "In time it's hard to tell the difference. You don't know what I mean, do you?"
"I know one was enough for me," Rudi said. Palenzuela smiled, looking very tired. "Keep your life simple." "I try to."
"Do you know where I am this evening? Cfirdenas, attending a political function. I tell my wife I'll be back on the morning train and she says, "Oh, you're going to function tonight." She knows. She says, "You must function somewhere, because you don't function at home.""
Rudi wasn't sure if he should smile, so he didn't give it much. His chief smiled, appearing more tired now than he did before, yawning.
Looking at Rudi again he said, "Do you think of us as friends?"
"Not on a social level," Rudi said, "but yes, I think of you as a friend."
"Do you ever talk about me to others? I mean in regard to my personal life?"
"No, of course not."
>
"That was a foolish question. What else are you going to say."
"No, your personal life," Rudi said, "that's what it is. I can swear I never speak of you except with respect."
"Thank you. And I don't talk about you or your private activities," Palenzuela said, and held Rudi's gaze for several moments, Rudi making himself look back at his chief with the same serious intent, all the while trying quickly to think of something to say.
When it came to him he said, "All the correspondents in the hotel bar this evening will write about what happened. If they don't pass the story through the military censor in the morning, send it over the wire, it will go by boat to Key West and in a few days everyone in America will read about their two countrymen being held in a dungeon in the Morro."
"Unless the Guardia find contraband aboard the ship and they shoot the Americans right away," Palenzuela said. "I don't know about you, but I'm going to bed. It's been a long day."
Chapter Eight.
"YOU ARE NOW ENTERING THE presidio, the prison gallery of the famous Castillo de los Tres Reyes del Morro, completed in 1610 to protect the city from hostile forces, marauders, invaders.... The lamps along the wall burn coal oil. The soldiers asleep on the floor? They arrived today from a penal settlement in Africa--where you two could be going, if you aren't taken out and shot one morning at sunrise. You see, what I'm thinking," the lieutenant--who gave his name as Molina--said in English, slurring his words a little, but with only the trace of an accent, "is to remain here after the war and give tours of the Morro. There will be a war, of course, soon, and America will win. Our ships are rusting, fouled, our army can't subdue even these peasants. The Morro will become a place for American tourists to visit and I can tell them in the proper English I learned in your country what notables were here, like a guest list, and show them the wall where thousands of prisoners were lined up and shot."
Tyler and Charlie Burke, following Lieutenant Molina along this corridor that resembled a tunnel cut through stone, looked at one another. The two guards following behind gave them each a shove to keep moving. Tyler believed Lieutenant Molina was drunk.