out through the bead curtain still singing, her voice dying away into the distance.
The calypso band struck up another goombay and Manning pushed his way through the crowd and went into the casino. As yet it was early and business was slack. One or two people stood at the roulette table, but the blackjack dealer was playing patience to kill the time until the rush started.
Kurt Viner, the owner of the Caravel, was sitting at a desk in the far corner checking the previous night’s takings, his manager hovering at his shoulder. A thin, greying German of fifty or so, he wore his white dinner jacket with a touch of aristocratic elegance.
As Manning entered the room, he looked up and waved. ‘Harry, how goes it?’
Manning took the two hundred and fifty dollars Morrison had given him and dropped them on the desk. ‘A little something on account. I’ve been letting the tab run away with me lately.’
Viner got to his feet and nodded to the manager. ‘Credit Mr Manning’s account. If you want me I’ll be in the office.’ He turned to Manning. ‘Let’s have a drink, Harry. Away from the noise.’
He crossed the green baize door in the corner and Manning followed him through. The room was beautifully furnished in contemporary Swedish style, the walls of natural wood panels alternating with handmade silk paper. A small bar curved out from the corner beside the window and Manning sat on one of the stools while Viner went behind.
‘Morrison must be a good client. What’s he do for a living?’
‘Real estate or something like that,’ Manning said. ‘Does it matter? They’re all the same. Paunchy, middle-aged businessmen with too much money looking for excitement. The first thing they do when they get here is unpack, dress like something out of Hemingway, come down to the wharf and expect to have a tuna handed to them on a platter.’
‘For which they pay handsomely, remember,’ Viner said. ‘And in dollars. Such a useful currency these days.’
‘A fact of which I’m duly grateful.’
‘You don’t like Morrison, then?’
‘Thanks to him I lost a harpoon gun, but he insisted on paying for it and he knows I’m insured. I suppose he’s better than most.’
‘He must be. Two hundred and fifty dollars is a fair day’s pay by any standards.’ Viner hesitated and then said slowly, ‘You know, your credit’s always good here, Harry, but it’s quite obvious you aren’t even making a living at the moment.’
‘Have you got a better suggestion?’
The German refilled his glass and said slowly, ‘You go to Miami occasionally, don’t you?’
Manning nodded. ‘So what?’
‘The Grace Abounding is a good-sized boat. You could carry passengers.’
Manning frowned. ‘You mean Cuban refugees? Illegal immigrants? Have you any idea what the penalties are?’
‘The rewards could be high.’
‘You’re telling me. Five years in jail. That coast is alive with small naval craft, especially since the Cuban crisis. What’s your interest, anyway? You don’t need that kind of money.’
‘You could say I have an affinity for refugees. I was one myself for several years after the war.’ Viner smiled. ‘Think it over, Harry. The offer is still open.’
Manning emptied his glass and stood up. ‘Thanks all the same, but things aren’t quite that tough. See you later.’
He left the room and went through the casino into the bar. For a moment he hesitated and then went out into the foyer past the reception desk and mounted the stairs to the first floor.
He was immediately conscious of the quiet. He passed along the broad carpeted corridor and somewhere a woman laughed, the sound of it curiously remote. The music from below might have come from another world.
He opened the door at the end of the corridor and went in. The room was a place of shadows, one shaded lamp standing on a small table in the centre. The French windows stood open to the terrace, the curtain lifting slightly in the wind as he crossed the room.
She was sitting in the darkness in an old wicker chair, a robe wrapped closely about her against the chill of the night air.
‘Hello, Harry!’ she said softly.
He gave her a cigarette. As the match flared in his cupped hand, she leaned forward, the lines of her face thrown sharply into relief, the eyes dark pools.
‘What kind of day have you had?’
‘No worse than usual. It’s a great life if you don’t weaken.’
He was unable to keep the bitterness from his voice and she shook her head. ‘You can’t go on like this, Harry, brooding about the past. You had a thriving business once in Havana, but you lost it. Why can’t you accept that instead of living from day to day hoping for some miracle to give it back to you.’
‘Nobody’s having to support me,’ he said. ‘I’m making a living.’
‘Only just.’ There was an edge of anger in her voice. ‘What kind of a life is this for a man like you? You started in Havana with nothing. Why can’t you start again?’
‘Maybe I’m tired,’ he said. ‘I’m fifteen years older, remember. I’ve just been talking to Viner. He wants me to start running refugees into Florida. A quick passage by night and no questions asked.’
She leaned forward in alarm. ‘You didn’t accept?’
‘Don’t worry,’ he said. ‘I’ve still got that much sense left.’ He took the envelope from his shirt pocket and dropped it onto her lap. ‘A letter from your mother.’
She got to her feet with a slight exclamation and hurried into the bedroom. He watched her feverishly tear open the envelope in the light of the lamp and turned away, leaning on the rail.
After a while she came back outside and stood beside him. ‘How was Sanchez?’
‘Seemed pretty fit to me.’
‘Did he say anything?’
He looked down, trying to gauge the expression in her eyes, but her face was in shadow. ‘Only that two of your people were murdered in Honduras last week. He told me to tell you to watch out. That Castro has a long arm.’
‘Then he should take care,’ she said simply. ‘He might lose his hand.’
Manning frowned. ‘Are you mixed up in anything, Maria? Anything I should know about?’
She smiled. ‘Nothing for you to worry about, Harry. Nothing at all.’
Manning turned and leaned against the rail again and she stood beside him so that his shoulder touched hers lightly each time she stirred. The wind was freshening off the water and a light mist rolled across the harbour. He felt at peace and restless, happy and discontented, all at the same time. It had been a bad day and the past came to easily to mind. He sighed and straightened.
She looked up, her face a white blur in the darkness. ‘What are you thinking about?’
‘Life!’ he said. ‘How you can never be sure about anything. Not really.’
She moved close, her hands gripping his lapels tightly, and he held her in his arms. Out beyond the point, the sea was beginning to lift into whitecaps.
‘Storm before morning,’ he said.
She looked out to sea and shivered. ‘Let’s go inside, Harry. My next show’s at eleven. That’s three hours away.’
She gently pulled herself free and went in. For a moment, he stayed there, looking out to sea and then a small wind