The Black Path of Fear

Начало книги

Somehow we’d gotten into Zulueta Street. Maybe the driver figured we’d wind up there eventually anyhow. Everyone seems to. We dawdled up to Sloppy Joe’s, all open to the street, and looking better before you go in than it does inside.

The horse seemed to stop of its own accord. I guess it had been here so many times before it knew the place. The coachman turned his head around and looked at us inquiringly.

“What’s this?” I said.

“Esloppy’s,” he said, “Big atracción.”

I felt like saying, “What are you, their steerer or something?” I didn’t bother.

I turned and looked at her. “You want to?”

She didn’t want to go in at first. “Do you think it’s safe for us to show ourselves around like this, Scott?”

“Sure it’s safe. This is Havana, not the States any more. He hasn’t got that long a reach.”

She smiled at me. One of those smiles of hers that — oh, brother, you feel like the soft end of the sealing wax going onto an envelope flap. “Hasn’t he?” she said. “We should have gone to a hotel and locked ourselves in.”

Читать дальше →