Havana Nocturne

Crime Fiction by Russell Thayer

Gunselle adjusted her stylish new sunglasses, unshouldered the straps of her new bikini top, and melted into the poolside lounger to let the blazing Cuban sun caramelize her flesh. A green parrot with a smart red bib admired her from the limb of a potted Bougainvillea. Gunselle gave it a friendly salute before taking a sip from the rum and coke placed on the little table next to her chair by a handsome waiter in a bright white guayabera and tight swim trunks. He had strong legs. She might order a second drink just to watch him carry it across the patio tile.

The flights from rainy San Francisco to radiant Havana, with stops in Kansas City and Miami, had taken thirty-six hours. Settled at her favorite hotel, near the Fuente de la India, Gunselle felt weary after the long journey, ready for a nap in her cream-colored two-piece bathing suit. A boy splashed in the courtyard pool. His attractive brown-skinned mother gazed at him from the edge in a skirted red one-piece, moving her legs in the water. A young blonde, displaying a fine figure in a tight green costume, walked to a flattened lounger on the other side of the pool, spread out a towel, and lay face down after slipping straps off her muscular shoulders. Gunselle watched the pretty women, feeling pretty herself, then reached down with trim, freshly polished nails to brush the tips of her fingers against the side of her handbag. It was a safe hotel. She could nap here. Out in the open.

***

Gunselle woke with a twitch of astonishment at finding herself awash in humid golden light, the air scented with frangipani. Shadows from balconied upper floors crept halfway up her legs. The blonde had disappeared. The water in the pool lay as still as glass. It was time to choose something soft and tight to wear for dinner. And beyond. Gunselle felt for her handbag.

“God damn it.”

***

“I’m very sorry, Miss Davis, that your purse is missing. There have been no reports, I assure you, of recent thefts in the patio area. Our guests are always safe here.”

“Yes. Yes. I understand.” Gunselle stood at the front desk in sandals and figure-hugging swimsuit, causing a bit of a stir among the visitors waiting to check in. “I’m glad you convinced me to keep my cash and travel documents in the hotel safe. May I have five hundred dollars, please?”

“Of course, Miss Davis,” said the hotel manager with a slight bow, his eyes never leaving her midriff. “I’ll have it brought to your room.”

“Thank you,” she said, then strutted to the ornate, iron-caged elevator, her hard-soled sandals clacking against the marble floor.

Locked in her suite, Gunselle peeled off the bottom of her suit, stepped into a pair of underpants and shorts. The cash arrived in five minutes. She gave the boy a small tip, trotted down the stairs, and marched three blocks to El Encanto, where she bought a new leather handbag.

Back at the hotel, Gunselle pulled on a tight black dress. The fabric hung to just below the knee, and was split up to mid-thigh. While she brushed a new permanent wave back into position, she wondered about the son-of-a-bitch who’d stolen her bag. And what she might do if she ever caught up with him. Besides her wristwatch, change purse, Spanish dictionary, lipstick, sewing kit, and tin of aspirin, the handbag contained another essential item. Her pistol. She’d have to tease the weapon out of the thief before she broke his neck, or better yet, stuffed the barrel between his teeth and pulled the trigger.

***

Gunselle parked herself on a stool in the hotel’s elegant lounge. She relished bartenders in white jackets, and the mirror behind the bar allowed her to keep her eyes on the room. The first daiquiri tasted sweet and strong. She felt a knot of tension unwind with the second drink.

It had been two years since her last vacation. Based in San Francisco, Gunselle had starched a dozen men during that time. Tough men by contract. She liked the money, the challenge of completing a dangerous job, but it was time for a break. A time to rest her muscles. None of her regular contacts knew she’d left town for a week. If someone needed to be chalked out on short notice, a lesser light could have the job. Gunselle was the best. Everyone knew it.

The plan for tonight was to enjoy a splendid dinner in the hotel’s fine restaurant, then spend a few hours with a pile of cash at the Tropicana’s roulette tables. After that, she might take in a show at the Zombie Club. In 1946 she’d been thrown out of the Hotel Nacional for bringing a man to her room. The Hotel Savannah had none of those pretentions.

“Mind if I sit here?”

Gunselle glanced into the mirror. The majestic blonde from the pool slipped onto the stool next to her, lighting up the room with a healthy Nordic glow. Well-brushed hair hung halfway down her back. Gunselle smelled lavender rising out of the flower-patterned dress which modestly covered her golden shoulders.

“It’s a free country.”

“Do you think?” said the young woman.

“What do you mean?”

“I’m confined to this hotel until my fiancé arrives at the end of the week. Like a dog on a chain. We’re to be married.”

“Good for you.”

“Do you think?”

“Stop that,” said Gunselle. “It’s annoying.”

“Sorry. I feel isolated in this beautiful city. Alone, waiting to marry a man I might not love.”

“Jeepers. You’re a maudlin thing. I’m Vivian.”

“Agnes. I’ve left school in Ann Arbor and run away from everything. My family doesn’t approve of my future husband, you see. He’s Cuban. His skin is dark.” She looked at her lap. “My family wishes he were dead.”

Gunselle caught the bartender’s eye, pointed at her daiquiri, then pointed at the blonde. The bartender, in a jacket as white as an angel’s wing, smiled under his narrow-cut mustache.

“Most men are better off dead,” said Gunselle.

“Do you think?”

“I know I’m better off when they’re dead.”

“You seem sore about something,” said Agnes. “Could your woe be any worse than that of a girl who said yes to marriage without being sure?”

“Don’t know,” said Gunselle. “Never been asked.”

“You’re kidding,” said Agnes. “You look like a movie star. Did you see The Killers?”

“I don’t like movies where chumps get bumped off without a fight.”

“I do.” The blonde took a sip of her daiquiri. “Yum. Thanks.”

“If you must know,” said Gunselle, “some son-of-a-bitch stole my purse while we were sunning ourselves by the pool this afternoon.”

“Are you sure it was a guy?”

“Men are most likely to pull a cheap caper like that.”

“Sure, but when I rolled onto my back at one point, I saw that Cuban woman in the red swimsuit step away from the side of your lounge chair. You were sleeping.”

“Tell me more,” said Gunselle. “Did she have my bag in her hand?”

“Not then. She walked into the bar and stared at me from the window. Then I fell asleep.”

“What about the kid? Did she come back for it?”

“That wasn’t her kid,” said Agnes. “Another woman came and called the boy to dinner.”

“Glad I ran into you. Maybe I’ll run into her later. She won’t like that.”

“Are you in Havana by yourself?”

“I’m alone,” said Gunselle, “but I like to rumba on warm nights, if you get my drift.”

“I guess not all men are better off dead,” said the blonde. “Mind if I trot along behind? I’m as bored as an anxious bride can be.”

“What’ll your wayward groom say if he finds out I’ve taken you for a walk?”

“Just keep me on a leash.”

Gunselle pointed at their empty glasses. The bartender grinned and went to work with his silver shaker.

***

Agnes ordered Lamprey à la Bordelaise.

“Blech,” said Gunselle, showing her tongue. “Where do they get the damn things?”

“Why the face?” said Agnes. “You don’t eat predators?”

“Not unless I’m paid to. And lamprey are parasites, not predators.”

“Isn’t that the same thing?” said Agnes. “They both find their victim and go to work.”

“A woman who attaches herself to her victim in order to suck money out of it is a parasite. A woman who hunts her victim and kills it is a predator.”

“I see,” said Agnes, smiling. “Parasite or predator, they’re probably flown in from abroad.”

Gunselle shivered with disgust as she turned to the waiter and ordered the Bisquebouille Avignon.

Over chilled white wine, the women chatted about the latest fashions. When Agnes began to describe her ideal wedding dress, Gunselle grew bored, her eyes drifting, and soon spotted the pretty poolside thief walk out of the hotel through the front entrance. She wore an off-the-shoulder white dress, and carried an unfamiliar handbag.

“That brazen mooch,” said Gunselle, throwing her napkin on the table. “I’ll be right back.”

“Give her hell, Vivian.”

Gunselle watched the young woman cross the boulevard and turn down an empty side street. Hopping from the curb in her sturdy, wide-heeled pumps, Gunselle closed the distance. Grabbing the woman by her purse strap, she jerked her around, slapped her, and pushed her against a store front.

“Where’s my pistol?” she said.

“I no understand. Pistola? Por favor.”

Gunselle took hold of bare shoulders, spun the woman around, and drove her head into the brick. Dragging the collapsed figure into a space between the buildings, she laid her down on her back in the weeds and went through the handbag. No pistol. No identifying papers. Just a few peso notes mixed with American dollars and unopened prophylactics. Gunselle doubted a thieving prostitute with a bloody forehead would involve the police against an American tourist, so she decided not to strangle her.

Back at the hotel, Gunselle settled into her seat. The food hadn’t yet arrived.

Agnes sipped her wine and watched Gunselle wipe a smear of blood off her hand after dipping her napkin in a water glass.

“Did you get your purse back?”

Gunselle shook her head, watching the waiter approach with her soup.

“Can she still talk?” asked Agnes.

“She’ll be fine. Let’s eat.”

After a quiet meal, Gunselle told the waiter to charge the dinner to her room.

“Thanks,” said Agnes. “What now?”

“Do you have any cash?”

“Maybe ten bucks.”

“Is your room paid for?”

“No.”

“Is your future husband ever going to show up and pay for it?”

“I don’t know.”

“Jesus Christ,” said Gunselle, digging in her new, leather-scented handbag. She slid a hundred-dollar bill across the table. “For tonight. At the casino. Maybe your luck will change.”

“Do you think?” said Agnes, picking up the note. “You don’t have to do this, Vivian. I’d be happy just to stand at your side and watch you play.”

“I’ve got loads of money,” said Gunselle. “Let’s have some fun. Think of it as your bridal shower.” She liked the young woman, though she found her a bit odd. Bold but conventional. Maybe a little too trusting.

***

At five feet eight inches, Gunselle wasn’t a short woman, but six-foot Agnes towered over her like a swaying palm tree as they sashayed from the taxicab to the entrance of the Tropicana. The famous casino glittered even more brightly as the women entered, its stunning concrete arches curving high overhead.

Gunselle led Agnes to the gambling tables. Couples who’d stopped in their path stared as the women passed. Mariposa flowers filled the cavernous edifice. Chattering conversations hovered in the jasmine-scented air.

After an hour at the roulette wheel, Gunselle had reaped a thousand dollars.

“You are so lucky!” squealed Agnes as a conga-pounding Latin beat began on the main stage. “I blew that entire hundred dollars on the slot machines.” She frowned with great exaggeration. “My luck hasn’t changed at all.”

“It’s all odds and probability, sister. Stick with me. Let’s grab some drinks at the bar and watch the crowd watch us drink them.”

“Right behind you,” said Agnes.

“Do you have a headache yet?” asked Gunselle as a group of men in suit jackets and black bow ties made room for them at the polished wood.

“I can take it,” said Agnes. “I’m having a blast.”

Gunselle ordered rum and cokes. A man tried to start a conversation, but she raised her hand, shaking her head. He moved off after Agnes turned her nose up at him.

“Let’s go somewhere cozier,” said Gunselle. “I’m thinking of the Zombie Club. They have a good floor show. The men should be high, handsome, and ready for dancing. Things could get hot. You okay with that?”

Agnes nodded, looking a little frightened.

“Men will want to kiss you,” added Gunselle.

“And you,” said Agnes.

“But you’re much younger.” Gunselle ran her finger down one of Agnes’s forearms. “Men dream of flesh as smooth as yours.”

“You’re not old, Vivian. You’re beautiful.”

“I’ll be thirty-two on my next birthday. All the eyes in this place are on you right now.”

“You are insane. No offense.”

“No offense taken,” said Gunselle, beaming.

***

The crowded Zombie Club felt like a steam bath. A waiter led Gunselle and Agnes to a half-empty table for four. Two men leaped to their feet, pulling chairs for them. Gunselle suspected a few dollars had changed hands with the waiter just after the women strolled in.

“I’m Ray. That’s Dick,” said the balding older man. He wore a light-colored, wrinkled sports coat. “Glad you dazzling creatures don’t mind sharing a table with a couple of grubby tourists.” He helped with Gunselle’s chair, then sat. The younger man handled Agnes. He was handsome, with a full head of light brown hair. Ray grabbed a passing waiter.

“Ladies?” he asked. “What can I get you?”

“Rum Collins,” said Gunselle. “And I’ll pay for it.”

“Looking forward to that,” said Ray, with a wink.

Gunselle frowned.

“I don’t have any money,” said Agnes.

“I’m sure that’ll change by the time our evening ends,” said Ray, waggling his eyebrows. “You two look like you just rolled off the assembly line at a TNT factory. How much do glamour-pusses like you earn in one evening?”

“We’re not whores,” said Agnes as the music started up. The men didn’t seem to hear her, shaking their shoulders to the relentless congas.

Drinks came and the men eased their chairs closer. A group of female dancers in sequined costumes took the stage. Feathers crested from the tops of their heads. More plumage covered their gyrating bottoms.

“Las Mulatas de Fuego!” shouted the Master of Ceremonies as he backed off the stage. A woman stepped to a microphone and began to sing in Spanish. A crowd bustled to the dancefloor. Dick stood and formally stretched out his arm to Agnes. She looked at Gunselle, as if for instruction. Gunselle shrugged. Agnes rose to her feet. They flounced away from the table. It surprised Gunselle how adept Agnes proved to be at the hip-loosening rhumba steps once Dick took her in his arms.

“That’s my boy,” said Ray.

“You take your son whoring?”

“We’re just out having a drink or two. But we have money. Our hotel is right across the street.”

“No thanks.”

The man stood and offered his arm.

“No thanks.”

Ray laughed and moved to a table of Cuban women nearby. One sad-looking young thing took the floor with him.

Gunselle knew the men would pursue them for the rest of the evening. With that in mind, she removed five hundred dollars from her purse and picked up Agnes’s handbag, intending to protect the girl against any future proposition.

As she snapped open the black leather bag, Gunselle noticed a distinctive smell. Gun oil. Reaching inside, she discovered a pistol wrapped in a silk scarf. She pulled it out and held it below the edge of the table. The petite Savage .32 was a popular gun for women to carry in a purse, but the worn bluing told Gunselle it was very much her own. The magazine was missing. She dug around in the bag. No bullets. Why would Agnes be in possession of her pistol? Why wasn’t it loaded? Did she need protection from someone? And why had she let her hurt the Cuban girl if the Cuban girl hadn’t stolen the purse?

Gunselle turned to watch Agnes move in Dick’s arms. And then it all came together.

Kitty Hawk. Of course. That pitiless pro out of Chicago. Tall and blonde, Kitty put out lights for the Eastern mob. Her method of operation was to humiliate a victim by killing him with his own weapon. But who wanted Gunselle dead? And why? She was just a tool with no skin in the game. It didn’t make sense, but it didn’t matter. What did matter was that someone knew she’d be travelling to Havana. Someone who could fly in a predator to meet her. How stupid to let Agnes play with her like that at the restaurant. Gunselle felt old all of a sudden. Out of touch.

She wrapped her pistol in the scarf again. Returned it to Agnes’s bag. The money went back to her own.

“Let’s go someplace quieter,” suggested Gunselle when Agnes, dripping with perspiration, flopped down in her chair. Dick flopped down, too.

“Yes,” he said. “Let’s go. Wherever.”

“Whew,” said Agnes, opening her purse to remove a handkerchief that was as lacy and innocent as she pretended to be. Gunselle put her hand on Ray’s thigh.

“I’m up for continuing the evening somewhere quieter,” he said.

The play now was to keep the men between them. Gunselle was in no hurry to be alone with the big blonde. She glanced at Agnes’s magnificent breasts. The bodice kept the warm flesh pressed together. She guessed her pistol’s magazine might be cozied up between them.

“I know a small club off the Malecon,” said Gunselle. “It’s clandestine. You might see things there that’ll put a kick in the old rooster.”

“Can’t wait,” said Ray, placing his hand on Gunselle’s thigh. She let him steer it up high before swallowing the last of her drink, slapping his hand away as she rose.

***

A refreshing night wind off the Straits of Florida pushed against the two couples as they strolled along the shop-shuttered sidewalk opposite the seawall promenade. Ray’s arm supported Gunselle. Her hip brushed against Agnes as she walked. Alcohol dulled her mind. She wished she’d known, a few cocktails earlier, that Kitty was gunning for her. The assassin had stopped drinking after the Tropicana. Seemed steady on her feet.

“Where is this place?” asked Ray, pulling Gunselle close.

The entrance to the club in question stood twenty feet down a dark alley. Catering to the homosexual trade, no sign welcomed them to the illegal business. Gunselle had visited the spot a few years before with an eccentric man she met while slurping daiquiris one night at La Floridita. He obtained another man at the illicit bar, and later, at his hotel, asked her to watch the two men penetrate each other, calling her Betty as she stood by the side of the bed. It was all very strange. Gunselle hoped the club hadn’t been shut down since then. She remembered it being a small joint, with one bartender and two waiters. The eccentricities of the patrons might throw Kitty off balance, and she didn’t think anyone staying at the Hotel Savannah would likely be found among the crowd.

A nondescript door let them enter. Another door opened onto the unchanged bar. Crowded at the late hour, they still managed to get a table. Gunselle could imagine the Spanish seductions whispered into ears of middle-aged tourists by handsome boys in silk suits. Women sprawled in small groups, hands on partner’s thighs, cigarettes plugged into long, exotic holders.

“What the hell is this place?” said Ray.

“Interesting,” said Dick. “I’ve heard about clubs like this.”

“What can I get for you lovers?” asked the prompt waiter.

“Just water,” said Gunselle. “Order something strong, my dear.”

“I have a headache,” said Agnes, a look of disgust distorting her face.

“Beer for me,” said Dick.

“And your papa?” asked the waiter with a wink.

“Beer. And fuck you,” said Ray.

The drinks came while Gunselle watched Agnes survey the room. Two women kissed in the shadows behind them. Agnes sneered. One of the women noticed and blew her a kiss.

“This place makes me sick,” said Agnes.

“Wait until the floor show starts,” said Gunselle.

The band returned from a break and slid into a slow tango. Within seconds the floor filled with couples of the same sex. Under low light, they ground into each other, writhed and turned. Suddenly a pretty young man stomped his foot. A muscular older man grabbed the boy’s arm and pulled him roughly to his chest. The crowd shouted “Apa-che!” The floor cleared in seconds.

“What is this?” asked Dick.

“Disgusting,” said Agnes. “In a word.”

“It’s an Apache dance,” said Gunselle. “Watch.”

The man slapped the boy, then flipped him over his knee, thrusting him onto the floor. The boy rose up, stalking, spinning, darting in close enough to try and slap the man in return. The man grabbed the boy’s arm, bringing his face in for a kiss before pushing him away to arm’s length, then spinning his partner close again. The boy pretended to drive his knee into the big man’s groin before turning and strutting past the crowd, nodding with satisfaction until the man took his arm and they began the motions all over again. Eventually, the boy lay crumpled on the floor, weeping. Pulled up by his arms, the man embraced him. They ended their sultry ballet of violent confrontation by kissing with passion before moving through a door behind the stage, drenched in sweat, whistles, and cheers.

“Disgusting,” said Agnes. “The only reason anyone enjoys it is because they’re all queer. Why did you bring us here?”

“I’ll show you,” said Gunselle as the band sprang into another tango. She stood and pulled Agnes to her feet.

“What are you doing?”

“I’ll lead, Kitty,” said Gunselle, pressing her body against the young woman as she walked her backwards, curling around her with erotic pulsations before pulling her cheek-to-cheek.

“Guess I shouldn’t have left my bag unattended at the table,” whispered Kitty.

“That was dumb,” said Gunselle.

“I was hoping to plug you on the way back to the hotel. In some dark alley while you were squatting to pee.”

“What if I’d kissed you in that dark alley? Have you ever kissed a woman? It’s rather pleasant.”

“You’re having no effect on me,” said Kitty. “Dancing with you is like dancing with my mother.”

“That’s cute, Kitty, but come clean. Who hired you? And why?”

“My jobs come by coded telegram. Do you ever know why? Does it matter?”

“How much?” asked Gunselle. “How much did they pay you?”

“Not much. And don’t bother. It’s a contract. You’re not going to buy your way out of this.”

Gunselle spun Kitty away from her, then pulled her close, staring intensely into blue eyes as she cocked her head and pushed her mouth against soft lips, her hand stroking Kitty’s bosom. A cheer rose from the crowd as Kitty struggled briefly before pulling away.

Gunselle held the hot, slippery magazine in her fingers. With a little chuckle, she flung it over her shoulder, enjoying its musical collision with glass bottles behind the bar.

Kitty spit in Gunselle’s face.

“APA-CHE!” screamed the crowd. The remaining couples scuttled off the dancefloor.

With a jolt, Kitty lunged, getting her arm around Gunselle’s neck. Heaving her weight around, Gunselle managed to twirl them into a table, where Kitty spilled over a chair, scattering the occupant. Getting to her feet in a hurry, Kitty threw the chair at Gunselle, who blocked it with her forearm while stumbling backwards.

Grabbing a bowl of almonds from a table, Gunselle heaved the contents at the charging blonde, making the brass bowl clang as she beat it against Kitty’s head.

The crowd roared with laughter after Kitty ripped the top of Gunselle’s dress away, exposing a black strapless brassiere. With an explosion of anger, Gunselle attacked, grabbing Kitty around the middle and driving her onto the floor, where the younger woman’s head hit hard, knocking her out. Straddling her rival, Gunselle proceeded to rip the flowered dress away from Kitty’s own lovely chest, feeling heat rising off the damp body.

The crowd cheered as Gunselle wrapped her hands around Kitty’s neck.

“APA-CHE! APA-CHE!” they chanted.

 As Gunselle began to squeeze, the bartender dumped a bucket of cold mop water over her.

Screaming at the dousing chill, she loosened her grip and the suddenly revived Kitty Hawk heaved her away. Dripping wet, bodices torn, hair bedraggled, the two women began to move in a circle, crouching with tension, like compressed springs.

“APA-CHE! APA-CHE!”

Kitty lunged. Gunselle moved to the side, then dived over the bar just as a chair exploded against the mirror, shards of glass raining down on her. Getting to her feet, she grabbed bottle after bottle of rum by the neck, flinging them toward Kitty, who crouched behind an overturned table like a copper behind the door of his squad car. Rising up holding a chair by the seat, Kitty blocked the bottles one by one as she moved forward.

Seizing an eight-inch knife from a pile of sliced limes, Gunselle threw it at the chair, where it stuck in the seat-bottom with a comical hum. Kitty removed the knife, smiling. Gunselle threw one more bottle, but Kitty caught it in the air and smashed it on the edge of the overturned table top.

Gunselle looked for more knives, but found only cocktail glasses. Kitty dodged each one of them, seeming to grow stronger as she closed in. Eyes darting in desperation, Gunselle spotted a mounted swordfish head poised over a wooden base. The ugly thing had a prong almost three feet long. She grabbed it and moved forward, hoping the blade wouldn’t snap off as she made a jabbing attack.

Kitty stepped backwards at the sudden change in tactics, stumbling over the empty mop bucket and falling onto her back. Gunselle moved on her in a second, stomping the hand that held the bottle, feeling the knife tear into her calf as she thrust the swordfish blade through the flowery dress.

The prong bit at the floor. Kitty winced, sitting up after Gunselle drew the blade out of her abdomen. Gunselle rammed the sword through her again, splitting ribs, pinning the young killer to a cabinet door. Bleeding defeat through her torn dress, Kitty presented the knife, handle-first.

“That was a blast, Gunny,” she whispered. “Just not my night.”

“Do you think?” said Gunselle as she dropped to her knees and thrust the knife into Kitty’s windpipe, sawing deep through cartilage and bone, blood pouring down the girl’s chest to collect in the exposed brassiere.

Rising from behind the bar like a demon from the deep, Gunselle held the dripping head high. The remaining people in the room shrieked with horror, crashing into each other as they fled the spectacle.

Gunselle heaved the head onto the dancefloor, where it rolled over a few times before coming to rest on one ear. After tying a bar towel around the gash in her calf, she found her pistol’s magazine behind the cash register, then retrieved Kitty’s purse. Repossessing her weapon, Gunselle inserted the magazine and worked the slide. Hobbling through a door behind the bar, she discovered a door to the alley. No sirens sang in the distance as she made her way to the high seawall. Devoid of energy, she limped to her hotel.

Gunselle held up the torn front of her dress as she collected her key.

“Shall I call the police?” asked the desk clerk on duty, an older man with white hair.

“No. Thank you. I’ll be fine,” she said, turning toward her room, craving a hot shower, no matter how much it hurt.

***

The next morning, a maid eager to earn five dollars fetched iodine, gauze, and tape from a local pharmacy. And a sewing kit. Gunselle cleaned, stitched and dressed the gash. The scar would make her legs even more interesting. After swallowing a few aspirin, she slipped into her bathing costume and a pair of soft, wide-legged red trousers.  Poolside, she stretched out on a lounger, careful not to bump her wound. The sunglasses hid a blackening eye. She ordered freshly squeezed orange juice from the handsome waiter, watching him scan the purpling contusions on her arms, the small bandage on her forehead. She swallowed the entire glass of juice in front of him when he delivered it, then ordered a rum cocktail. As she made herself comfortable, wincing while she adjusted her hip, she spotted the young Cuban woman she’d assaulted the evening before. The dark-haired creature had just appeared on the patio in the same skirted red swimsuit. The girl stopped, backing into the shade when she noticed Gunselle looking at her. She sported a bandage on her own forehead.

Gunselle waved her over. The young woman backed into deeper shade. Gunselle crooked her finger, making little motions with it. The woman stayed put. Gunselle reached into her purse and pulled out the five hundred dollars she’d intended to give to Agnes the previous evening. She held it up, flapped it back and forth, then threw it into the lounge chair next to her.

The young woman stepped out of the shade, strolling slowly in Gunselle’s direction. She stopped ten feet away.

“Sit,” said Gunselle, using an authoritative voice.

The woman stepped closer, then sat down after picking up the money.

“It’s yours,” said Gunselle, snapping her fingers at a passing waiter.

“Yes, madam,” he said, skidding to a halt.

“A drink for my friend.” Gunselle tipped her head toward the girl. “What’s your name?”

“Veronica.”

“Order what you like, Veronica. On me.”

“Café,” said the girl.

The waiter bowed and hurried off.

“Sorry I knocked your head around,” said Gunselle. “A misunderstanding. I hope the cash makes you feel better. It certainly eases my conscience.”

“My head hurts,” said Veronica.

“You know what?” said Gunselle, opening her purse. “Take it all. Everything I’ve got. I don’t care.” She pulled out a thick pile of wrinkled bills and handed it to the girl. A convenient amount of cash remained in the hotel safe.

“How will you live?” asked wide-eyed Veronica, the large wad of money clutched in her hand.

“I charge everything to my room when I’m at the hotel. That gives me until the end of the week to suck a sympathetic man dry. A doctor would be perfect. How do you say parasite in Spanish? The feminine?”

“Parasita.”

“That’s a pretty word,” said Gunselle, turning her face toward the healing sun.

---

Bio: Russell Thayer’s work has appeared in Brushfire, Tough, Roi Fainéant Press, Guilty Crime Magazine, Mystery Tribune, Close to the Bone, Bristol Noir, Apocalypse Confidential, Cowboy Jamboree Press, Hawaii Pacific Review, Shotgun Honey, A Thin Slice of Anxiety, Rock and a Hard Place Press, Revolution John, Punk Noir, Expat Press, Pulp Modern, The Yard Crime Blog, and Outcast Press. He received his BA in English from the University of Washington, worked for decades at large printing companies, and currently lives in Missoula, Montana. You can find him lurking on Twitter @RussellThayer10

Checkout Russell’s new book, written with M.E. Proctor

Cover photo from pexels/Christopher Farrugia (Edited by The Yard)

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