"There's Ansaldo's maricón," Duarte laughed. "In the table at the back. I know the boy who's with him, too. He's a blue blood from the Vichy Embassy."
Hall watched Marina and the French boy. They had pink drinks made with gin and grenadine and raw eggs. The French boy was giggling. "The bastards," Hall said.
"Sit here and order a Cuba Libre for me," Duarte said. "I'm going to phone for a car."
Now that the action had begun, Hall felt better. The tension had been broken. Hands were starting to be shown. Now the moves would come more quickly, he thought, and they would be more definite in form. Diverse facts would synthesize, and when the letter came from Havana, perhaps the whole thing would start to form one pattern.
"We can't talk here," Duarte said. "Let's have a drink and then, when my car comes, we'll go to my house. I rented a place on the beach."
"Sorry, boy. That's out tonight. Have to stick around the hotel."
"But we should talk, Mateo."
"I'll have breakfast with you at your house. Do you eat in?"
"Sometimes. We'll eat in tomorrow morning."
"Eight o'clock too early?"