Hall had to laugh with the general. He could easily picture the effect of Jaime Lobo's towering dark attractiveness—more than once in the United States Hollywood talent scouts had begged him to sign contracts—in the eyes of the American women one could find at a lavish reception in Havana. "An American sugar king's party?"
"No. The British business colony. It was stupendous." Lobo had lived in the United States for five years, got a great kick out of scattering the superlatives of Hollywood in his speech when he spoke English.
"O.K.," Hall said, dryly. "It was super-colossal." He sat down in the large armchair at the side of the desk, helped himself to one of Lobo's cigars.
"So you don't want to play," Lobo said, sobering and taking his own seat.
"Some other time, Jaime."
"Sounds bad, keed. But tell me, Johnny, is it true that Don Anibal is dying?"
"He may be dead by now."
"Ansaldo killed him?"
Hall started. "What do you know about Ansaldo?"
"I know he's a fascist pig. Why?"