The sandwich fascinated Vicki. It contained sausage, cheese, sliced tomato, sliced olives, pimento, and capers. And it was so huge that it would have made a complete meal by itself. Along with it, the waiter brought a silver pot of coffee, which, when he poured it into a delicately made demitasse cup, proved to be as thick and sweet as hot chocolate. Vicki looked around the room as she nibbled at the sandwich’s ample contents.
Most of the patrons were Americans, tourists in town for the Festival, she guessed, by looking at their pale, untanned faces. Scattered among them were people with distinctly Spanish faces, many of them dressed in colorful Spanish costumes. These, she knew, must be the natives of the Quarter. The air was filled with a cheerful babble of conversation that was a mixture of English and Spanish.
Suddenly a loud, cheerful Spanish-accented voice made Vicki turn her head sharply. Raymond Duke was coming through the arched doorway.
“Arturo!” he hailed the waiter who had served Vicki’s lunch. “Cómo está? How goes it?”
“Bueno, Señor Duke!” The waiter’s dark eyes and broad smile beamed a hearty welcome. It was plain that Raymond Duke was a regular patron of the Granada.
“Hello, Duke!” a group at a nearby table called. “Come over and sit with us.”
Duke stepped briskly to their table, shook hands all around, and sat down in an empty chair.
“Was it hot in Havana?” one of the men asked.
“Not on Veradero Beach.” Duke flashed a white-toothed smile.
A few more words and Duke excused himself. He sat down alone at a small table with his back toward Vicki. After ordering his lunch from the ubiquitous Arturo, he took some papers out of his pocket and settled down to read them.