Roberto flicked ash from his beautifully tailored dinner suit and lifted his glass. For a man in his late fifties, he was handsome. Standing to one side, near some candles, his diamond cuff links and studs glittered. Bald as a man can be, he had the air of a diplomat. Angular, taller than Raul, he had none of Raul's physical toughness ... he was a Guadalajara lawyer, promoter of mining interests and capable dabbler in city real estate. His mother had been the sister of Raul's mother. He liked the city, but appreciated Petaca's spaciousness, hunts, rodeos, fiestas and gambling.
Tonight the roulette wheel spun and the tiny pelota clicked like a race horse; it clicked and stopped, and the sound of the surf came through the room. For days the wind had boiled offshore and now the rollers foamed and thudded.
"Twenty," Joaquin Siquiros called.
"Twenty," someone repeated.
No one had placed money on that number and the wheel began again.
"Forty-one," Siquiros called, in his boyish voice.
Roberto strolled from guest to guest, drinking, eating, chatting, bored with roulette since he had lost heavily; the asthmatic Selva had stolen his luck and Lucienne had won more than her share of the evening's cash. He found Lucienne, beside a big mafafa, and put his arm around her.
"Were you lucky the last round?" he asked.
"Yes, but where have you been?"
"Just talking to people, catching up on Palma gossip."