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his companion.
    â€œYou look unusually fit.”
    And it was no false flattery. The Frenchman looked as though he had spent half his time here working out and the other half in a solarium.
    â€œClean air and healthy living, Jack, my boy!” came the reply. “And I’m serious. I’m living the life of an honest laborer these days. You should try it yourself, instead of hanging round those smoky clubs.”
    Jack tried to spot a hint of irony on the man’s face, but there was none.
    â€œHuh?”
    â€œI’ve become a volunteer! An Internationalista ! I give my labor every day for nothing but the glory of the Revolution.”
    Jack wasn’t sure whether to laugh or not, Pierre looked so earnest.
    â€œGet out of here,” he came back. “You’re no Communist.”
    The Frenchman brought his head forward and lowered his voice to a whisper.
    â€œPerhaps not. But it’s the only way that I can stay in Cuba as long as I like. And believe me, Jackie, I do like.”
    Which was far more like it. Jack waited for him to go on, but Pierre’s attention had been diverted. Two tall black women in the shortest of white dresses were emerging from the ladies’ room. Melville grinned and beckoned to them.
    â€œAh, our lovely playmates, at long last.”
    It only took a glance to figure what they were. Jack felt something curl up wearily inside him as the girls approached the table. Not that he wasn’t used to hookers. Since crossing the border, much of his experience along those lines had come with a price tag. It was the way things were with gringos here. But . . .
    He found himself pausing mentally. But what?
    It was one of those questions that grinded at the core of your being sometimes. Kept you awake on your pillow some nights, without really knowing why.
    He thought it better to ignore it. Simply pretend that questions like that did not exist.
    Jack forced a smile.
    One of the girls sat down next to him, leaned on his shoulder wordlessly, and started ruffling his hair. The other dropped into Pierre’s lap with a high-pitched giggle. So they were going to spend the evening with a pair of whores who were already pretty drunk.
    So fine, then. They were very attractive whores, and looked like a whole barrel load of fun. To hell with “buts” anyway, Jack decided. Let’s take all the damned “buts” in the world and drop them down a great big hole.
    He leaned back in his chair and looked from one girl to the other. They were both the same height and build, and their narrow, painted faces were remarkably alike.
    â€œI’m Lola,” the one at his shoulder informed him.
    Jack nodded.
    â€œIs that so? Hi, Lola.”
    â€œAnd she,” the girl went on, pointing with a long, mauve nail, “is Nona.”
    Jack mulled it over.
    â€œAre you two sisters?”
    At which, Lola smirked.
    â€œWe can be, if you like.”
    That small voice started saying “but” again, inside Jack’s head.
    Except he shut it out.
    *   *   *
    â€œOkay, man, so what’s the deal?”
    They were headed back into the Old Town, following the same route Jack had used that afternoon, though everything looked rather different in the dark, the amber streetlight being partly swallowed up by long, deep shadows. Lola and Nona were following along behind them, high heels setting up a rhythm on the cobbles.
    â€œWhat’s always the deal, Jackie boy?” Pierre replied. “The Yankee dollar. It’s just as important here as anywhere else.”
    â€œBut I thought they’d dumped all that?”
    â€œTheoretically, sure—but you know what theory gets you. They’ve had hard currency shops for a while now. And the black market here has always operated on a dollar basis. But that isn’t the half of it. You aren’t gonna believe this one.”
    The man paused to catch his breath.
    â€œUntil