beggar. Delphine smiled, immediately amenable. Simon knew better. “No,” he said. “Not today.”
The Roma was insistent. Refusing to be put off, she came closer, crowding them, the baby crying now, as if on cue.
“Please,” said Delphine. “It’s all right.”
Simon relented, handing the Roma a two-euro piece. Delphine nodded her approval. Thus preoccupied, neither saw the second Roma approach from behind. A man, and sly. Simon saw him only as he withdrew Delphine’s pocketbook from her Hermès bag. He caught the man by the arm. There was a struggle. The tussle ended badly for the Roma, who retreated without the pocketbook, his wrist fractured. The entire incident was over in a minute.
But the day was spoiled. Delphine was unable to let it go, upset that their rêverie had been broken. She looked at Simon differently. Why wasn’t he as bothered as she? And where had he learned to break a man’s wrist as if it were a matchstick?
The call from Dickie Blackmon had come the next day. “I know all about you. I won’t hesitate to tell others. Stop seeing my daughter or else.”
Simon swept the memories aside. The past brought nothing but pain, too often in the form of truth. He’d convinced himself that his feelings for Delphine had died long ago, or at least withered absent nurture. Ten minutes in her presence and his defenses—so painstakingly constructed, so artfully reinforced, so skillfully maintained—had crumbled. One look was enough. In that look, the knowledge of all that once was and could never be. Heartbreak. Why was he surprised that he was not immune? Fool.
A laugh. Rich, well deserved. Ah, life! Move on.
And now, to be a friend. The chance to repay a debt. No fees, no clients, no middlemen. Simply to be of service, to give of himself. For once, an honest reason to travel halfway around the world.
Or was it?
Was Delphine the real reason he’d come? A last chance to prove himself the better man?
He dismissed the thought. Only actions mattered. He was here.
Simon veered left onto Yaowarat Road, into Chinatown. Smoked ducks hung upside down on curing hooks, tables pushed onto the streets crowded with customers slurping soups and banging tea cups, and always the motorbikes zipping past too close for comfort. He was looking for an old, immense banyan tree that dominated an intersection. He had turned off his phone, that much more difficult to follow him. He spotted the tree—one couldn’t miss it—the roots as pronounced as canyons, the intertwined branches spreading across the street, blocking out the night sky, an impenetrable canopy.
He searched for a Cuban-looking doorman, saw none. He continued to the end of the block and retraced his steps, uncomfortable now, conspicuous. He slowed, the smell of cigar smoke sharp in his nostrils. He was in the right place. Or was he?
He ducked into a convenience store—two counters, fluorescent lights, selling water, chips, candy, and a variety of pharmaceuticals. He asked for Little Havana. The clerk pointed out the door, motioning emphatically, barking out instructions. Simon stepped outside, took a few steps, angry at himself, still unable to find the club.
The next instant an enormous black man was standing beside him. A head taller, dressed in a dark suit, shoulders to rival Atlas. How long had he been studying Simon?
“Raúl?”
The man nodded, stepped across the street, and pointed to a phone booth. It was from another time and another country, an anachronism—collapsible doors, rotary dial, waiting for Clark Kent, or, in this case, Simon Riske. He’d looked at it several times, failed to remark that it belonged in New York City or Chicago, not Bangkok.
Hiding in plain sight.
“1-9-5-8,” said Raúl.
Simon understood at once. The final year of the revolution. December 31st. Batista out. Castro in. He entered the booth, Raúl holding the door, picked up the phone, and dialed the four digits. The opposite wall slid to one side.
One step and he was transported to Cuba back in the day. It was a high-ceilinged space, with an endless wooden bar, a mirror behind it, “El Floridita” painted in festive script—Hemingway’s spot—rows of spirits, glasses on shelves. Wicker fans turned slowly overhead. A guitar quartet played from a balcony. “Desafinado.” Couples danced.
The host was Brazilian, wearing a guayabera shirt. Simon explained that he was a friend of Mr. De Bourbon and that he’d come to collect something from his locker. He showed the key and asked him to call Delphine if he had any questions.
The host—a hard man beneath his Latin charm—appraised Simon. “The