The Leveller - Julia Durango Page 0,41

says Lupe, handing me a smaller, single wrapped cigar and a box of matches. “You young lovers can take turns puffing on it,” she says with a sly look at me and a wink at Wyn.

“Gracias, Lupe,” Wyn says, “we’ll do that.”

“Hasta la vista, babydolls!” Lupe calls out with another flirty wink, then turns on her heel and walks away, her hips moving back and forth like a metronome.

“Wowza,” I say, holding the cigar up. “Do you program all your Meeple ladies to be huge flirts, or just Loopy?”

Wyn laughs. “Just Lupe. She’s Chucho’s girlfriend . . . or she was Chucho’s girlfriend, back in the real Havana.”

“Chucho is . . . was Mama Beti’s older brother, I’m guessing?”

“Yep. She’s told me lots of great stories about him . . . he knew everybody who was anybody in Havana from working the bar at Floridita. So did Lupe. She used to sneak Mama Beti into the shows here at the Tropicana. Mama Beti told me that the real Lupe had kind of a, um . . . naughty sense of humor, I guess you could say.”

“She’d make a sailor blush!”

“Latin Vixen IV script, courtesy of Jill Bauer,” Wyn says, enjoying the look of horror that crosses my face.

“My mom wrote those lines?”

“For the most part. I just customized them a bit.”

I shake my head. I need to have a little talk with Jill when I get home. Nice Cuban fatty? Hair on your chest? Honestly.

Wyn offers me his elbow. “Shall we dance now, princesa?”

I make a face. “If you’re sure about this.” I tuck the cigar and matches into the pocket of my wench apron and reluctantly take his arm.

“Trust me,” he says, then leads me through the busy casino and through a set of glass doors.

We’re in an outdoor ballroom now that Wyn tells me is called Bajo las Estrellas cabaret, which means Under the Stars. And the place lives up to its name. The vast enclosure has been draped with a thousand strands of twinkly lights, making me feel like I’m in a fairy garden, only a tropical fairy garden with towering palm trees and a cigar-smoke haze. All the Meeple here look like movie stars at their candlelit tables, while a bevy of waiters and busboys and more scantily clad cigarette girls circulate among them.

Wyn had decided earlier that our best chance of finding any human players in the MEEP would be to go to the most crowded spot in Havana. It seemed counterintuitive to me at first, but he had insisted it would be the only way to lure them out. The only times he’d ever seen them, they’d been “hiding” in a crowd of Meeple.

An enormous stage at the end of the outdoor ballroom features a ten-piece band and a female singer who reminds me of Lupe: brassy, voluptuous, and . . . what word did Wyn use? Oh yeah. Naughty. But wow, can she sing. Her voice weaves in and out of the instruments playing behind her, the trumpets, piano, maracas, and bongo drums all just a showcase for her resonant voice and fiery presence.

“AZUCAR!” she yells, and some of the Meeple hoot and whistle in response.

Wyn pulls me onto the platform dance floor. I’m still not sure I want to do this.

“Can’t we just sit at one of the tables and smoke our cigar?” I say, looking around at the other dancers. They’re all moving in perfect time to the fast-paced music. I know they’re programmed to do so, but still I feel intimidated.

“Smoking is bad for you. Just follow my lead,” says Wyn, putting his right hand on my waist and taking my hand in his left. I feel slightly better now that he’s holding on to me. Maybe he can just push me around the dance floor like a vacuum cleaner.

“They’re playing a cha-cha now, easy as walking,” he explains. “Here, watch my feet. One, two, cha-cha-cha, three, four, cha-cha-cha.” I do my best to imitate his steps. “One, two, cha-cha-cha,” I repeat, “three four, cha-cha . . . oops! Sorry about that.”

We shuffle around like this several times, Wyn patiently counting out the steps with me. Not that it matters. I am a complete disaster at the cha-cha.

We try a mambo next, which is even worse.

“Okay!” says Wyn, after I’ve stepped on his foot for the twenty-seventh time. “Let’s just stick to a simple two-step from now on. One-two, one-two, one-two,” he counts.

This is more like it.

I look at the