Spy in a Little Black Dress - By Maxine Kenneth Page 0,39
said, sounding like an expert mixologist. “The mint is called yerba buena, a spearmint that’s very popular on the island. People in the know say that La Europa’s mojitos are even better than the ones at La Bodeguita.” The man smiled suggestively. “And you get a lot more than drinks here, if you know what I mean.”
Jackie was afraid that this strange man was trying to pick her up, but he quickly put her at her ease. “I would love to chat more with you, but I’m afraid I must be going, Miss…?”
“Bouvier. Jacqueline Bouvier. And you are?”
“Arthur Phillips,” he said. “I’m here from the States seeking investment opportunities for my company, and I’m having dinner with a prospect who’s probably waiting for me by now.”
The man fished a bill out of his wallet and laid it on the counter.” This is for you, Diego,” he said to the bartender, an intense-looking young man busy fixing drinks. Then Phillips withdrew a business card and handed it to Jackie. “It was a pleasure meeting you, Miss Bouvier. I hope our paths cross again sometime.”
As Arthur Phillips took his leave, Jackie glanced at the card he had given her. Printed on it in bold letters, she saw the name THE THORNDYKE FUND.
That’s funny, Jackie thought. Those were the same three words that she had seen on Robert Maheu’s notepad. What was the Thorndyke Fund? Why was Maheu so interested in it? And what kinds of investments were involved?
Any questions that she had about the Thorndyke Fund flew out of Jackie’s head when she looked up from the card and saw the man sitting on the stool next to the one vacated by Arthur Phillips.
The high forehead, the bushy white beard and mustache, the brute masculinity of an aging lion king tamed by advancing years. It had to be. It was. Ernest Hemingway. In the flesh. Not a replica of him in El Floridita, but the real man.
Without missing a beat, Jackie slid into the seat next to him, leaned in close, and said, “Mr. Hemingway? I’m Jacqueline Bouvier of the Washington Times-Herald, and I’m so thrilled to meet you.” Her voice came out in a vibrato like the voice of Babykin, the talking doll popular back home, and she was afraid that Hemingway would ignore her.
But he didn’t. He downed the rest of his mojito and turned toward her with a flushed face and bleary eyes. “And what brings a lovely young thing like you to La Europa?” he asked. “Did the newspaper send you?”
He sounded wary, and Jackie remembered that his last book, Across the River and into the Trees, had been published two years ago to bad reviews. He probably thinks I’m a critic out to do him in, Jackie surmised, so she quickly said, “Oh no, I’m here on vacation. And I must tell you that I love all your work”—she deliberately stressed the “all”—“and can’t wait to read your next one, Mr. Hemingway.”
“Call me Papa,” he said, his eyes crinkling in a smile. “My new book is called The Old Man and the Sea. It’s the story of a four-day battle between an old, experienced fisherman and a giant marlin far out in the Gulf Stream. I wrote the first draft in eight weeks in my home in Finca Vigía here.”
“Eight weeks! That’s amazing!”
“Well, it’s a short book,” Hemingway said modestly, “and the idea had been brewing for years.” He signaled to Diego to make him another mojito. “I’ve spent a lot of time fishing for marlin off the coast of Cuba on my boat, Pilar, and I turned that struggle into an allegory about the battles we go through in life.”
“It sounds wonderful,” Jackie exclaimed.
Diego set down a new drink for him, and Hemingway took a hefty swig of it. “I don’t know what the critics will say about it,” he ventured, “but it’s the best I can write ever for all of my life.”
“I bet you’ll win the Pulitzer Prize for it,” Jackie said.
The band struck up a mambo, and Jackie turned her head toward the dance floor, watching it fill up with couples.
“Would you like to dance?” she heard Hemingway say.
Would I! Jackie felt a little thrill rush through her, but when she turned back to Hemingway, she saw that his question had been addressed to someone else—the heavily made-up, scantily clad Hispanic woman, obviously a prostitute, sitting on the other side of him.
Red faced, Jackie slipped off her stool, looked around, and spotted Emiliano