Spy in a Little Black Dress - By Maxine Kenneth Page 0,80
The resemblance was striking. He had the same long, thin face and nose and expressive eyes that seemed to be taking everything in. All he needed was a deerstalker cap and an inverness cape to complete the picture.
Jackie and Emiliano found their place cards and took their seats. The dinner was a triumph: plump, juicy oysters as large as plums; tender, perfectly cooked venison; caramelized plaintains that tasted like candy; and an elaborate, multilayer cake lathered with a sinfully rich icing. Wine flowed like a heavy rain, goblets magically refilling thanks to the omnipresent butlers, even before the last few drops were gone.
Compared to the meal, the conversation that swirled around Jackie was a deep disappointment. The women talked about nothing except their difficulties adapting to life in a tropical climate and their complaints about the help. It seemed that each of the women had a staff of at least six servants, including a butler, cook, housekeeper, gardener, laundress, and chauffeur, and not one was anything to rave about. Jackie tried to listen attentively and clucked sympathetically at times, but it all flew in one ear and out the other without making the slightest impression other than mild annoyance. It was like listening to a Greek chorus chanting a sad song out of tune.
“Even with the fans going full blast, your makeup runs as soon as you put it on.”
“The commissary charges a fortune for tomatoes, but my family has had all the avocados we can stand.”
“The laundress shrinks everything she washes, and the cook burns everything she makes.”
“The farms here are so unsanitary, I’m afraid we’ll all get ptomaine.”
The men’s conversation didn’t seem any more scintillating, but then Jackie caught something with political overtones that made her sit up and take notice.
“Batista is a great friend of ours,” Mr. Mitchell’s booming voice proclaimed. “We pay him once a year, and we get off scot-free on taxes and tariffs. Never have to worry about labor laws and unions either. Can’t beat a deal like that.”
“Yes, but Fidel Castro and his rebels could ruin everything if Batista doesn’t squash them,” Jackie heard another man say. “He’s got the workers all riled up, and that could spell big trouble.”
“Rest assured, Castro won’t amount to anything,” Ambassador Beaulac responded in a cultured tone. “He’s just some gun-toting hooligan hiding out in the hills after he made a public nuisance of himself when Batista became president again.”
Hooligan hiding out in the hills. Nice alliteration, Jackie thought. Then she heard Mr. Mitchell say something that really gave her a start.
“Well, if Castro and his gang become too much trouble, we can ask Allen Dulles to do something about it. You know, a CIA undercover operation of some kind. Allen is a friend of mine, and he’s on our company’s board.”
Dulles, a United Fruit Company man? Imagine that. Jackie glanced sideways to see Emiliano’s reaction. His face was expressionless. She was sure that he had heard the comment, given Mr. Mitchell’s stentorian voice, but was keeping his emotions under wraps. Arthur Phillips, on the other hand, was staring intently at Mr. Mitchell with an odd look on his face. Jackie couldn’t tell what his expression meant, but it made her more curious than ever about the enigmatic Mr. Phillips, and increasingly suspicious about what he was up to.
The sounds of an orchestra starting to play trickled into the room.
“Time for some dancing,” Mrs. Mitchell called out.
Like schoolchildren obeying the teacher, the guests rose from their seats and began filing into the ballroom.
“Oh, my goodness, did you see that?” Jackie asked Emiliano when they passed the bandleader, who was waving his baton with one arm while in his other arm he held a Chihuahua.
Emiliano laughed. “Don’t you know who he is? That’s Xavier Cugat, and the Chihuahua is his trademark.”
“Cugat, of course,” Jackie said as she looked back and recognized the famous Hispanic bandleader with the arched eyebrows, smiley eyes, and pencil-thin mustache. “I’ve seen him in movies, and I saw him once in person when he was leading the band at New York’s Waldorf-Astoria Hotel, but he didn’t have a dog with him then.” Her glance traveled to the curvaceous singer with the sultry voice and long, dark curls cascading down to her shoulders. “And he wasn’t married to Abbe Lane then either.”
“Would you like to dance?” Emiliano asked as the floor began filling up with company executives and their wives, who looked like Arthur Murray graduates eager to put their lessons into practice.