“Me? Why on earth would you say that?”

“The suggestion was not entirely serious. I was exasperated with her, it’s true. I must confess I was also exasperated with you. Exasperated and, yes, a little jealous of you, too.”

“Jealous? Of me? Why on earth should you be jealous of me?”

Captain Sánchez shifted on his chair and smiled sheepishly.

“A number of reasons,” he said. “The way you solved this case. The faith that Meyer Lansky seems to have in your abilities. The nice apartment on Malecón. Your car. Your money. Let’s not forget that. Yes, I freely admit it, I was jealous of you. But I am not so very jealous that I would let you do this thing that you are thinking of. Because I must also freely admit that I like you, Hausner. And I couldn’t in all conscience allow you to put your head into the lion’s mouth.” He shook his head. “I told her I was not serious about this suggestion, but evidently she did not believe me and spoke to you herself.”

“Maybe I’ve put my head in a lion’s mouth before,” I said.

“Maybe. But this isn’t the same lion. All lions are different.”

“We’re friends, right?”

“Yes. I think so. But Fidel used to say you shouldn’t trust someone merely because he is a friend. It’s good advice. You should remember that.”

I nodded. “Oh, sure. And believe me, I know. Looking out for number one is usually what I do best. I’m an expert in survival. But from time to time I get this stupid urge to do a good turn for someone. Someone like your friend Alfredo López. It’s been a while since I did anything as selfless as something like that.”

“I see. At least I begin to think I do. You think that by helping him you’ll be helping her. Is that it?”

“Something like that. Perhaps.”

“And what do you think you can tell a man like Quevedo that might persuade him to release López?”

“That’s between me and him and what I rather quaintly used to call my conscience.”

Sánchez sighed. “I did not take you for a romantic. But that is what you are, I think.”

“You forgot the word ‘fool,’ didn’t you? But it’s more what the French call ‘existential’ than that. After all these years I still haven’t quite admitted my own insignificance. I still believe what I do makes a difference. Absurd, isn’t it?”

“I’ve known Alfredo López since 1945,” said Sánchez. “He’s a decent enough fellow. But I fail to see how Noreen Eisner prefers him to a man like you.”

“Maybe that’s what I want to prove to her.”

“Anything is possible, I suppose.”

“I don’t know. Maybe he is a better man than me.”

“No, just a younger one.”

THE SIM BUILDING in the center of Marianao looked like something out of Beau Geste-a white, two-story, comic-book fort wherein you might have discovered a company of dead legionnaires propped up along the blue castellated rooftop. It was a strange building to find in an area otherwise given over to schools and hospitals and comfortable-looking bungalows.

I parked a few streets away and walked along to the entrance, where a dog was lying on the grass shoulder. Dogs sleeping on the streets of Havana were neater and tidier about the way they did this than any dogs I had seen before, as if they were keen not to get in anyone’s way. Some were so neat and tidy about how they slept on the street that they looked dead. But you stroked any of them at your peril. Cuba was the very well-deserved home of the expression “Let sleeping dogs lie.” It was good advice for everyone and everything. If only I had taken it.

Inside the heavy wooden door, I gave my name to an equally sleepy-looking soldier and, having delivered my request to see Lieutenant Quevedo, I waited in front of another portrait of F.B., the one with him wearing the uniform with the lampshade epaulettes and a cat-that-had-all-the-cream smile. Knowing what I now knew about his share of casino money, I thought he probably had a lot to smile about.

When I had tired of being inspired by the self-satisfied face of the Cuban president, I went to a big window and stared out at a parade ground, where several armored cars were parked. Looking at them, I found it hard to see how Castro and his rebels had ever thought they stood a chance against the Cuban army.

Finally I was greeted by a tall man in a beige uniform, with gleaming leather, buttons, teeth, and sunglasses. He looked dressed up for a portrait of his own.

“Señor Hausner? I’m Lieutenant Quevedo. Would you come this way, please?”

I followed him upstairs, and while we walked, Lieutenant Quevedo talked. He had an easy way about him and seemed different from the picture Captain Sánchez had painted of the man. We came along a corridor that looked as if it could be a Life magazine pictorial biography of the little president: F.B. in sergeant’s uniform; F.B. with President Grau; F.B. wearing a trench coat and accompanied by a trio of Afro-Cuban bodyguards; F.B. and several of his top generals; F.B. wearing a hilariously outsized officer’s cap, making a speech; F.B. sitting in a car with Franklin D. Roosevelt; F.B. gracing the cover of Time magazine; F.B. with Harry Truman; and, finally, F.B. with Dwight D. Eisenhower. As if the armored cars weren’t enough for the rebels to deal with, there were the Americans, too. Not to mention three American presidents.

“We call this our wall of heroes,” Quevedo said, jokingly. “As you can see, we have only the one hero. Some people call him a dictator. But if he is, then he’s a very popular one, it seems to me.”

I halted momentarily in front of the Time magazine cover. I had a copy of the same magazine somewhere in my apartment. There was a critical remark about Batista on my copy that was absent from this one, but I couldn’t remember what it was.

“You’re wondering where the title went, perhaps,” observed Quevedo. “And what it said?”

“Was I?”

“Of course you were.” Quevedo smiled benignly. “It said, ‘Cuba’s Batista: He Got Past Democracy’s Sentries.’ Which is something of an exaggeration. For example, in Cuba there are no restrictions on freedom of speech or freedom of the press or freedom of religion. The Congress can override any legislation or refuse to pass what he wants passed. There aren’t any generals in his cabinet. Is this really what dictatorship means? Can one really compare our president to a Stalin? Or a Hitler? I don’t think so.”

I didn’t reply. What he said reminded me of something I myself had said at Noreen’s dinner party; and yet, in Quevedo’s mouth, it sounded somehow less than convincing. He opened the door to an enormous office. There was a big mahogany desk; a radio with a vase on top; another, smaller desk with a typewriter on it; and a television set that was switched on but had the sound turned down. A baseball game was in progress; and on the walls were pictures not of Batista but ballplayers such as Antonio Castaño and Guillermo “Willie” Miranda. There wasn’t much on the desk: a pack of Trend, a tape-recording machine, a couple of highball glasses with American flags embossed on their outsides, a magazine with a picture of mambo dance star Ana Gloria Varona on the cover.

Quevedo waved me to a seat in front of the desk and, folding his arms, sat on the edge and looked down at me as if I were some kind of student who had brought him a problem.

“Naturally I know who you are,” he said. “And I believe I’m right in thinking that the unfortunate murder of Señor Reles has now been satisfactorily explained.”

“Yes, that’s right.”

“And are you here on Señor Lansky’s account, or on your own?”

“My own. I know you’re a busy man, Lieutenant, so I’ll come straight to the point. You have a prisoner named Alfredo López here. Is that correct?”

“Yes.”

“I was hoping I might persuade you to let him go. His friends assure me that he has had nothing to do with Arango.”