together to El Paraíso. It was about one of the dancers, a brunette originally from Matanzas named Soslaya Zancera, who was billed as the Ava Gardner of Cuba. Soslaya was the star of the show, and the girlfriend of one of the owners, Morris Perlstein. One night Perlstein caught her in an unnatural embrace with the club bouncer, Roberto Bulto, in her dressing room, and shot Bulto dead. Perlstein then fired two bullets into the girl’s buttocks when she attempted to flee. The owner was subsequently convicted of manslaughter and sentenced to twenty years in prison. His mistress survived, but her injuries put an end to her career as a dancer. Roy’s uncle told him that Soslaya now walked with the aid of two canes and worked as a manicurist at the Hotel Khartoum in Miami Beach.

“It was a tragedy,” said Buck. “Soslaya Zancera was exceptional.”

Roy looked over at the table where his Uncle and Chino Valdes were sitting. A third man had joined them, a large, pale-faced person wearing a mauve guayabera, a Panama hat and dark glasses. Roy noticed that the man’s fingernails were painted blood red. He had never before seen a man wearing nail polish.

“Who’s that guy?” Roy asked Alfredito.

“Cherry Dos Rios,” said Alfredito, “from Fort Lauderdale.”

“What does he do?”

“He’s in the construction business.”

“Like my uncle.”

Alfredito nodded, and said, “It’s a good business to be in.”

Roy returned his attention to the girls. Music came from a tape recorder because the band was there only at night. Alfredito told Roy the musicians slept during the day.

Suddenly, there was a loud popping sound, and the dancers stopped. Roy looked around and saw Chino Valdes hand a revolver to a man in a green seersucker suit, who walked quickly out of the club. Cherry Dos Rios sat slumped in his chair, a large, dark stain spreading under his mauve guayabera. His Panama was on the table. He still had on the dark glasses. Someone turned off the music.

Roy’s uncle came over to him and said, “Vamonos, sobrino.”

Chino stood up and came over, too.

“Chico,” he said to Roy, placing a hand on the boy’s left shoulder, “your uncle and I know that we can depend on your not having witnessed this unfortunate little accident.”

Roy looked at Chino and nodded.

“Buck tells me that tomorrow is your birthday. Here’s something from me.”

Chino handed Roy a hundred dollar bill. Roy had never held one before.

“If you’re anything like your uncle,” Chino said, “I know you’ll use it well.”

“Thank you,” said Roy. “I will.”

The dancers had disappeared. Two men were dragging Cherry Dos Rios’s limp corpse into a back room. As Roy and his uncle walked together out of El Paraíso, Roy saw Alfredito pick up Cherry Dos Rios’s hat off the table at which he’d been sitting. Alfredito waved it at Roy and smiled.

As Buck pulled his white 1958 Eldorado convertible onto Gasparilla Road, he asked, “Would you like me to put the top down?”

“Sure,” said Roy.

His uncle unhooked the latch on his side and Roy undid the one on his, then Buck flipped a switch on the dashboard and the top peeled back. The warm Gulf air felt good