Harry Smithers thought he know what sweating was. A long walk in the wet Havana heat was just about as sweat inducing an action as one could take, in his opinion. Yes, Harry Smithers thought he knew sweat, but of course he hadn’t really the slightest idea. Harry dabbed his brow all the way down Bolivar street until he reached Los Olivos at which point he found it necessary to begin soaking liquid out of his dark brown goatee and mustache. Finally, he reached the air conditioned haven of La Reina De Corazones bar establishment and stepped gratefully inside. The fans seemed to dry him instantly, but the juices evaporating off his brow were soon replaced with another, cooler, more nervous sort.

Harry froze at the door. The object of his distress was sitting not a hundred feet away staring at him from over his Tom Collins. Harry made for the door but was cut off by the man’s voice.