King Bongo

1. White Spider Dancing King Bongo drove along the Malecon. All his troubles slid right off his shoulders and out over the ocean. The canvas top of his Oldsmobile Rocket 88 convertible was down and oversized fuzzy dice hung from the chrome stub of the rearview mirror, swaying to a rumba throbbing from the radio. He loved this drive out of Havana headed for the Tropicana, past the centuries-old mansions facing the sea; fanciful three-story palaces with gaily colored facades of pillars and balconies, cheek by cheek with each other, like old tarts posing for a group reunion shot in the glare of tropical sunlight, shining with a glamour that refused to fade away. One after another these gaudy palaces preened along the curve of the Malecon, with its high stone seawall backing down the ocean that lapped against it. Perched on the seawall were perennial lovebirds, men and women, boys and girls, lovers all, sitting and swooning, holding hands, faces nuzzling necks, shoulders being caressed, lips kissing, and all the while waves crashing below. The moon shone down and the stars led the way along the Malecon as the road curved. The grand old mansions gave way to modern high-rise apartments, hotel towers, and sprawling shopping galleries. Bongo loved it all, old gods and new money, yesterday's dreams rubbing shoulders with tomorrow's promises. The radio blasted out a hot new tune. Bongo beat its rhythm on the steering wheel as he picked up on the lyric and sang along. "Lazarus rose from the dead and walked the dog. Do your hips shake when our lips kiss?" He gunned the engine and the Rocket flew along the edge of the ocean. Yes, old Saint Lazarus walked the dead walk with his ghost dog, leading the way between two worlds. Bongo felt that his own spirit dog was running loose, luck was headed his way. The palms swayed along the Malecon like soft skirts rustling in the breeze; horns honked hello from carloads of females passing by, the women leaning from windows, blowing kisses. Bongo punched the car radio button and the music of a Miami station came on loud and clear: "I found my thriiilll on Blueberry Hiiilll." He tapped out the beat with two fingers on the dashboard. Tomorrow morning would be good for Bongo's business, because tonight people having a good time would do bad thingscrash cars, walk through plate-glass windows, fall into swimming pools and go to sleep underwater. Mistakes everywhere, blame to be assigned, value to be appraised, damages to be calculated, claims to be made, demands to be filed. All the things Bongo needed to make his up-and-coming one-man insurance office succeed. And that billboard looming ahead at the side of the road where the Malecon swooped in a ninety-degree left turnbacardi, the famous rum that makes the whole world happythat billboard would one day be replaced with a new declaration: king bongo's great tropical life insurance, where everyone is royalty. Elvis Presley's lip-lashed words jumped out of the radio speaker: "You ain't nothin' but a hound dog." Even Elvis across the water in America had his spirit dog, walking to hell and back, paradise and beyond. Bongo glanced up at the moon over Havana and a sky full of stars. Before him the fuzzy dice dangled from the rearview mirror, fate swinging in the balance, the fate of all lovers, politicians and assassins, puckered up and waiting for a lucky kiss at the stroke of midnight. Martin Fox was a giant of a man and his Tropicana was a giant of a place. The nightclub was New York's Cotton Club, Paris's Folies Bergeres, and Monte Carlo's Grand Casino all rolled into one in a jungle on the outskirts of Havana, far enough out of the city so tSanchez, Thomas is the author of 'King Bongo', published 2003 under ISBN 9780679406969 and ISBN 0679406964.