Eighth Street, Calle Ocho in Spanish, was lined with insurance offices, furniture stores, cut-rate dress shops, a few expensive Spanish-style restaurants, and a lot of open-sided cafeterías—coffee stands, not what the word meant in English—that sold Cuban sandwiches and thick, hot black espresso coffee in thimble-size paper cups. Little Havana’s one tiny urban park was filled with elderly exiles, all men, playing endless games of dominos on concrete tables. Eighth Street was quiet, sunbaked, shabby; not at all what one would expect, considering its publicity. David Fothergill, too, looked quite seedy, Gaby thought. He had the air of someone who did not have a permanent place to sleep. Which was probably the case. David had moved out of Crissette’s apartment several days before. David also looked unhappy. “Miss Gabrielle, I don’t think you should be doing this. I know you want to get someone to explain to you what the Santería at your house meant, maybe even find out who might be doing it.
