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The interrogators were doing a lousy job. Never mind that David Christ was the one being interrogated. It was his professional opinion that these Cubans couldn’t make a can of beer sweat.
It was the middle of the night but hot as an oven in Havana. Christ had just been dragged from his cell in the bowels of G2, the Cuban intelligence agency, to a small interrogation room that held one desk, two chairs, and three Cubans. In Christ’s view, they were a motley crew of lowlifes — which made it all the more humiliating that they’d caught him red-handed. One of the Cubans wore baggy slacks and a Hawaiian shirt. He looked like a pimp. The second was big as a refrigerator. He barely moved, just flexed his biceps, and glared from a damp corner. The third ran the show. He had a chubby face and bad teeth riddled with festering holes. Christ nicknamed him bad teeth.
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James' World 2 
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