Back in Lieutenant Tom Smith’s New York apartment, Pedrito Miraflores felt like a trapped animal. The place was offensively clean and neat. The air smelled of antiseptic fluids and air fresheners instead of sweat, liquor, bad food and cigarettes. How could Smith stand it?
Pedrito single-handedly engaged in a valiant attempt to make the place more livable.
First, he bought several rank cigars—not good Cuban cigars, unfortunately, and smoked them one after the other until the apartment air was laden with their stench. Though they were bad American cigars, it had been so long since he’d had a decent smoke, even these were tolerable.
Then Pedrito stalked about, tearing down the paintings of beautiful sunsets and big-eyed puppy dogs, leaving only crooked nails and dangling picture wires, whi
