<div class="floatleft">(http://elliquiy.com/elluiki/images/1/1b/NathanBlake1.JPG)</div><strong><span class="bbc_size" style="font-size: 18pt;">Nathan Blake</span></strong><br/><br/><span class="bbc_size" style="font-size: 14pt;"><strong><strong>"I ain't got much left, but I've got my pride. Might as well throw that on the fire too."</strong></strong></span><br/>Nathan Blake used to be a pretty good dick. One of the best in Chicago, if you believed the press. Maybe he just knew how to spin a story, or maybe he was just lucky. When you needed a case cracked, you came to Blake, and no questions asked. He kept his hands clean, managed to keep from crawling into a bottle more than any other Joe, and even had a good thing going with a steady girl by the name of Gloria. Times were good for Mr. Blake.<br/><br/>Then she walked into his office, on a Tuesday afternoon just like any other, if you didn't count the first pebble in the avalanche that was going to end up destroying his life. Before midnight he'd met with the real client, Mr. Luciano and no, you don't need a first name. He'd have taken the job even if the money wasn't good, but the money was so, so good. Two weeks to nab this lowlife, "Moses" Quitero, and he'd be set for life.<br/><br/><span class="bbc_size" style="font-size: 14pt;"><strong><strong>"Sometimes two weeks is two weeks, and sometimes it ain't."</strong></strong></span><br/>Three years later Nathan Blake had nothing. Gloria was gone, disgusted at how he'd tried to drown his failure in whisky. The money was gone - he'd had his arm broken the last time he'd pushed for a meeting with the Lucianos, and even Nathan Blake can take a hint when it's applied two or three times with a crowbar.<br/><br/>He'd gotten in a couple of licks on Quitero, but never face to face. The man was like a ghost, always two steps ahead. The closest he came was in Miami -- he could taste the bastard, he was so close. But when he opened his fist there was nothing there but a single word: Havana. The end of the line.<br/><br/><span class="bbc_size" style="font-size: 14pt;"><strong><strong>"One-way ticket, with a view."</strong></strong></span><br/>She was a looker, no question, and she fell into his lap like the answer to a prayer. Cuba wasn't exactly easy to get into. He pulled a couple of strings, cashed in the last of his favors, and got a couple of musicians to vouch for his talent with the horn. He hadn't played for years, a dream deferred and then cancelled, but a horn from the pawn shop and a line of gab got him hitched to the Benny Tonante travelling show, courtesy of one Miss Mary Lynn Thomas.<br/><br/>No time for distractions, not that his worked over mug was going to turn any heads. Quitero was in Havana, he was sure of it, and that man had to pay. Sometimes the cards don't get dealt quite how you plan, though.<br/>