In walked Kent. 
Guayabera plastered to his back he forwent the stool and, leaning into the bar, signaled the Cuban with a wave and a word.

"¡Oye!"

Approximately forty minutes later he was what you would call drunk. 
What you would call drunk.
The reality of the situation was that if anything he was now sober. Sober in the sense of the word as Kent or anyone else would use it when a man needs a stiff drink and needs it now; as when Atlas is given his once in a millennium break from the penance he bears.

Sitting there in the steam of an Ybor bar, Kent posited to himself: "Cubans are funny." 
In the past seventy-two hours he had been to Cuba, killed three men, lost money, made money, and hid money all before running a stolen boat into Key West and paying off a schooner to deliver him to Tampa.

"Damn funny," he laughed to himself, thinking about it. Now one (a Cuban) was pouring him rum. Rum Kent probably circulated into Florida himself, that same rum that was the origin of all the hell that had broken loose over the past few days.

There was a serious sweat pushing out of his skin, especially on his forehead and it was settling onto his eyebrows and forming deep heavy beads there. It felt like adrenaline, and it felt like the fear, and the salt and also the raw hate for other men who prove to be unable, or unwilling, to conduct themselves like men and actually do business, opting for foolishness and stupidity instead.

"Damn funny people" he shot again. Then added, "Bullshit." 
Then he thought, 
"Damn."

There was no mistaking the boots on the floor as they entered the little bar. Kent had heard them pacing up and down the deck of the boat in which he had been held captive below, and was pretty damn sure he had watched that same man bleed out between Havana and Key west. At any rate, there was no mistaking that stride.
A voiced wheezed,

"Oye acere, dos mas pa' mi y El Tampeño."

A Cuban of average height sat down on the stool beside Kent, and faced him.
The rum arrived and Kent took his and, drinking it, didn't turn to look at the Cuban, who said,

"Tell me where it is and you walk out of this shit hole. Fuck around and you limp out with one cajone. Don't wanna talk at all? Then you guess what happens."

Kent still didn't turn to the Cuban, 
"What, you take both nuts? Don't need ‘em."

"Look at me, wise guy" said the Cuban, lifting up the left side of his shirt. 
"See this? Through and through, that bullet you put in me didn't have the balls to stick around and hit anything important. Even that bullet knew who he was fucking with. You think you hold the cards because you made me bleed out there, yuma?"

He had a soaked through reddish-yellow piece of cloth over the spot where Kent sure as hell remembered putting a bullet in him. But like he said, it must've been a pure flesh wound. Kent finally turned toward the Cuban and looked at his face only long enough to say,

"Order me some more rum, Miguel."

Miguel had an impressed and also crazy, toothy smile on his face, as he nodded his head and never took his eyes off Kent. Kent knew damn well that this Cuban could play God all he wanted too, but mortal wound or flesh-wound or whatever you wanted to call that bullet Kent had stuffed in him in the Straits of Florida, the Cuban was running a fever that was on the cusp of killing him.

"Okay yuma" he laughed, nodding like a madman.
"Okay, okay. ¡Amigo! ¡Necesitamos dos mas, y ahora!"

"Tell him to cut some lime for it", Kent added.
Miguel's eyes were hysterical and he laughed a long wheezy laugh, and clapped his hands together saying,
"But of course amigo! Ha! Of course! ¡Con Limón señor!" Then to Kent said.
"Cajones as big as yours will be a real trophy Tampeño!"

The bartender got a filet knife and cut some fresh limes right there on the bar, and then he reached for the rum and took it down off of the shelf, and when he did, he pulled out the cork and poured two more shots of rum that Kent was pretty damn sure he had smuggled into Florida himself. 
It only took about that much time for Kent to stick his hand into Miguel's mouth and down his throat, while pushing a filet knife covered with lime juice into the still fresh bullet wound; maneuvering it over a bit this time, as not to miss anything important.
Miguel hit the floor, taking the bar stool with him.

Kent took two shots of rum back-to-back, with lime, and made his way out the door.

"Damn funny."