Jack looked at me. “Why do you think the police are interested in you and Sara?”
I wanted to be honest with Jack, but I honestly didn’t know if this mission was coming apart, or if Sara and I were overreacting, or misinterpreting Antonio’s bullshit. And I wouldn’t know until we met him tomorrow night, and by that time Jack would be in Cayo Guillermo. I asked him, “You remember getting paranoid five hours into a patrol when nothing was happening?”
“Yeah.”
“That’s God’s way of saying this isn’t a walk in the park. Keep your head out of your ass.”
“Okay. But that don’t answer the question.”
“Right.” So I briefed him about Sara’s problems at the airport, and about our Cuban tour guide, Antonio, and Antonio’s interest in Sara. “It could be a personal interest, but maybe something else.”
“Sounds like he just wants to fuck her.”
“Right. But it’s also possible that this guy is a police informant.”
“Yeah?”
I explained that tour guides in Cuba sometimes reported to the police, and I also told Jack, “Antonio mentioned the Pescando Por la Paz a few times. And he knows I’m a Key West fisherman.”
“How’d he know that?”
“He asked our American tour guide about me.”
“Yeah? So this guy’s a snoop and a stoolie.”
“And a lousy tour guide.”
Jack thought about all this and concluded, “You should kill Antonio.”
“He’s not that bad of a tour guide.” I told Jack, “I’m meeting this guy in a bar tomorrow night. I think he’s playing a double game. He wants five hundred dollars to tell me what the game is.”
“Okay. Then follow him home and shoot him in the head. End of game.”
“I think it might be easier for me and Sara to just get out of Havana and head out to where the money is stashed.”
“Maybe tomorrow night is a trap.”
“The secret police in Cuba don’t have to waste time with traps.”
“I told you this place was fucked up.” He also reminded me, “It would be easier to rob a bank in Miami for three million dollars.”
“That’s illegal. This is not. This is fun.”
Jack laughed. “You’re fucked up.”
“Me? You just told me to blow a guy’s brains out.”
“Just a suggestion. Do what you think you gotta do.”
“Thank you.”
The D.J. was playing Dean Martin now, and we sat in silence awhile, then I asked, “Did the security people who came aboard ask to see the boat’s registration?”
“Yeah . . . One of them checked it against the hull numbers.”
The registration certificate didn’t show the previous owner—me—though that information was available from the state of Florida if you were someone in law enforcement who had a legitimate need to see it. But that didn’t include the Cuban secret police. That was the good news.
Jack, however, had some other news. “A few of the crew on the other boats are from Key West, and they know you just sold The Maine, which is now Fishy Business.”
“Let’s just assume the police are not asking questions about any of this. But ask the other crews to give you a heads-up if they are.” I added, “And tell them: Don’t remember The Maine.”
Jack leaned toward me. “Maybe you and Sara should think about getting out of Cuba.”
“And you should think about becoming a millionaire.”
“I don’t think that’s gonna happen.”
“You’ll never know if I go home.”
“Okay. If you got the balls for this, I’ll see you in Cayo Guillermo.”
“Trust my instincts.”
“Your instincts are as fucked up as your judgement.”
“They must be if I hired you.”
The sandwiches came, but we weren’t hungry and we ordered two more beers. Dino was singing, “When the moon hits your eye, like a big pizza pie, that’s amore . . .”
On that subject, Jack said, “I hope you’re not just showing off for your girlfriend.”
There’s always a little of that. But . . . “I’m here for the money. Same as you.”
“If you say so.”
I looked at my watch. It was early for my rendezvous with Sara, but I said, “I have to go.”
“One more thing.”
“What?”
“The old man—Eduardo.”
I already knew what he was going to say.
“He’s onboard. Got himself a phony passport. Says he wants to see Cuba one last time before he dies.”
“Shit.” I asked, “Did he come ashore with you?”
“No, and Felipe is sitting on him.”
Well, Eduardo wouldn’t see much of Cuba from a docked boat. So by now he could have given Felipe the slip, and he could be wandering around Havana, drunk, yelling, “Down with the revolution!” False passport or not, Eduardo Valazquez in Cuba was a massive security breach, making my security breach in meeting Jack look like a minor lapse of judgement. “Why did you let him onboard?”
“You think I let him onboard? He stowed away in a stateroom. Squeezed his skinny ass under a bunk. Nobody knew he was onboard until we got into Havana Harbor.”
I wondered if Carlos knew. Carlos wasn’t stupid enough to okay this, but Eduardo was the client and Eduardo had the money and called the shots. I was pissed.
I asked, “Did the Cubans who came onboard see him?”
“No. Like I said, they didn’t even go below.”
“Okay. When you left the pier, was there any passport control?”
“Yeah. Just one guy.”
“Did he have a passport scanner?”
“Just his eyeballs.” He added, “The place don’t look open for business yet.”
“All right . . .” I suspected that Eduardo’s passport was a gift from the people he called “our friends in American intelligence,” and I assumed it was a very good passport that would withstand scrutiny. But if Eduardo wound up in an interrogation room, he would not withstand a good beating, and he’d tell them he’d arrived on Fishy Business. Damn it.
I looked at Jack. “Okay . . . When you get to Cayo, make sure the old man doesn’t step foot off the boat.”
Jack suggested, “I can throw him overboard on the way if you want.”
“Just keep him below.” I let Jack know, “He’s Felipe’s grand-uncle or something.”
“Yeah? Nobody told me that.”
“Now you know. So don’t feed him to the sharks.”
“Okay.”
I wondered if Sara knew that Eduardo had a nostalgic yearning to see Cuba one last time. Maybe. And maybe that was why she didn’t want me to meet up with Jack. Same with Carlos. Though to be fair and rational, neither Sara nor Carlos would put the mission at risk for something so stupid as Eduardo’s homesickness, so neither of them could have known. On the other hand . . . well, if I was Cuban, I might understand this.
I checked my watch. It was 8:30. I asked Jack, “Anything else?”
“Just the gun.”
“Okay. You leave first and leave the fanny pack on your seat.”
“You buyin’ the gun?”
“It’s my gun.”
“I’ll give you a deal. Four hundred thousand and that includes three magazines, one locked and loaded, ready to rock and roll.”
“Okay, asshole, I’ll buy the gun. But you’re not getting combat pay.”
“Okay. Sold.” Jack finished his beer and looked at me. “Here’s what else I’ll throw in. There’s an old waterfront bar called Dos Hermanos a few blocks from the pier. All the crews and fishermen are gonna meet up there at eleven. If you and your lady have nothing to do, meet me there at eleven-thirty—with your passports and money, no luggage. I bought a few blank visitor passes from the security guys—to get women onboard. They’re stamped and signed. So I’ll be able to get her—and maybe you—onboard The Maine.” He added, “When the fleet sai
ls for Cayo at first light, The Maine is gonna sail for Key West.”
“I’ll see you in Cayo Guillermo.”
“You should ask Sara.”
“Okay. But if we’re not at Dos Hermanos at eleven-thirty, have a drink for us.”
“You got balls, Mac.”
“You gotta die someplace.”
He unhooked his fanny pack and stood. “My sister’s name is Betty. Elizabeth. Lives in Hoboken. Last name Kuwalski. Married a Polack. He’s an asshole. Two kids, Derek and Sophie, both grown up and on their own. See if you can find them. They could use the money.”
“Okay.”
“And if I make it and you don’t—?”
“Go see my parents in Portland and say good things about me.”
“I’ll try to think of something.”
“You know the drill, Jack—‘died quickly with no pain or suffering.’ Last words were ‘God bless America’ or something.”
“I know the drill. Okay, see you later.”
I stood and we shook. “This is your last fishing trip, Jack. Good luck.”
“You too.” He turned and left.
I called for the check, sat in Jack’s chair, and buckled the fanny pack under my sports jacket. I paid the check in cash and headed toward the lobby, half expecting to hear, “Stop where you are, señor. You are under arrest. For real this time.”
I moved through the lobby, exited the hotel, and the doorman signaled to a white Pontiac convertible.
I got in and said to the driver, “Floridita, por favor.”
The cabbie, who spoke English said, “Yes. We go to Florida.” He laughed.
Everyone’s a comedian.
So off we went in the mid-century American convertible.
Not only was this place a time warp, it was an alternate universe where the past and the present fought to become the future. And I thought Key West was fucked up.
CHAPTER 32
Floridita, a pink stucco place on Calle Obispo, looked like a dive bar in a seedy Miami neighborhood, complete with a neon sign. I passed under a white awning that said ERNEST HEMINGWAY, and inside, Señor Hemingway was at the bar, captured in a life-sized bronze, sitting precariously at the edge of a stool with his elbow on the polished mahogany. I would have bought him a drink, but he was already ossified.
On the wall behind Hemingway was a black-and-white photograph of E.H. and F.C. sharing a moment, and I deduced that the occasion was the Hemingway Tournament before or after F.C. won the trophy with his lead-belly marlin.
The inside of Floridita looked better than the outside, more 1890s than 1950s. There was a large mural behind the handsome bar, depicting what looked like Havana Harbor in some past era of square-riggers. The long open room had a blue ceiling and mottled beige walls, and a staircase that led to an upper floor. The café tables were littered with guide books, and the chairs were filled with American tourists, half of whom were badly dressed in shorts and T-shirts. The other half were badly dressed. The waitstaff wore nice red jackets and bow ties. Lined up on the bar were five electric blenders beating rum into glucose tolerance test cocktails.
The maître d’ sized me up as an Americano—who else would come here?—and asked in English, “Table or bar, señor?”
“Table for two, por favor.”
He showed me to a table against the wall, and a waiter came by for my order.
The drink menu listed half a dozen kinds of overpriced daiquiris, including a Papa Hemingway—but no Fidel Castro. I actually wanted a beer, but to get into the spirit I ordered a Daiquiri Rebelde—a rebellious daiquiri.
“Excellent. Will someone be joining you?”
Well, you never know in a police state. I checked my watch: 8:55. “Make it two.”
So I sat there listening to American accents and the clatter of electric blenders.
The A/C was trying to keep up, but the place was warm. I would have taken off my jacket, but . . . well, the other thing about a police state is that you’re not supposed to be carrying a loaded 9mm Glock in your fanny pack. I mean, this wasn’t Florida, where a gun permit was easier to get than a fishing license.
Anyway, Floridita was a tourist trap, but a nice enough one, though Richard Neville might not agree.
The daiquiris came and I sipped one. These things should come with insulin. I checked my watch: 9:05. I checked my cell phone: no service. Maybe next year.
A guy walked in wearing a light green shirt with military epaulets, a black beret, and a gun belt and holster.
The crowd got a little quieter as the guy walked toward the bar, and before he got there the bartender squirted a seltzer siphon into a glass and handed it to him with a forced smile. So the guy—cop or military—was a regular on a break, not on a mission. That was the good news. The bad news was that he put his back to the bar and scanned the crowd as he lit a cigarette and sipped his seltzer. Half the tourists looked away and the other half looked excited. What a great picture this would be. A real Commie with a gun. In Floridita! Shit.
The guy’s gaze settled on me, sitting by myself, wearing the only blue blazer in the place, not to mention the only fanny pack that hid criminal evidence. Stop-and-frisk was not a debatable issue here. Thanks, Jack.
The cop—or soldier, or whatever he was—gave me a final look, then shifted his attention to a table of two young ladies in shorts. They had good legs.
I looked at my watch: 9:15.
I would have used the bar phone to call the Parque Central, but that could be an invitation for this guy to engage me in conversation. It is warm in here, señor. Take off your jacket.
Señor Beret put his seltzer on the bar, then started toward me. I buttoned my jacket to hide the fanny strap. The baños were in the back, and I stood, evaluating my chances of getting to the crapper and doing a Michael Corleone with the gun.
Just then, Sara came through the door and the guy gave her a glance, then stopped at the table with the four pretty legs.
Sara noticed the guy, frowned, then saw me and smiled. She came over to me and gave me a kiss on the cheek. I pulled out her chair and she sat. “Sorry I’m late.”
I gave the guy another glance. He was smiling as he chatted up the two American señoritas.
I sat. Sara was wearing black pants and a white silk blouse. “You look beautiful.”
“Thank you.” She said, “You’re sweating.”
“It’s warm in here.”
“Take off your jacket.”
“I’m okay.”
Sara looked at me. “I’m late because I had trouble finding a Coco cab. Not because I was on the phone.”
“You don’t have to explain.”
“I actually didn’t make that call to Miami. I decided to take your advice and do it in person.”
Also known as keeping your options open.
“That gives us time to . . . make sure . . .”
I thought we already had this conversation. “If you still want me after you hear me snoring tonight, I’m yours.”
She smiled and we held hands. She looked at the drinks. “What is this?”
“Daiquiri Rebelde.”
She sipped her drink. “Not bad.” We clinked glasses.
Sara informed me, “Long before Hemingway came here, expats from Florida used to gather here, so the locals called this place Floridita—Little Florida—and the name stuck.”
“I thought it meant ‘tourist trap.’ ”
She smiled. “If you’re in Havana, you have to come here at least once.”
“Right. I’ll cross it off my bucket list.” In fact, I’ll cross this whole country off my list of places to see before I die.
I was keeping my eye on the man with the gun, and Sara glanced over her shoulder, then turned back to me. “He’s BE—Brigada Especial—part of the PNR, the Policía Nacional Revolucionaria. A branch of the Ministry of the Interior.” She added, “They have an eye for the foreign girls. The blonder the better.”
“That leaves you out.”
/>
“They’re thugs.”
The BE guy gave me another glance—or he was checking out Sara.
She said, “If he asks us for our passports, just show them to him without comment—though I doubt he’d do that in here.”
Or he’d ask us to step outside. I glanced at her shoulder bag filled with pesos, plus her map—a copy of which I had in my jacket. Was that suspicious? Not as suspicious as the gun. I knew that if I got busted, Sara was going down with me. Not good.
She said, “The PNR have a scam where a street peddler will accuse a tourist of underpaying for something, and a PNR or BE guy suddenly appears and settles the dispute for money. And if a tourist gets into a car accident and one of them shows up, you’ve got a problem. And if you report that your passport was stolen, they’ll actually arrest you for not having a passport.”
“Well, there’s a certain logic to that.”
“They’re comemierdas. Shit eaters. That’s what the people call them and call the Communist Party officials. Shit eaters.”
“Sounds better in Spanish.” It also sounded like the revolution had taken a bad turn.
“They’re actually trained to be paranoid about foreigners. They work closely with the chivatos.”
“Maybe Eduardo was right. When you overthrow the regime, shoot them all. Or better yet, torture them with a job in the hospitality industry.”
Sara smiled. “Let’s talk about something more pleasant.” She leaned toward me. “So the fleet is in.”
“Yes. Jack sends his regards.”
“Did he ask if you were sleeping with me?”
“It was written all over my face.”
“I hope he doesn’t say anything to Felipe.”
I reminded her, “No one knows that Jack and I were meeting.” Though I forgot to tell him to keep his mouth shut.
The BE guy was now posing with the two young ladies, and a waiter took a picture with the guy’s cell phone, but not with the ladies’ phones.
Sara said, “You’re not allowed to take pictures of them. But they collect pictures of themselves posing with”—she nodded toward the girls—“dumb blondes.”