Chico called out over the sound of the engine, “Purrs like a kitten.”
“Can I take it for a test drive?”
“Sure. After you buy it.” He turned on the windshield wipers, then blasted the horn and shouted, “Get that donkey outta my way!”
The man was obviously nuts, but he seemed like the happiest man I’d seen in Havana. And I guess that was because Chico worked for Chico.
He shut off the engine and slid out of the car. “Okay, keys are in there. You got a full tank of gas, but the gauge reads empty. None of the instruments work, but you don’t need them. Radio works, but the tubes are a little loose, so it might cut out when you hit a bump. Give it a whack. It has a cigarette lighter that still works.”
“Where is the air-conditioner control?”
“In the Honda.” He laughed.
Well, we could do this all night, but we were both running out of one-liners. I looked at Sara, who nodded.
I asked Chico, “Can you do better than one-fifty?”
“If I restored her, I could sell her for five hundred thousand. Only six hundred of these babies made in Detroit. As is, she’s yours for one-fifty.” He added, “That includes sales tax and dealer prep.” He laughed.
“Okay . . . sold.”
“You got a beauty there.”
“Right.” Bride of Frankenstein.
“Come into my office.”
Sara and I followed Chico to a table in the rear of his man cave. Flavio seemed to have disappeared.
Chico slid some beer bottles and coffee cups to the side. “Hundred and fifty. Gas is on me.”
Sara pulled a wad of five-hundred-peso notes from her shoulder bag and she and Chico began counting.
Well, we had a vehicle that could hopefully get us to Camagüey, but we didn’t have a name or address in Camagüey, and I didn’t think Chico had that for us. Maybe Flavio. This wasn’t playing out as I’d imagined, but nothing had so far—including us needing a station wagon to haul something. Maybe pickaxes for the cave.
Sara and Chico re-counted the equivalent of about six thousand dollars, leaving us enough, I guess, to give to our contact in Camagüey for the truck we’d need to transport the dozen steamer trunks to Cayo Guillermo. Which, now that I saw Chico’s sub rosa chop shop, raised the question of why Chico wasn’t told we needed a truck. I mean, this guy could build a sixteen-wheeler out of Legos. There was something missing here. Like who told Chico I had a sense of humor.
The recount was done and we all shook hands as Chico stuffed the pesos in his pockets.
I asked him, “Does this vehicle have a registration?”
“The only paperwork, señor, is the pesos.”
“Right.” No use asking about insurance or an inspection sticker. The good news was that there was no paper trail here—no car rental agency and no limo or taxi driver who might have the police on their speed dial. There was only Chico. And Flavio. And I guess we trusted them.
Chico found three clean glasses and poured us all a little white rum. We clinked. “Salud!”
He looked at the bulge in my shirt and said, “I don’t know who you are, or why you need a car, or where you’re going. And I don’t want to know. But I was told you could be trusted to forget where you got this car if you’re stopped by the police.”
“And I don’t know who you are, señor, but if you don’t tell, I won’t tell.”
He looked at Sara, and she said something to him in Spanish and he nodded.
Chico wished us buenas noches, walked over to an old Harley, kick-started it, and headed for the garage door. Flavio reappeared from the shadows and opened one side of the barn door just in time for Chico to exit his unnamed dealership. If it was his. Flavio closed and bolted the door.
I glanced at Sara, who hadn’t said much since we’d gotten here. I was anxious to get on the road, but first we needed the contact info for our person in Camagüey, and I assumed we’d get it from Flavio, but he came over to us and said, “Someone will meet you here.”
No use asking who, so I asked, “When?”
“Soon. And I wish you good luck.”
I guess he was leaving. He looked like he needed a drink.
Sara said to him, “Thank you for being here.”
“Marcelo wishes it could have been him. But they are watching him.”
“Perhaps next time.”
“He sends his regards.”
“And mine to him.”
He bid us good evening, turned, and walked toward the door.
Well, I was getting that outsider feeling again, like you get when a woman invites you to meet her family and they’re all talking about people you don’t know, and not talking about the crazy uncle in the attic.
I asked, “Who is he? And why was he here?”
“He was here to make sure everything went well with Chico.” She added, “He’s new to our organization. Unknown to the police.”
“He looked like he’d crack like an egg if the police got hold of him.”
She didn’t reply.
I looked at my watch. We’d been here about forty minutes. My training emphasized leaving a meeting place as soon as you’ve done a deal with the locals. But now we were waiting for someone. Maybe the local police.
Meanwhile, I scanned the shop to see if there were any side or back doors, then I went to the front door, opened it, and confirmed that our beer-guzzling lookout was still there—the tape was playing a nice guitar solo—and I closed and bolted the door. Not that the bolts or the old man were going to keep out the police, but they would give us a few seconds to react. I walked back to Sara, who was now looking at our new car. I asked her, “What’s going on here?”
“We’re waiting for someone.”
“Who?”
“I don’t know.”
“And who told Chico we needed a station wagon, and that I had a sense of humor?”
“Eduardo.”
But it wasn’t Sara who said that. It was Eduardo.
CHAPTER 42
So, Eduardo Valazquez was our man in Havana.
I had no idea where he’d been lurking—maybe the baño—and I looked at Sara, who didn’t seem overly surprised to see him. In fact, I wasn’t completely surprised myself.
He was wearing the same outfit I’d last seen him wearing on my boat—sandals, black pants, and a white guayabera shirt, but no gold cross, which would attract attention in Cuba.
He went to Sara and they embraced. “You look well,” he said to her. “Are you well?”
“Sí.”
Eduardo looked at me. “Have you been taking good care of her?”
“Sí.”
Eduardo walked over to the Buick and put his hand on the fender. “Beautiful. My father had an Oldsmobile.”
Those were the days. Well, Eduardo was beginning his walk down memory lane in Chico’s Chop Shop. He had apparently given Felipe the slip—or more likely, he just told Felipe to go sit in a corner. Eduardo was the boss. And, I guess, the brains behind all of this.
He lifted the wagon’s rear window and looked into the storage space. “This will be good.”
“For what?”
He didn’t reply.
I had the impression I wasn’t supposed to speak unless spoken to, and Sara, too, wasn’t saying anything. I get impatient with old people, especially if they’re screwing up my schedule and my life. It was almost 11 P.M., and about midnight Antonio would be knocking on Sara’s door with his woody, then he’d probably use the house phone to call her room and probably my room, then he’d get a manager to open Ms. Ortega’s door. Then he might call his police comandante. Or maybe he’d wait for Sara in the lobby, not believing she’d jilted him after all he’d done for her to get her out of Cuba. In any case, we needed to get on the road before we were the subjects of a police search.
Eduardo walked over to Chico’s all-purpose table and bar and poured himself a white rum, inviting us to join him. Sara and I declined. He then produced three Cohibas
in aluminum tubes and gave one to me and one to Sara.
He took a lighter out of his pocket—a Zippo—and held it in the palm of his hand. He looked at me and said, “This is a gift to you from Señor Colby.” He handed it to me and I looked at the lighter. It was indeed Jack’s Zippo. Yea, though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death, I fear no evil . . .
Well, apparently Jack—like Felipe—couldn’t keep Eduardo from jumping ship, and apparently, too, Eduardo told both of them he was going to meet us. I wasn’t happy when I’d learned he’d stowed away on The Maine, and I wasn’t sure I should be thrilled to discover he was our contact.
Eduardo said, “Perhaps not a gift, but a good-luck charm. He wants it returned to him when you meet in Cayo Guillermo.”
“I’ll be there.” . . . for I am the meanest motherfucker in the valley.
Eduardo uncased his cigar, but Sara and I said we’d save ours for the road. I lit Eduardo up with the Zippo. Just like old times on my boat.
He let out a stream of white smoke and said, “They taste better here.”
Actually, they tasted better in the U.S., where the cigars were illegal and we were legal. On that subject, I let him know, “I’d like to get moving.”
He stared off into space, then said, “Havana does not look as I remember her . . . She has gotten . . . shabby. And the people . . . Where is the joy I remember in Old Havana?”
I took that as a rhetorical question, but Sara replied, “It is gone. But the people’s hearts will come to life again.”
I had the impression they’d had conversations like this before. Not that I cared, but Sara and Eduardo, like all exiles and the children of exiles, romanticized the old days and the old country, which in the case of Cuba had been run by the most corrupt thugs in the Western Hemisphere. The current regime was long past its expiration date, but the damage had been done, and I couldn’t imagine what was next for this unblessed island. Nor did I care. Well, maybe I did.
Eduardo contemplated his cigar, then asked us, “How are things?”
I beat Sara to a response and said, “We had a little problem.”
He nodded. “Yes, I heard this from Señor Colby.”
So Señor Colby couldn’t keep his mouth shut about our meeting, or what was said there. Wait until I get my hands on his skinny neck.
Eduardo looked at me. “But you were not supposed to meet him.”
“Why not?”
“For reasons of security.”
“Excuse me, but you are the biggest security problem so far.”
He ignored that and continued, “But I’m happy he gave you—” He tapped my belly bulge, which must be a Cuban custom. “I was going to bring that to you.”
“He saved you the trouble.”
“So you had this problem with . . . your tour guide.”
“We’ve put that problem behind us and now we need to get on the road.” I added, “I assume you have the Camagüey contact information for us.”
He didn’t reply, and he was annoying me, so I said, “I hope you don’t think you’re coming with us.”
“I am walking home.”
“Well, good luck with that. And if you get picked up by the police—”
“I have a cyanide capsule with me.”
That’s good news.
“They will never take me alive.”
Bite hard.
Sara said to Eduardo, “Please come with us. We will all go home together.”
“I am home.” He refilled his glass and drew on his cigar, then looked at me, then at Sara—and I knew that look. He asked, “Are you . . . working well together?”
Yes, I’m fucking her.
Sara replied, “Mac has been extraordinary.”
“Good. We made a good choice.” He added, “I admire the American Army. Excellent training. Men who are trustworthy and keep their word.”
“Thank you.”
“Men like Mr. Colby.” He looked me in the eye. “Mister Colby seems to think you and Sara have formed a romantic attachment.”
Thanks, Jack. Asshole. Or was the old fox just baiting me?
Sara didn’t help the situation by turning red. She blushes too easily.
Eduardo looked at her. “You are committed to a man in Miami.”
This isn’t Miami, señor. I couldn’t believe the old boy was hung up on this. I mean, we’re on the lam in an f-ing police state with our lives on the line and . . . Well, officer and gentleman that I am, I said, “Señor Valazquez, I assure you that Sara has been faithful to . . . whoever.”
“Do you both swear to this?”
“I do.”
Sara hesitated, but said, “I swear.”
I didn’t think he believed us, but he had the answer he wanted, so now we could talk about sixty million dollars.
He changed the subject and asked Sara, “Do you understand how you are to make your contact in Cayo Guillermo?”
Sara replied, “The Melia Hotel lobby bar, any night after seven P.M.”
“Correct. And your contact will say, ‘It is good to see you here.’ ” He stared at Sara for some reason, as though she’d once forgotten an ID phrase.
She nodded.
He let us know, “The three fishermen are staying at the Melia. Felipe and Señor Colby are sleeping on the boat. So when you make your escape in the darkness, the fishermen will not be onboard—they will be in their beds.”
Innocent as sleeping babies. But with some explaining to do to the police about their missing tournament boat. Hopefully, they’d just be allowed to fly to Mexico City. But if they were jailed, Eduardo and his amigos would have their diplomatic incident, and the fishermen would just be collateral damage. Señor Valazquez and his amigos played rough. And I’d keep that in mind.
He looked at me. “Do I have your word that you will continue this mission even if . . . something should happen to Sara?”
“If I’m alive and able, I will be at the Melia Hotel in Cayo Guillermo.”
“Good.”
I seemed to be the only one who understood that we needed to get out of here, and I said, “If there’s nothing else, we’re ready to go. We need the contact information for Camagüey.”
He ignored me again and asked, “Do you think the police have made any connection between you and the boat?”
Sara replied, “We don’t think so. But it’s possible they’ll discover something if they’re making inquiries.”
Eduardo nodded. “This was always a concern.”
I asked him, “Do you have any way to contact our person in Cayo?”
“No.” He added, “I don’t know who he is.”
Then how do you know it’s a he? “Do you have any way to contact Felipe?”
“I have no way to contact anyone. Including you. So when we part, this is all in the hands of God.”
I prefer Verizon to keep me in touch. But this was one of those unguided missions, like a rocket that you have no command or control of, and no communication with after it’s launched. It would be good to know what was going on in Cayo Guillermo—like if the tournament had been cancelled and the fleet was gone, or if the police were waiting there for us—but we weren’t going to know anything until we got to the Melia Hotel. If we made it that far.
Eduardo returned to the subject of Antonio and said, “Mister Colby told me you were to meet this man—this tour guide.”
Jeez, Jack. Did Eduardo waterboard him? Or get him drunk? Or was Jack trying to get this mission scrubbed?
“What did you learn at this meeting?”
Sara replied, “We learned we were on a police watch list.” She added, “But this man is a liar and a scammer. He wanted money.”
And some love. But not worth mentioning.
Eduardo nodded, but didn’t reply.
I wondered if Eduardo was thinking about aborting this mission. Sara and I had talked ourselves into pressing on, but Eduardo might now be thinking otherwise. In fact, he said, “Perhaps the money is not tha
t important.”
I assured him, “It is to me.”
“There are things more important than money.”
“I agree. And money can buy all those things.”
He looked at me. “We are motivated by something greater than money.”
“I’m not.”
“Our life’s goal is to destroy this regime.”
“That takes money.”
Sara said to Eduardo, “I have taken Mac to Villa Marista.”
He nodded and looked at me. “So you understand.”
Something was getting lost in the translation, but in the back of my mind maybe I did understand.
Eduardo changed the subject again and asked Sara, “Did you see your grandfather’s bank?”
“I did. I showed it to Mac.”
Three times.
“And your home?”
“Yes.”
“I, too, walked to see it.” He shook his head. “Very sad. It made me unhappy.” Eduardo Valazquez walking around Havana made me unhappy. And standing here made me unhappy. I looked at Sara and tapped my watch.
She nodded.
Eduardo said to me, “Another of our goals is to return the property that was stolen by the Communists to the rightful owners.”
“Sara has mentioned that.”
Eduardo walked over to a work bench where a tarp covered something big. Sara joined him, and I followed.
Eduardo said, “Flavio has delivered something here for you.” He pulled away the tarp, revealing two medium-sized steamer trunks. They’d fit nicely in the Buick wagon.
He stuck his cigar in his mouth, took a key out of his pocket, and opened the padlock on one of the trunks, then lifted the lid. The trunk was crammed with paper, but not the green kind.
Eduardo said, “This is worth hundreds of millions of dollars.”
I knew what this was, and so did Sara, but Eduardo told us, “Land deeds, property titles . . . records of the true ownership of houses, plantations, farms, factories, apartment buildings . . . banks . . . all nationalized—stolen—by the regime.”
I said, “I thought this stuff was in the cave in Camagüey.”
“It never left Havana.” He looked at Sara. “Your grandfather chose to hide it separately from the money.” He smiled. “He was a careful man who believed that one should not put all of one’s assets in one basket.”