Cuba Straits (13 page)

“Changó.” Vernum smiled. “I will give you something nice for this, man.”

The girl had a fierce little face with nostrils that flared. “Who are you? You don’t belong here.” She drew the cane stalk in a threatening manner and placed a hand on the tiny canister clipped to her coveralls.

He knelt, laughing, so they were eye to eye. “Don’t be afraid, child. I bet you like chocolate. Do you like chocolate?” The girl backed a step when he extended his hand. “My car is near the river. Come with—”

“You’re a trespasser,” the girl interrupted, “or a thief. If you’ve come to steal our stuff, I’ll . . .” She raised the stalk, then lowered it. “What happened to your face?”

The stitches. He’d forgotten. “Some evil fool attacked me. I don’t like evil men, that’s why you’re safe with me. It’ll just take a minute to walk to my car.” Again he offered his hand while the girl stared, puzzled by the stitches in his mouth and eyebrows or as if making up her mind about the chocolate.

No . . . she was making up her mind about him. “You have a snake’s face and mean eyes,” she said. “Go away or I’ll hit you with this.” Raising the cane stalk, she stepped back and, for some reason, unsnapped the little canister from her coveralls.

Vernum’s expression changed. “You arrogant little
puta
. Someone should teach you manners.”

“Stop your damn swearing,” the girl said. “Don’t come near me or I’ll—”

Vernum lunged, slapped her to the ground. That’s when Sabina, looking up, used the canister of mace, aimed for the eyes, just as Marion Ford had taught her.

F
riday morning, after cleaning branches, leaves, and other river debris from his boat, Ford paid cash for a slip at Marina Hemingway, west of Havana, then sat in the shade reading until customs agents were done with their search.

Dr. Archie Carr’s
The Windward Road
, a book about sea turtles, meshed with what agents found aboard, so he was soon able to make a bed on the casting platform. Cozy there beneath the bow shield. He paid 750 euros for a hundred gallons of fuel, ate roast chicken at El Aljibe in the embassy district, then again fell asleep to the rhythm of marimbas and waves.

Government offices opened at nine. He took a cab to a complex near the University of Havana and applied for research permits as Marion D. North, Ph.D., the name on his fake passport. Receipts for the permits, stamped on official letterhead, would be enough to satisfy the coastal cops. Even so, he couldn’t rationalize another stop at the home of Marta Esteban—not while the sun was up. To associate with an American was dangerous in itself, which is why he’d done only a quick stop-and-drop that morning after navigating two miles of river, hadn’t spoken to the mother, and was gone before sunrise.

Ford told himself,
The girls will be able to explain
, yet the subject nagged at him. Maribel had witnessed a murder, but it was not a typical crime. A serial killer was on the loose in her rural district, and gossip about the girls returning would travel fast through the countryside. Was Marta Esteban savvy enough to understand why he had given her daughters money and the name of a hotel—the Hotel Plaza in the old city—and instructed them to book rooms for a few nights? Or would she fear a setup?

No way to contact Marta. Like many homes in rural areas, there was no phone.

Ten-year-old Sabina, with her fierce temper and tongue, was the focus of Ford’s worries. That puzzled him because Maribel was the obvious target. It was irrational.

Intuition,
Tomlinson would have said.

•   •   •

A
T AN A
FTERNOON GAME,
near the bull pen in Havana’s Grand Stadium, Gen. Rivera said to Ford, “That is a dangerous subject here. Even now. Every Cuban has heard the same rumor, but few believe because, well, they don’t want to believe.” After relighting a cigar, he amended, “Every Cuban born before the days of JFK, anyway.”

What Ford had said was “Some myths die hard,” an oblique reference to a fact: Fidel Castro had never played baseball. Not even high school baseball. Yet, the legend he had been offered a contract by the Pittsburgh Pirates and Washington Senators was still parroted by U.S. writers, broadcasters, even historians.

Ford replied, “The world doesn’t know or care about old lies—not that it matters now. You were talking about an incident, something about Americans who played here in 1959—”

“It matters,” the general insisted, but kept his voice down.

“To a few crazies, maybe, but not the rest of the world.” Ford was taking in the spectacle. There were a thousand people or so in the stands, cops patrolling every section. Nice field; the scoreboard missing some lights, but he liked that. “Big egos a long time ago when baseball was important,” he said. “I can see why it pisses off someone like you, but let it go, General.”

“Latinos aren’t gringos,” he snapped. “It will always matter to the movement, to Fidel’s legacy, and to the new government that is already going to hell. Never underestimate the power of superstition and baseball in Cuba.”

Ford, who had just arrived, wanted to push through the pleasantries, end this talk of sports and find out what was important. Any news about Tomlinson? The Castro letters—how had Rivera gotten them? More importantly, who wanted them? But the
generalissimo
was a stubborn man. “Juan, you see things from a different aspect. Here, particularly, I know it’s better to talk in generalities. Being offered a major league contract”—Ford smiled at the thought—“he wasn’t the first man to lie about that.”

“If you knew history as I do, you wouldn’t take it so lightly. The Revolution interrupted the most important baseball series of that era: the Havana Sugar Kings against the Minneapolis Millers, champions of the American minor leagues. Cubans were furious. To hell with politics, why were these games canceled? National pride, even racial pride, was at stake. There were riots that threatened the Revolution. So Fidel became an instant champion of the game, created his own team, The Bearded Ones, while his propaganda people spread a lie—a brilliant lie that U.S. magazines printed. The world still believes Fidel sacrificed a major league career to save Cuba. That’s why the subject is dangerous to discuss. There is an old saying:
Disprove one nail in the cross and religion becomes mere fairy tale
. I was once a believer,” Rivera said. “No more.”

Ford looked around before warning him, “Yes. Dangerous, as you said, to use certain names.”

The general ignored him. Nodded toward the field where the Industríales—the equivalent of Cuba’s New York Yankees—and Pinar del Río were tied in the fifth inning, playing before a good crowd that seemed sparse in a stadium that seated seventy thousand. Rivera started to say, “Havana’s Sugar Kings were a Triple-A team for Cincinnati in those years . . .” but his attention shifted to a group of men coming through the nearest tunnel. They were noisy, with drunken, florid faces, among them a giant who was older but looked fit, yet had to weigh over three hundred pounds. A former athlete, fluid in his movements, but with a sour attitude; indifferent to the men he was with.

“Russians,” Rivera said, suddenly uneasy. “Do you recognize the large one? His name’s Kostikov.”

Ford knew a great deal about Anatol Kostikov, was surprised to see the man here, but asked, “What about him?”

“I expect to be followed, but it’s never been like this. We shouldn’t meet for a couple of days.” Rivera attempted to stand but sat back when Ford pinned his arm.

“General, don’t make it so obvious. Maybe he came to see the game. But”—Ford had to think for a moment—“just in case, let’s get the important stuff out of the way. Do you know if Tomlinson is here?”

A nod. “Don’t contact him, he’s being watched. Friends say he arrived in Cojimar, but without the briefcase. That might be the problem. Figuerito drowned. Something about a freighter hitting them, but his sailboat survived.”

“Geezus. The shortstop? Why the hell would he—”

Rivera pulled his arm free. “Not now. On the Prado, in the old city, there’s a restaurant not far from the seawall, La Científico, an old mansion with apartments downstairs. We can meet there tonight for drinks if—”

“What about Tomlinson?”

“Yes, yes, he’s fine. I’ll tell you later.”

“What are you afraid of, Juan? You’ll only attract attention if you leave now.”

“Don’t be ridiculous.” The man pretended to watch a hitter for the Industríales take a called third strike. “Curve ball,” he said, but his smile was forced. “Almost as good as mine.”

Ford focused on the big Russian who was scanning the bleachers while the younger men filed toward seats. “You’ve been smuggling Cuban ballplayers and selling contraband on the Internet. The Russians are back. You’re surprised they’re interested?”

“If he was sent to find me, yes. Kostikov was KGB, now the FSB—Federal Security Service—but you know about that. A very high-level talent, if you understand my meaning. Ruthless. You’re sure you’ve never heard the name?”

Ford waited while the Russian’s eyes swept past them, no hint of interest, before the man turned and exited. “It’s okay, old buddy. You can breathe again.”

Rivera dismissed that with a laugh and settled back with his cigar and seemed to relax in the noise of a thousand cheering, stomping fans. Two hitters later, he spoke again, but without turning his head. “We’ll discuss Tomlinson and the briefcase at the place I mentioned. La Científico. A great scientist once lived there—Cuba’s second president.”

“You
are
scared.”

“Only careful, until I figure out what is happening. My contacts here, even the powerful ones, are behaving oddly.”

“How long since your last visit?”

“Three weeks, almost four.”

“Did you actually bribe the warden to get the shortstop out of jail? Or did you help him escape?”

“What does it matter? No one cares about Figuerito. Something else has happened. Something important enough to change how an important person like me is treated. That’s what I don’t understand.”

Ford, looking at the Russians, who were drunk, said, “I wonder what.” He asked about Rivera’s friend, the woman who had been hospitalized with uranium poison. She was dead. He asked for specifics. How was this trip different? Then brought it back around, saying, “You’ve spent your career reading powerful men. What’s your best guess?”

“It might have to do with the briefcase,” Rivera conceded. “And what we were talking about—the year of the Revolution.”

“What do a bunch of personal letters have to do with the Revolution? I can’t imagine them—you know who I mean—writing to a mistress about political secrets or—”

“Hear me out,” Rivera said. “The winter of the Revolution, the Sugar Kings were one game away from beating the Americans in what was called the True World Series, but Fidel’s army put an end to it. Do you understand? After decades of being treated as inferiors, this was Cuba’s first chance to prove its team was as good as any team in the major leagues.”

Ford asked, “The games were played here?”

“All but the fourth game and the final seventh, which was under way, and tied in extra innings, in Pinar del Río. The Minneapolis Millers had great players, such as Carl Yastrzemski and Orlando Cepeda. The Kings had American players, too, from Cincinnati’s farm system. Lou Klein broke the Latin League home run record; Luis Tiant was rookie of the year, plus the three American pitchers I told you about. A great deal of pride was at stake.”

“And money,” Ford said. “Are you sure about those names?” The timing seemed a little off.

“No, but the money, yes. Havana’s casinos were run by Meyer Lansky and other Mafiosos. The betting was international. Batista knew he was losing control of the country. He would have paid any amount to have won that game.”

Ford said, “And stayed in power,” but was thinking,
Rivera is after more than just motorcycles and machine guns. What the hell is in those letters?

The general signaled a passing vendor and bought two empanadas, which he shared. “As an example, take Nicaragua’s last revolution. Nineteen eighty . . . was it eighty-four? No, nineteen eighty-five. When Daniel Ortega came to power, the first thing he did was order the execution of the former dictator’s best pitchers and his cleanup hitter. That was—what?—only thirty years ago. To most Americans that would seem absurd, but you know it’s true. Personally, I understand the demands of politics, but to do such a wasteful thing shows contempt for the game.”

Ford nodded because it was true. “Better to draft them into your army,” he suggested.

“
Exactly.
Same with lying about a contract offer from the major leagues. Contemptible. Three perfect games I have pitched and many no-hitters, yet I have never shown disrespect for the scouts who didn’t have the balls to sign me.” Rivera ate the last of his empanada. “They were biased fascists, of course.”

“Intimidated by your stature, more likely.”

“No doubt, but I never asked a scout to lie for a story in
Sports Illustrated
, unlike . . .” Rivera touched his chin, meaning “The Bearded One.” “There is a book written by a Yale professor—”

“
The Pride of Havana.
I read it.” Ford knew where this was going.

“The professor searched every box score in every Cuban newspaper published during Fidel’s teens and twenties and found only one mention—a softball game when he was in law school. That man was my hero. You know that. Yet, you now ask why it is important?”

Ford glanced over while the
generalissimo
stared into space. “I’m surprised you let yourself believe something in a book.”

“I didn’t until I checked with certain sources. I got drunk the night I learned it was all true. Shitty softball, not even the real game. Fidel pitched, his only appearance on a Cuban mound, and
he lost
. My god”—Rivera tossed the empanada wrapper into the aisle—“I would prefer a bullet in the ass to losing a slow-pitch softball game. That book is banned here, of course, because the legend must be protected. Especially now. As you say, people wouldn’t believe it anyway, and proof died with one lying baseball scout. No . . . Cubans would never believe the truth. Cubans would have to hear the truth from Fidel’s own dead lips.”

Rivera festered over that—a man whose political and baseball careers had been lost in the shadow of the Castros—but paid attention when Ford said, “Lips . . . I thought that’s what you were worried about. A lip-reader.”

The general’s reaction:
Huh?

Ford shielded his mouth with a hand. “I thought that’s why you got upset when I brought up the subject. In the press box—someone with binoculars. They’re watching us. I assumed you knew.”