Cuba Straits (6 page)

Ford almost smiled. A fake name on a cheap card, yet it meant something to him. Since the 1930s, when the U.S. Marines introduced baseball to Nicaragua and Masagua—Cuba much earlier—spies, spooks, and hit men from Latin countries often deferred to their baseball gloves when choosing an American pseudonym. Wilson or Rawlings was a common fake name; Spalding, MacGregor, and Louisville considered more creative. In esoteric circles—the fifth-floor embassy types—“José Wilson” had become a euphemism for “Latino spy,” an inside joke.

Ford, voice low, said, “This is a piss-poor cover story. Come to do a hit while the sun’s still up, people around? That’s stupid. Or whoever sent you is stupid. Do yourself a favor and talk.”

Cable Guy, inhaling fumes, croaked, “Shit . . . how can I? This rag, man, it just makes it worse,” yet continued to rub his eyes while toxic oil constricted his throat. The accent was Spanish—Cuban, possibly—but faint. A man who’d spent most of his twenty-some years in the States.

Ford said, “Don’t do anything stupid,” and went out the door. He returned with a hose, kinked, dripping water. He flushed his own eyes, then told the man, “Sit up—sit on your hands—and cross your legs. Now tilt your head back. No, damn it, keep your eyes open.”

That didn’t work very well, so he held the Beretta and watched Cable Guy wash his face, gargle and spit, repeating the process several times, before Ford kinked the hose again and jammed it under the door. “What’s your name?”

“It’s right there, man. You can’t read?”

“Your real name.”

“
Hector.
I need more of that hose, then maybe my throat’ll work better.”

“I’m not going to play question-answer.”

“You got a problem, call the cops. You ain’t no cop, and this shit in my eyes ain’t mace, so we both go to jail. What you think about that?”

Ford said, “Not so loud,” and picked up the wasp spray, which scared Hector more than the gun. After two false starts, Ford looked at his watch to show impatience. Didn’t say a word—silence, the ultimate threat—even when Rivera turned the salsa music louder and clomped toward what might have been the bathroom.

Hector, listening, decided to strike up a conversation with his raspy voice. “You’re wrong, what you said. I ain’t stupid. A customer wants his ESPN working when he gets home. Nothing stupid about a repairman walking through yards, going into a house, while it’s still light.”

Ford waited.

“Assaulted me, doing my job.”

He listened to more of this before pointing upstairs. “The guy you came to kill? If he finds out, he’ll glue your eyes shut and cut off an ear. You still don’t talk, he’ll make you eat it. Your own ear. Super Glue or sometimes tape, that varies, but not cutting off an ear. It’s what
he does
.”

Hector sat at attention. “You actually seen him do that? I heard something similar, man, but figured it was bullshit.”

“It’s not.”

“You were actually
there
?”

“I walked away. Why would I stick around? But I heard it happen at least twice.”

“Guys screaming, you mean, then he makes them swallow, huh? Shit . . . they’d have to do some chewing first.”

“I suppose so.”

“Jesus Holy Mary. After that, he tells the prisoner—
interreges
is the right word—he says to them, ‘Listen to what your gut tells you. I’ll wait.’ Or your ‘inside voice’—something similar—is what I was told. Sounded like bullshit to me. Is it true?”

Rivera did everything with a flair, it was possible. Ford nodded.

“
No shit?
Why you think I came armed?”

Ford replied, “That’s fairly obvious.”

“No . . . not to kill the man, but as a precaution for my own personal defense. In the security business, that’s what we’re taught. Something else I was told”—Hector, becoming cautious, looked up—“well, that Rivera . . .
General
Rivera . . . was traveling with a . . . not a bodyguard, exactly, but some serious badass. You know, as in approach with extreme caution. Safety first, man. I’m not some crack addict. We have what’s called a procedural checklist. That don’t mean I came to kill anyone.”

No need for more wasp spray. Ford, placing it on the ground, added flattery. “From the way you came through the door, I knew you’d had some training. Keep talking, maybe we can work this out.”

“From how I handled myself, you mean? Same with you, when you grabbed my weapon—but I expected this psycho
Cubano
, not a gringo-looking dude. Not that I’m making excuses.”

“Oh?”

Hector, speaking as one pro to another, said, “Tell me something. If I’d pulled the trigger, would it have blown up? I’ve heard different things about freezing the slide. Not from anyone with the balls to actually, you know, experiment, so I’m interested.”

The temptation was to point the Beretta and demonstrate, but better to keep things moving. “Who told you I was Cuban?”

Hector, sitting on his butt in dirt, replied, “I’ll talk, but I want my weapons back. That one there”—a nod at the Beretta—“don’t belong to me. I’ll lose my job, man, if I can’t account for that suppressor. Don’t screw with the ATF, right? And you’ve got to promise not to tell the general until I’m gone. Hey—is he really a general?”

After a long, uneasy silence while Ford stared, the man added, “I ain’t saying
you’re
crazy. This Cuban dude, I mean. More of a murderer than a pro.”

Another chilly silence. “Man . . . by ‘gringo,’ I didn’t mean no racial slur. That’s what I was told: a
Cubano
who escaped and hooked up with Rivera. The big concrete jail in Havana—a prison asylum, I’m talking about, the one by the baseball field on your way to José Mart
Í
. You never been to Cuba?”

Ford thought,
Uh-oh
. “What’s the guy’s name?”

“The psycho Cuban?”

“Of course.”

Hector sensed an opening. “Do I get my guns back?”

Ford picked up the wasp spray.

A
s applause died down, Figueroa Casanova, enjoying his first ride on a sailboat, waved both hands at the crowd on Mallory Square and asked Tomlinson, “Brother, how’d you get so famous in Key West? Must be a hundred women, but the men, even that juggler, they’re clapping, too.”

Tomlinson, at the wheel, was kicked back, steering with his feet. “Naw, man, they do this every sunset. Hey . . . mind digging out another beer?” He pointed, wearing frayed shorts and a T-shirt that read
BUM FARTO, CALL HOME
.

Figgy had puzzled over the strange American words, but his interest had moved on. “They clapping just because the sun goes down?”

“Like a tradition, yeah.”

“Brother, you’re too modest. Every day since I was born, the sun comes up, it goes down, except in prison—no windows in my cell, you know?—but I’m pretty sure it happened anyway. Why they so happy about night coming?”

Tomlinson cocked his head. “You did time? Why’d the pigs lock you up?” Which, even to him, didn’t sound right in Spanish, so he translated, “Cops, I mean. Not ‘time’ as in clock time.”

Figgy replied, “I don’t need a clock to know night from day when I see it.” He couldn’t take his eyes off so much activity, flaming torches, cats jumping through hoops, and too many gringas with nice
chichis
to count. “No, this afternoon I’d of noticed any pretty fans from the dugout. Those women, they looking at you, brother.” He opened the Igloo, grabbed two beers fast so as not to miss anything.

Tomlinson considered what he’d just heard while his eyes lived in the moment: tourists and locals packed along the seawall, tangerine clouds over the Tortugas, the air sweet with coconut oil, Gulf Stream jasmine, and some professional-grade weed that only a true pirate town could handle with dignity. A slow turn of the head and there was Key West Bight, the Turtle Kraal docks busy where he often tied his dinghy, although the sandy spot at the end of Simonton was better for swimming naked.

Whoops
 . . . His head jolted and pivoted the other way. Christmas Island astern, a colony of sailboats floating where, three weeks ago, he’d moored
No Más
before taking a taxi boat, the
Magic
Penny
, ashore. Then late this afternoon, after the ball game, the same in reverse but with a stop at Fausto’s Food Palace to buy provisions, then another stop at Marine Hardware on Caroline. No charts of Cuba available, but hemp for a boom vang and extra shackles might come in handy, as would oil for the dinghy’s little Yamaha outboard, boat and motor both secured forward atop
No Más
’s cabin.

The baseball team from Indiana had slipped a hundred bucks to Figgy, who’d picked the field clean and gone four for five with two RBIs. Only a Coors Light to the scraggly-haired pitcher who’d closed the game—no runs, but three duck-fart bloopers beyond the range of Indianola Cadillac’s limping, over-the-hill fielders. Tomlinson was still peeved about that. But he had gotten the save and paid for provisions anyway.

No problem. He’d inherited a family fortune, but that wasn’t the reason. The last thing he’d expected was the little shortstop to ask to accompany him to Cuba, and the chaos he’d recently escaped, all because of a promise he’d made to watch the briefcase.

The deal was done when Figgy finally perused the letters and saw what they contained.

Comrade,
Tomlinson thought,
I am proud to have you aboard.

Honor . . . conviction . . . loyalty—the little dude personified everything good about the Revolution, which, of late, had been made a mockery by snot-nosed dilettantes and political traitors. This sad truth had brought Tomlinson near tears more than once. He accepted the beer, sopping ice chips with his shirt, and toasted his new shipmate. “Solidarity, man.”

Figgy was wary of political slogans. He demurred by asking what
BUM FARTO, CALL HOME
meant.

“That’s what everyone called the guy. Bum. He was the fire chief in Key West years ago. One night, he got in his car and was never seen again. Farto, his real name. Seriously. Which reminds me . . .” Tomlinson checked his phone, seeing his last text to Ford, which read
Sailing south on a righteous
mission. Stop your damn
worrying.
He switched it off and added, “You can’t be too careful down here on the Keys.”

Figgy had refocused on a group of gringas, five or six with their
chichis
bouncing while they yelled something across the water. “Those women love you, brother. Modesty, yeah, that’s sometimes good, but it won’t get you no papaya. Maybe they’d enjoy a boat ride—make some hot oil with us. You think?”

Tomlinson smiled at the Cuban slang and checked Mallory Square. Yes . . . a redhead and a blonde he recognized—possibly several familiar faces jumbled back there in memory. Over the years, he’d dropped anchor in bedrooms from Duval to Cudjoe Key, but women always looked so different wearing clothes instead of body paint. He replied, “Those whom Key West does not kill, it enlightens.
That’s
why we’re not turning back.”

It was more strange talk from this odd pitcher who didn’t throw hard enough to break glass but had a pretty good curve. Figueroa liked him anyway, trusted the man’s kindness and sophisticated manner. Felt comfortable enough to speak up when he didn’t understand. “You mean ‘kill’ as in
putas
who rob? Or these island women, they exhaust a man’s
pinga
?”

“Count on it,” Tomlinson replied. “It’s happened to better sailors than us. That’s why I know when to pull anchor and haul ass to saner harbors.” He stood to ready the mainsail. The shipping channel, busy with traffic and sunset pirate vessels, required an engine. Once clear of Kingfish Shoals, however, they would be free if there was wind . . . But, damn it, there was no wind. The low-pressure system had left a vacuum of calm that would make them a puppet of the Gulf Stream . . . until morning at least, according to the VHF under the helm, which he knelt to turn louder.

“But they’re callin’ your name, brother.”

“Yeah? Think back to your Greek tragedies—‘Beware the Sirens on the rocks’ and all that. Odysseus dropped anchor and Circe, plus some other witch goddesses, drugged him, screwed the man blind, and kept him and his shipmates captives for a year.”

Figueroa’s eyes were fixed on Mallory Square. “They’re witches?”

“Circe? Hell, yeah. Spellbinders, they all are.”

“If Circe’s the one I’m looking at, sometimes a year don’t seem so long.”

Tomlinson replied, “Hush a minute,” and listened to NOAA weather’s monotone: seas outside the reef three feet or less until morning, when a high-pressure band increases wind slightly to . . .

Figgy didn’t attempt to translate those foreign words. Still waving at the eager gringas, he endured a sense of loss unknown since his first month in Havana’s prison psychiatric ward. “Brother, isn’t there some way?”

Tomlinson muttered, “Damn. Apparently not,” and switched off the VHF.

Figgy suggested, “How about I swim to shore? Allow me, oh . . . just two hours. Shine a light and I will swim back. I don’t doubt what you say about those witches, but I have never experienced this tragedy you fear.”

Tomlinson slouched behind the wheel. “The weather gods usually ignore NOAA’s doom-and-gloom bullshit when
No Más
goes to sea. Apparently, my vibe’s out of kilter.” He looked at the horizon, a turquoise glaze to Cuba, then at his new shipmate. “Mind rolling a skinny—my Spanish seems to be fading.” Then: “What was that last thing you said?”

•   •   •

O
VER MARGARITAS
at Louie’s Backyard, Tomlinson had to lie. “
Cerci
in Cuban means ‘a beautiful, sensual woman.’
Women
, in your case. See? It’s not that my amigo can’t remember names.” Explained this to three German nurses who had intercepted them after
No Más
was illegally anchored off Dog Beach, where their dinghy was tied—an Avon inflatable that had rocketed them to shore and was visible from their table near the tiki bar.

Next, a question about the shortstop’s shoes. “Baseball spikes, we call them,” Tomlinson explained. He signaled the bartender, indicated their empty pitcher, and called, “I think we’re prepared to sail again.”

Figgy disappeared after that with one of the Cercis who was infatuated with the rhythm of his name:
Figueroa Casanova
. Kept repeating it like lyrics to a song, which was okay. It warmed the long silences at a table where only Tomlinson spoke English.

Twenty minutes later, Figgy and Cerci reappeared from somewhere beneath the deck, both a little woozy.

“Mission accomplished,” Tomlinson whispered. “Now, let’s hit the dinghy and get under way.”

Figueroa tapped his wrist as if he owned a watch. “You promised two hours. It is hardly dark yet. Oh”—he stole a look under the table—“thanks, my brother. Next time, I carry that with me.”

The briefcase, he meant. He’d insisted they bring the thing, a last-minute fire drill that had tumbled Tomlinson into the water, but this was not the first time he’d used soggy bills to buy drinks.

On Thomas Street, they popped into Blue Heaven, the outdoor seating fragrant with frangipani and scrawny, scratching chickens. In response to the hungry look Figgy awarded the fattest hen, their server warned, “Don’t you dare—they’re protected.” That hastened them on to Margaritaville and another frosty pitcher in tribute to a generous man. By then, a fourth Cerci had hinted she was seducible—this one from the Wolverine State, a stunning Ph.D. candidate who played rugby and had the scars to prove it. “I’ve got a room at the La Concha,” she said into Tomlinson’s ear. “Just me. Bring the Krauts, if you want, but no more than two, and no less than three.”

Talk about cryptic. On a napkin was her room number, and an addendum: “Love the name Cerci. Much cooler than the name I’ve been using.”

Hmm. Tomlinson was aware that women journeyed to Key West eager to try what was unthinkable back home, yet he fretted for the coed’s innocence, and all the innocents who had run amok on the rocks of Bone Key. What to do?

He thought back. Long ago, he had earned his doctorate with a dissertation that became an international best seller:
One Fathom Above Sea Level
. A “fathom” being six feet—the distance between earth and one man’s eyes. A line he’d written offered guidance:
When torn between doing what is morally right
or the chance for a few hours of fun, never decide until morning
.

After that, the streets of Key West assumed their normal spatial focus, which is to say fuzzy . . . not unlike embedding marbles in one’s eye sockets and watching the babysitter swim naked at nap time.

Cerci, the one from Berlin, had listened patiently to this tale of boyhood emergence, but Cerci, the Wolverine Ph.D., had bigger adventures in mind. “Eat this,” she said.

Tomlinson considered the pill she squeezed into his palm. “Mescaline?”

“Think of it as a time capsule.” A sharp, perceptive smile while she continued: “I
knew
it was you. I’ve read your book at least ten times, and the last chapter still makes me cry.” A slight sniffle, then a brighter smile. “Mind if I snap a selfie to send a few friends?”

Her phone was on the nightstand, two topless fräuleins away.

Flash . . . Flash . . . Flash-Flash.
Blinding, but the strobe helped the mescaline unfurl gently throughout Tomlinson’s brain. Time to show some real American know-how and put his back into the task at hand.

He did.

Yes . . . this corn-fed Cerci was the real McCoy, a true spellbinder. Yet, some passage of time later, on Duval Street, Tomlinson experienced a disturbing moment of clarity when a bear-sized man shouldered him off the sidewalk and muttered what sounded like a threat in Russian. Then again, at the corner of Southard and Margaret, when Figgy, standing shirtless, briefcase in hand, froze as he stared into the darkness of trees, where there were tiny columned mansions and row after row of stones.

“What’s wrong?”

“Brother, we being followed. You see him?”

Tomlinson mustered his motor control and did a slow turn. “Hey . . . where’d our Cercis go? I’ve become very fond of that spunky little Wolverine.”

“It because of him, brother. The witches, they all ran.”

“What? That damn trollop . . . she used me like a hood ornament.
Shit . . .
” He searched his pockets, shorts still wet for some reason—oh yeah, they’d crashed Pier House Beach for a swim, but his dripping billfold had survived. His iPhone present, too, but iffy. “Well, she’s no thief. I’ll give her that much.”

“Shhhh!” The Cuban clutched his Santería beads and stood motionless like a dog flagging a snake. Then gestured with his chin. “Outside the wall by the tree. See? I hope it’s not him.”

“Him
who
?”

“A
Santero
from my village, but an asshole. ’Cause of him, I got sent to the crazy prison for murder.”

“Gad, Figgy. You killed someone?”

“Or could be that Russian who called you a pussy.”

Sobering, to hear such words. “That’s even more upsetting. No one’s supposed to know I’m here.”