Cuba Straits (9 page)

Listening, Tomlinson exhaled a long breath. “Dude, you’re as sane as the day is long. A ballplayer’s got to protect his throwing hand.”

“Yeah! But they took me to crazy prison anyway. The one on the road to José Martí, right there by the ball field.”

Prisión demente
is what Figgy called the asylum in Spanish.

“Can you imagine? Sit in the dark, hearing baseball through the walls. You know that sound a bat makes when you hit it good? Hit a ball, I mean, not like the one I used to kill those fellas. Sometimes I cried and cried. Three years, three months, and three days. Got so them guards really believed I was crazy.”

A cooler was strapped to the cabin bulkhead. Tomlinson got up. “You know, Figgy—uhh, is it okay if I call you Figgy?”

“That’s cool. Although ‘Figuerito’ is more proper. Three, you understand now why three’s my lucky number?” The little Cuban accepted a beer and tossed the cap over the side.

Normally, Tomlinson would have mentioned the handy trash bag but stuck to the thread. “Thing is, Figuerito, on these little cruises of mine strange shit always happens for one reason or another. Nobody’s fault, understand. It’s God’s way of preparing us, I think, for the serious weirdness that awaits if a man outlives his
pinga
.”

A nod; a white-toothed smile.

“We’ve got to stick together, in other words. We’re shipmates, right? After last night, I feel like I can call you my very good friend.”

“Figgy’s okay, too,” the shortstop replied. He was interested in something portside, straining to see through the mist while his shoulders danced to Ms. Omara crooning “Pensamiento.”

Sensing a lack of focus, Tomlinson cleared his throat. “Being called a pussy in Russian was my first clue. That’s a new one even in my world. See where this is going? Amigo, I think we need to read those letters to understand why all this bizarre bullshit’s going down.” A tangent popped into his head. “Hey . . . how’d you know the Russian word for ‘pussy’? Because your father danced ballet?”

The shortstop didn’t respond, continued to stare into the mist, eyes widening while he grabbed the boom and pulled himself up. “Wow!” he said. “Is that Havana already?”

No . . . it was a cruise ship, its bow five stories high and cutting a wake that, if Tomlinson didn’t get the engine started, would crush
No Más
and drown them.

T
hursday afternoon on Bahamasair, Key West to Nassau, Vernum Quick looked down at a glittering sea and watched a ship—one of those newlywed and nearly dead cruise liners—disappear into a cloudy mist. The entire flight, he hadn’t said a word to his Russian handler, a man so big he’d purchased two seats—same as two days ago when they’d landed in Fort Myers.

Kostikov was the guy’s name, supposedly. Who knew? In this strange business, lying was a way of life. It was easier to believe he’d been a super heavyweight way, way back in the day. Boxing or wrestling or weight lifting, Vernum hadn’t inquired. The man’s bad Spanish demanded a lot of work, as did his Cossack temper. Better to smile and pretend to understand.

One thing for certain: Kostikov was a killer. He could kill a man with his hands—snap his neck, crush him to death, or stick a pencil through his eardrum. Vernum had seen him do this in a grainy KGB video, a self-defense instructional that sacrificed three dumbass prisoners—Afghans, they looked like—who had volunteered. The huge Russian, after each demonstration, would grin as they dragged a body away. A man who had aged since those days but still loved his work.

As a mentor, however, Kostikov was a vicious old socialist. Bitch, bitch, bitch, all the way to the airport, then a final dig about Vernum’s cowardice last night because he’d yelled for help, then played dead to save himself from that crazy little bastard with a knife.

Well . . . Vernum had believed the shoe to be a knife, and no wonder: his wounds had required an ambulance ride to the ER. Which is why, aboard this cramped little airplane, he sat alone, his face bandaged and swollen. Thirty-three stitches to close those gashes around his eyes and to mend his lower lip; thirty-three, his unlucky number as of now.

A zombie from Hollywood is what he resembled in the mirror.

Never volunteer,
he reminded himself.

Vernum was a thinker, not a fighter.

•   •   •

I
N
N
ASSAU,
he found a seat far from the steel band so gringos wouldn’t gawk at him and opened his new laptop. Did his smiling act when Kostikov made eye contact, then reviewed a file he’d been secretly compiling. They’d told him lies, mostly, but he’d been putting it together on his own by eavesdropping, searching the Internet, or stealing peeks here and there.

“Vernum Quick is
quick
, man” was something he liked to brag.

The puzzle was taking shape.

A month ago, Cuban Intelligence Service—the DGI—had recovered an aborted listing on eBay that had been removed shortly after it was posted.

Fidel Castro, Love Letters to a Mistress, 1953–63

Seeing that magic year, 1963, had been enough. There was no record of the letters, no hint of what they contained, according to the Russian, but why risk linkage to the assassination of JFK?

Evidence was already out there, of course, but never in Fidel’s own hand.

The DGI made inquiries. No response from the seller. The DGI went to work on the seller’s passwords. Three weeks ago, for reasons Vernum still didn’t understand, the trail brought two special agents to his doorstep in the village of Plobacho, western Cuba.

“People say you are respected and feared here, a novice
Santero
who votes the right way. That you’ve helped police in the past.”

This was true.

“You served in air force intelligence until . . . well, an unfortunate incident, but the board’s findings might have been hasty. Care to reopen your case?”

Definitely not. This was a blackmail visit, the way the system worked. How much did they want? Vernum had posed that question. As a Santería novice, he had a little cash, but not much.

Both agents smiled. They didn’t want money, but there was a price. They named it by asking, “Do you know the Casanova family?”

Why . . . yes, he did—if you could call an old woman recluse and her retarded, murdering grandson a “family.”

The agents had liked that, or pretended to.

Was he aware that Figueroa Casanova had escaped from Havana Psychiatric?

Vernum played along. “The one by the airport, José Martí? I’ll help you catch the bastard if it’s true.”

It couldn’t be true. Criminals didn’t escape from that prison—not without a scar on their forehead or in a coffin. Vernum knew this. He stayed current on rumors about Havana Psychiatric for a reason: the place terrified him. Couldn’t even look at the building from the road. His fears were grounded in his own dark secret: a demon lived within his brain. Sometimes the demon had to be fed.

Over the years, only two witnesses—Figuerito and a little girl—had survived after learning the truth. This, too, had been a burden, but it was a Santería maxim that finally set him free:
Blame not the
heart for demons in your head, nor hungers that torment your soul
.

My hunger—
that’s the way Vernum thought of the demon now. Instead of an asylum inmate, he’d become a respectable citizen, believed he’d earned pleasure in whatever form it appeared. Like all religions, Santería was quick to forgive, but in a way that was tougher; none of that turn-the-other-cheek bullshit. You want something? Man, go get it. Prayer was okay, but potions and powders and the ancient spells were faster.

Another aspect of Santería that attracted Vernum was its reliance on blood sacrifice to appease the gods and bring good luck. The ceremony was so strict in procedure that it absolved even a young
Santero
of guilt. Coconut rind cut in four pieces represented the four corners of the Earth. A papaya freshly sliced resembled the undefiled chasteness of a girl. Turpentine, bluestone, ground cowrie shells. The knife must be clean, specially sharpened. The neck of the victim must be gently shaved before the first sure stroke, then tilted just so to fill a ceremonial gourd. All the while chanting
Oggún shoro
shoro . . . Oggún shoro shoro . . .

Say those words with passion, they assumed the rhythm of a beating heart.

Vernum’s favorite song.

Entering the priesthood was the smartest move he’d made. True believers were eager to reward even a novice
Santero
who produced results, which is why he had respect, women, and a little money—but never enough, it seemed to him.

The Cuban DGI agents didn’t care about Santería. What they cared about was the deal they offered the next day after driving Vernum to Havana.

“If we close the files on that unfortunate incident, would you be willing to help us?”

Hell yes, but Vernum didn’t want to appear too eager. He knew they thought he was just a dumb peasant who could be used as a mule or fall guy . . .
something
that now, sitting in Nassau, he was still ferreting out.

Kill Figueroa Casanova is what they wanted but didn’t admit. Said they wanted the little man detained and interrogated about a stolen briefcase (no mention of the letters) before he was sent back to Havana Psychiatric. A special drug, they had instructed Vernum, would provide the needed interrogation time.

That was another key to this puzzle. To store his new laptop, they’d given him a shoulder bag. Inside was a shiny silver Montblanc fountain pen.
Use it like a needle,
he’d been instructed.
Just a scratch is enough and the defector will be cooperative for a week, possibly ten days.

There had been no demonstration. In fact, the DGI agents had behaved as if even the shoulder bag was dangerous. Nor did they touch the pen, which was oddly heavy as if lined with lead and stored in a metal case.

It was something a dumb peasant wouldn’t have noticed.

Vernum Quick did.

This was a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity, as he was aware. But success required that he make some behavioral changes. As village
Santero
, he had affected aloofness. He had spoken in parables and often began sentences by asking the blessings of Oggún, or hinting that a gift to the High Babalawo would impress the saints. Changó, his guardian saint, was a favorite topic.

But he had dropped all the theatrical bullshit the day he’d met the Russian.

The Russian . . . The man was now returning from the corridor, where tourists scattered to make way. Vernum closed the laptop, stored it, and decided to have fun with a little experiment. He stood and offered the bag to Kostikov, saying, “You mind holding this while I piss?”

“No talk now!” the man hissed, and stepped back—a familiar reaction.

Poison, yes, he’d been right about the fountain pen—a type of poison that required a lead case.

Vernum had researched that, too.

After using the men’s room, he ate some jerked pork and ruminated over a new puzzle: the saints had delivered Figuerito into his hands, no doubt. But how could he keep that little psycho alive long enough to get rich—and without getting killed himself?

•   •   •

T
HEY FINALLY SPOKE
on the government flight to Havana, safe now unless this shitty old Tupolev, with two propellers and a broken door, fell from the sky.

“Comrade, how you like that jerked pork?” Vernum asked. Interested because he’d added a few drops of special oil when he’d added more sauce.

“Ummm,” Kostikov grunted. “Ummm-huh.” The man chewed with his mouth open, red sauce all over his chin. “I tell you plan now.”

Vernum had been wondering about this return to Havana but preferred to look out the window while the man explained. Figuerito had escaped from Key West in a sailboat, the Russian told him. They knew the boat’s name:
No More
.

“No Más?”

The Russian nodded. “Scarecrow man we saw last night is captain. I still laugh the way he talk so tough. Hah! This hippie boy-girl threatening me,
Kostikov
.”

Maybe that really was the big guy’s name. It was painful to smile with thirty-three stitches, but Vernum managed. “Yeah, he’s nuts. That’s what I was thinking at the time. But if they’re in a boat, why didn’t we just rent a faster boat and catch them?”

“You question orders?”

Orders?
Vernum hadn’t heard any orders. “No, man,” he said, “just asking.”

“The scarecrow likes hear himself talk to women, tells them everything. Don’t worry, we have plan.” The Russian balled up his napkin and lobbed it forward, where a woman sat alone behind the pilot, one of the blondes Vernum recognized from last night. She was lighting a cigarette in a noisy plane that had a rattling door and wasn’t pressurized.

Vernum said, “I didn’t realize there was a connection, but—” He stopped himself before inquiring how the Russian had found time to locate her. At the ER, they’d wasted two hours, counting the cops and the stitches.

“Many sources,” Kostikov said. “Now you go home and wait. That’s all now.” He turned around, his big butt taking up two seats.

Huh?
Vernum slipped across the aisle. “
Whoa!
man. You mean my job is done? You haven’t interrogated Casanova yet. And what about the briefcase?”

The Russian had more hair on his eyebrows than his head, so looking him in the face was like confronting two cornered animals. Lots of vodka and violence and ruptured veins stared back. “You claim used device on defector, yes?”

The Montblanc pen, he meant. Yes, Vernum had tried to use that bad boy, but said, “Well, I think so, but, man, we was punching the hell out of each other. You know how that goes. Those two probably left for a day sail and they’re back in Key West right now.”

The Russian motioned to the overhead bin. “You still have device?”

Uh-oh.
He hadn’t expected that but stayed cool, got to his feet and bluffed, saying, “Of course. Issued by my government. I’ll get it for you.”

“No!” The big man didn’t relax until Vernum was seated again. “We have many sources. Information no need for so many people to share. You understand meaning?”

Yes and no—the Russian was a pig and couldn’t speak Spanish but apparently knew where Figuerito and the hippie were headed.

“Sorry I doubted you.”

“No, is good you want this defector so strongly. I see this in you even after so much stupid coward shit you do last night. But”—Kostikov pushed closer—“I think you be fast at learning this trade. You would like?”

Had the Russian attempted a fatherly tone?

“Yeah,” Vernum replied, “I’ll do whatever it takes, man.”

“Oh?”

“An opportunity to serve my country, of course.”

“A patriot, eh?” The Russian’s tone said
Bullshit
. “I am told you are criminal. A deviant who buys girls with opium of religion. As patriot, you have read Karl Marx, yes?”

“Uh . . . I’d have to think back. What do you mean?”

“God, all your gods, are shit. That was truth Comrade Marx wrote. Your Santería is more shit than even Papist shit.”

Vernum thought,
Dude, you are playing with fire
, but changed his approach. “Man, you’d have to experience where I live. It’s all dirt roads and oxcarts, the same tired village women every goddamn day. So I—”

“Your women are superstitious fools,” the Russian said. “They fear stupid fears—even a devil in the cane fields, I hear. Is true?”