Voodoo Eyes (43 page)

Neither fighter landed a clean blow. They circled, out of each other’s way, then rolled forward, feinting. Max admired their skill in staying upright and swinging without falling over. He assumed from their perfect hand-to-eye coordination and poise, the way they used the skates to add more power to their shots, that they’d possibly trained as dancers or gymnasts. The all-male audience didn’t care about any of that. The men cheered whenever breasts jiggled and buttocks wiggled. They showered the stage with beer and bills.

Max guessed he wouldn’t find who he was looking for here.

He and Benny went up to the next floor.

They pushed through two sets of heavy doors, which served to muffle the noise from below to a faint din.

They found themselves in a surprisingly elegant, even tasteful space of crimson carpets, plants, wooden tables and chairs, two lit chandeliers, and almost no people. A couple sat at the back, holding hands, deep in quiet conversation. Three bouncers hung by the bar at the far end of the room, talking to the bartender.

Max went up to them.

‘What can I do you for?’ asked the bartender. He was stocky and shaven-headed. A moustache sprouted around his mouth in a thick black horseshoe and a name was tattooed on his neck in curly script.

‘Is Señor Dallas here?’

‘Nope.’

‘What about Señor Houston?’

‘Nope.’

‘Señor Austin?’

‘He don’t come out in the day. Arlington, Crawford and Plano are here right now.’

‘Crawford?’ Max smiled. That was where President Bush had his ranch. ‘I’d like to talk to him.’

‘What about?’

‘Business.’

‘Kind of business?’

‘Kind you get paid for.’

The barman looked him in the eye an instant, glanced over at the bouncers, then back to Max. ‘Take a seat over there.’ He nodded to a table in a corner.

Max and Benny sat while the barman spoke to one of the bouncers, who walked away.

Then the barman came to the table and sat down in front of Max.

‘I don’t know you,’ he said. He had on a white snap-button shirt with the sleeves rolled up past his elbows. Max could see more tattoos – ‘USMC’ on his forearm, bald eagles on each hairy hand, something covering his chest.

‘I asked for Crawford,’ said Max.

‘I don’t know you,’ the man repeated. Hispanic accent. ‘How you know me?’

‘I don’t. I asked for Crawford.’

‘Well, that’s me.’

‘Why didn’t you say so at the bar?’

‘I’m telling you now. You a cop?’

‘No.’

‘You look like a cop.’

‘I get that a lot,’ Max said.

‘Who are you?’

‘Someone who needs something.’

‘What?’

‘A map of Cuba.’

‘Tourist board’ll give you one of those for free.’

‘Got one of those. I need one of yours. Military.’

Crawford rubbed his chin, then stroked his moustache, flattening the ends with the tips of his index and thumb.

‘Why?’

‘I’m lost,’ said Max.

‘Ain’t we all?’ Crawford smiled. He took a pack of Marlboro Lights out of his breastpocket and lit one. ‘You sure you ain’t no cop? Cause if you are and don’t tell me, that’s some entrapment shit,
ese.’

‘I’m not a cop.’

‘Press?’

‘No.’

‘Terrorist?’

‘Please!’

‘Are you?’

‘Like I’d tell you,’ Max sighed. ‘What about that map?’

‘What about it?’

They eyeballed each other. Max didn’t give him the cop stare, didn’t hold his gaze for long. Crawford knew cops all too well. He had a bump in the middle of his nose and lines of scar tissue through his brows. Max guessed he’d been a fighter at some point before he’d joined the army. Maybe the sex show downstairs had been his idea.

‘Look,’ said Max. ‘If I don’t get what I want from you, I’ll just drive down to Guantánamo, find me another place like this and ask nicely.’

‘Ain’t no other place like this in Cuba,
ese.’

‘You want to do business with me, let’s do business. You don’t, just say the n-word – as in “No” – and I’m gone.’

‘Long way to Gitmo, homes.’ Crawford blew smoke over his head.

‘Then I guess I’ll have to be leaving about now.’ Max tapped Benny and motioned for them to leave.

Crawford smiled, shook his head. ‘OK. Sit down. I can get you that map. No problem.’

‘How much?’

Crawford pretended to think, but he was really evaluating Max, working out how much he could get out of him. He took in the crumpled clothes, tired face, the white stubble growing on Max’s head and jaw. Then he looked at Benny sitting next to him, woozy, shaking, leaking and stinking with infection.

‘Two Gs,’ he said.

‘Tourist pesos, I suppose?’ Max had but seven hundred pesos in his wallet.

‘Pesos?
Where you think you’re at, ese?’ Crawford laughed. ‘US dollars.’

‘I don’t have any on me,’ said Max. ‘And two grand is way too much.’

‘How bad you want the map?’

‘Five hundred bucks bad.’

‘Not bad enough, homes.’

‘Easiest five bills you’ll ever make.’

‘Why you say that?’

‘I’m sure you’ve got one just lying around here someplace.’

Crawford looked at him again. Recalculated.

‘A grand and it’s yours.’

‘Five or I walk.’

‘What you want it for?’

‘I’m looking for buried treasure,’ Max said. ‘Or maybe I just collect the things. What do you care?’

‘It’s US Army property.’

‘Five hundred. Or I really will have to go. And maybe not even all the way to Guantánamo. I’ll just ask one of those fine, upstanding defenders of freedom downstairs to give me one for free.’

Crawford grimaced. ‘You got a credit card? There’s an ATM down there.’ He pointed to the other end of the room. ‘By the phonebooths.’

‘Mastercard won’t work here. Cuba doesn’t like American companies, and American companies don’t like Cuba,’ said Max.

Crawford chuckled out a mouthful of smoke and crushed his cigarette. ‘You ain’t
in
Cuba now,
ese.
In case you ain’t noticed. This, right here, is America.
American
territory. Same as Gitmo. Same as any US embassy. Sovereign-nation shit. A home away from home ’n’ all that.’

‘I don’t get it.’

‘The Beard sold us this street, years ago. It’s ours.’

‘Bullshit.’

‘God’s truth. Everything’s for sale up in this motherfucker. The Commies are cashing in before they crash out.’ Crawford shrugged.

‘When did this happen?’

‘I dunno. Before my time. Fuck does it matter anyhow? You want that map or what?’

Max got up and crossed the room, past the door, past the couple. To his left he saw two phonebooths, soundproofed wooden boxes with glass windows and a padded chair for comfort. In between them was a Bank of America ATM.

When Max returned, Crawford had fixed himself a drink and was draining the glass. ‘Took your time, homes.’

‘I was calling my mother.’ He showed Crawford the money. Crawford held out his hand. Max shook his head. ‘C-O-D.’

Crawford chuckled. ‘OK. Back in ten.’ He stood, hitched his jeans and straightened his shirt. ‘Say, your friend there?’ he pointed at Benny. ‘He looks pretty fucked up. Stinks some too. I can get him antibiotics for another five bills.’

‘You wanna scoot over to the CVS outside and pick up some medicine out of the goodness of your heart, I’ll give you a tip,’ said Max.

‘All they sellin’ in CVS is condoms and lube, bro. I can get him some righteous army shit, kind we use in conflict.’

‘No.’
Benny shook his head, glowering at Crawford.

‘Feisty little fucker, ain’t ya?’

‘Leave him be,’ said Max.

‘What happened to his face?’

‘Cut himself shaving.’

‘Yeah …
right.’
Crawford turned and left.

Max watched him walk out the door.

‘I no’ like him,’ said Benny.

‘Me neither.’

‘I no’ like this place.’

‘Me neither.’

‘Is like this, Unite State, Meeyami?’

‘I haven’t seen topless boxing before, but then I don’t get out much,’ said Max. ‘This, here, isn’t America, Benny. This is where assholes come to die.’

Benny laughed, then winced.

‘I have something to tell you …’ Max began. ‘I called Nacho. Just now. When I got the money. I’ve made the arrangements. You’re leaving Cuba tomorrow.’

Benny sat up, blinked. His eyes didn’t clear. They were pink and glassy, the irises like copper coins sunk in shallow pools of rosewater. ‘I no’ understand.’

‘After we’re done here, we’re going to Cajobabo. It’s two, three hours’ drive away. That’s where you get the boat from. Forty-eight hours from now you’ll be in America.’

‘You no’ come with me?’

‘No.’

Benny looked confused.

‘But Max … you must come with.’

‘I’ve told Nacho I’ll make sure you sail off into the sunset.’ It wasn’t the way the conversation had gone at all, but the last thing he owed Benny was the truth.

Benny was trembling, clutching the T-shirt about him for warmth. The back of his chair was slick with sweat. He began to cry. At first Max mistook the sobs for more shakes, but the tears ran down his face and splashed on the table.

‘What’s the matter?’

Benny grabbed Max’s arm, hard, his fingers an ice-cold clamp.

‘I thank you, Max, for what you do for me. Ever since I meet you, my life is good. Everything work out OK. You bring me good luck.’

‘You must have had a seriously shit life if I’m your idea of good luck,’ said Max. He pulled his arm free. ‘Besides, I didn’t do anything for you, Benny. You just tagged along for the ride. And your stop’s next.’

Max searched for his handkerchief but couldn’t find it. He looked around the tables for napkins, then at the bar, but saw none.

‘What will you do?’ Benny asked. ‘How you get on this place, this secret island?’

‘I’ll think of something.’

‘How you get off ?’

‘I’ll think of something. I’m the least of your worries.’

Benny dabbed at his face with his shirt and sniffled.

‘You two sweethearts breakin’ up?’ said Crawford, above them. Max had neither seen nor heard him come back. He was fanning himself with a map.

Max took it from him and opened it on the table. Then he opened the smaller official, state-issued map. He compared the Windward Passage on both. One map showed blue sea, the other a small but distinct island in the shape of an imperfect octagon, in between the easternmost tip of Cuba and the northern coast of Haiti.

‘You satisfied?’ said Crawford.

Max paid him.

Crawford counted the money, folded it and slipped it into his breastpocket.

‘Hope you find what you’re looking for – whatever it is,’ he said as he stood up.
‘Adios amigo.
’

They walked back to the car.

It was mid-afternoon, the sun had come out and the city was baking. The boardwalk had dried off and filled with tourists. More American soldiers were coming into town via the sea and women were waiting for them. The puddles had shrunk and the city’s rich bronze and yellow tones had returned.

A small tailback had formed on the road where they’d parked the DeSoto. The stores were all open, their shelves so empty that it was impossible to tell what they sold or their specialities.

The rain had washed off much of the Firedome’s makeshift paintjob. The car was almost green again, the red and blue reduced to the faintest stains, the plates cleansed of mud.

Benny went to the passenger side, and as Max took out the keys to open the door he saw Benny look up, puzzled, confused, his gaze moving to just above Max’s left shoulder.

For an instant Max thought Benny was going to faint, but then he smelled a hint of perfume behind him, something expensive and old-fashioned. And he saw his wife’s face again, clearly.

He made the connection, placing fragrance and owner at the very moment the cold, hollowed point of a gun barrel was pressed hard behind his ear.

Again.

He raised his hands.

‘I tried to call you,’ he said to Rosa Cruz.

‘You didn’t leave a message,’ she replied, yanking his arm down and cuffing his wrist.

51

To the innocent or uninitiated, the dried bloodstains on the wall and floor could have been mistaken for splashed coffee. They shared the same coppery black tone. Max passed the time waiting for Cruz to start questioning him by identifying the source wounds. It beat worrying about his future. That was well and truly gone.

A Morse code of brutality and coercion, truths beaten out of bodies: the big tentacular splash on the yellowy tiles right by his bare feet had almost certainly come from a busted nose. It reminded him of the stain on the 7th Avenue ring, almost in the middle. No matter how hard Abe had scrubbed at the canvas, it never came out, just got blacker and blacker over time, as if in wilful opposition to all that soap and water and elbow grease. When Eldon changed the canvas he found the blood had soaked into the wood below.

To Max’s left were smaller drops, in the shape of toppled capital ‘B’s or figure ‘9’s, with the centres filled in: split lips had made those. The bigger puddles by the drain that ran perpendicular to the right wall were from cracked mouths and broken jaws. Finally, he guessed the droplets and fine spray pocking the glossy off-white walls was splashback from flailing fists.

He recognised some kind of karmic justice at play, the judgement going against him, the penalty a dose of his own medicine, and then some. In Miami, in his time on the force, they’d routinely beaten the crap out of suspects. The practice had stopped shortly after he’d left. Now interrogation rooms in Miami were air-conditioned, camera-surveilled and miked up – everything on the record for the record. An interrogation was little different in tone and theme to a hard job interview.

No such luck here.

This was old-school prehistoric, beat the truth out of you, get you to confess through broken teeth and sign on the line in blood. Then lock you up and throw away the key.
Adios motherfucker.