Don Bruns - Stuff to die for

It was way before our time. I’d read about it in eighth grade history class, but my entire image of Cuba was of a rundown country that people tried to escape from-not return to. “People are trying to get out of there. Why would someone want to go back?”

He stared out at the water and I sensed a sadness in his eyes. “Wet foot, dry foot. If you are stopped at sea, you must go back to be killed or locked up in Castro’s jail. If you make it to United States soil, you are allowed to stay. It’s very sad. However, these are not people who have anything to go back to. These new refugees, they own nothing. Los Historicos have history. History and property.”

Cynthia stepped out on the balcony in a loose fitting summer dress and no shoes. Her flowing blond hair hung around her shoulders and I had to admit she was beautiful. She walked over to Fuentes and stood behind him, rubbing his shoulders. As a warm, gentle Florida breeze rustled her dress and hair, I could smell the hint of jasmine in the air. A subtle perfume. I wondered what Em was doing right now.

“ Los Historicos families owned manufacturing facilities, plantations, large homes, and businesses-hotels, casinos, farms, cigar factories, and so much more. They still believe that if they are able to take over the country once more they will restore Cuba to the way it was.”

I also remembered studying the history of Cuba, and how wide open it was in the fifties before Castro took control. Living in South Florida it’s hard not to learn something of the history and culture of Cuba. “Cuba was a hotbed of prostitution, gambling, and smuggling before Castro, wasn’t it? It seems to me that Meyer Lansky was thrown out of Las Vegas, and ended up running Batista’s gambling casinos. A pretty nasty group of people.”

“Like the Wild West in the United States in the 1800s? I suppose it was. But these people lost everything. Everything. And they want it back.”

“What does a chain of cafes have to do with all of this?” James the entrepreneur, still hanging on to this idea of a multi-million-dollar deal.

Fuentes sighed. “These men were using the money, the money I was raising, to form an army. They were going back into Cuba to take over the country by force.”

We were speechless.

“When I learned of the plan, I threatened to stop raising the money. That’s when they kidnapped my son.”

“What?” James asked the question; I silently asked at the same time.

“I never should have shared this with you.”

“Oh, my God. Vic is being held because of a potential invasion of Cuba?”

Fuentes gave me a stern look. “If you take that story beyond this building, not only will you find the conspirators ready to kill you, but I will also be standing in line. I’ve said far too much.”

I found myself drumming my fingers on the arm of the chair. “Why?”

“Why would you be killed?”

“That should be my first question, but I still want to know why you have told us and no one else?”

Fuentes stared into my eyes, maybe trying to find the soul of my being. Maybe trying to scare the hell out of me. I think he accomplished both.

“Because, Mr. Moore. You owe my son. I believe he saved your life many years ago and perhaps I’m telling you the situation to convince you of its severity. I need to convince you to walk away from this and help spare his life. Is that too much to ask?”

My mouth hung open. James was staring at me, frowning. He knew everything about me, yet had no idea what Rick Fuentes was talking about.

“Mr. Moore, I need you and your friends to leave this alone, because if I don’t continue to raise the $20 million, they will kill Victor. He will become the first casualty in the new war against Fidel.”

VIC hadn’t kept it all to himself. His father knew, so all bets were off. The secret was out. And I suppose, even in my mid-twenties, I wish the story had remained a secret. It’s funny how embarrassments suffered at any age stay with you. Weaknesses at twelve remain etched in your memory at twenty or twenty-two and maybe they shape you. Maybe they shape your personality, dictate your personal growth. I don’t know for sure, but I still feel the shame.

In junior high, Justin Cramer and Mike Stowe would have been voted most likely to do a life sentence. For any number of reasons. Many of us thought they should go right from seventh grade to jail and stay there at least until we all graduated from high school. Didn’t happen. Should have.

The two psychos were rumored to have raped a couple of cheerleaders, beaten a teacher for a bad grade, broken into a dozen homes in our school district, and spent a weekend doing $20 thousand worth of damage to our school. If you’re saying to yourself, “These were seventh-grade kids?” the answer is yes. But seventh-grade kids who had flunked at least once and were physically bigger than most high school juniors.

Size and audacity may have been two of the reasons that Vic Maitlin was drawn to Cramer and Stowe. Since he was at the top of the pile, I always suspected he was looking beyond. Two guys with the size and reputation of these two may have intrigued him. Whatever the reason, he hung with them but never was tainted with their reputation.

“Well, the good thing is that Angel didn’t kill the guy.” James kept his eyes on the road, but his mind was obviously on our situation. “I couldn’t think of anything else for a while. We need to find Angel and tell him.”

“The bad thing is, Angel didn’t kill the guy. At least it would have been one less bad guy to deal with.” I rolled down the window and let the warm, humid night air blow through the cab.

“Skip, you don’t mean that.”

“No.”

“First he wants us to find Vic, now he wants us to go away.”

“Yeah. Well, things change.”

“You gonna tell me about Vic Maitlin saving your life?”

I stared out the window, watching the expensive real estate roll by. Strip malls, concrete, palm trees, and more orange tile roofs. “No.”

“What?”

“Maybe it’s not as serious as Fuentes made it sound.”

“Hey, pard. Tell me.”

I said nothing. A buried secret doesn’t just come shooting to the surface. I knew James well enough to know the subject wasn’t going away.

“What about the rest of it. Do you believe Fuentes?”

“It’s a damned good story if he made it up.” I tended to take people at face value and Fuentes was believable. He also had a lot to lose.

Three minutes of silence passed. We were both engrossed in our own thoughts.

“And what about Vic? Was he one of the bodies in the fire?”

“God, I hope not.” My cell phone went off. “Hello.”

“Skip. You could have called. I’m a little frantic right now.”

I’d like to think it was the shock of the story and the two Cuban guys showing up at the front gate that caused me to forget to call Em, but some of it is that I’m a self-absorbed asshole. I know my faults. Most of them.

“Em, I am sorry. Really. Listen, Angel didn’t kill the Cuban. Big Mouth showed up tonight with his arm in a sling. At least we think it was him.”

“Oh, my God. Are you all right?”

“It’s a long story. It has to do with-” It was going to be a long explanation. Forty some years of Cuban history, a short course in business and being an entrepreneur, a crash course in Caribbean real estate, and a lesson in modern warfare. I didn’t want to do it on the phone. Besides, the minutes cost money. “I’ll give you a full accounting tomorrow. Everything is all right for now.”

“Skip, we’ll talk tomorrow, okay?”

“I’ve got calls in the morning, but how about we meet for lunch?”