Randy White - North of Havana

She had insisted that she was going; I had insisted that she was not. We had argued briefly.

I said, "Nope. Not mad."

"You're not exactly talkative."

"It's not you. There's a lot on my mind." What I'd been thinking about was what Juan Rivera had told me about Pilar; the way he described things. That… and Dewey's biological clock…

She said, "We didn't have our workout today, did we?" Said it like a kindergarten teacher placating a grumpy child.

"I did. I ran. It's too cold to swim."

I watched her unbuttoning her shirt while simultaneously unbuckling the belt of her jeans, as she said, "Well, I didn't, and I've got a lot of energy to burn." A few seconds later, I heard her say, "Scooch over. Geeze-oh-Katy, you're hogging the whole bed."

I reached my hands out to fend her off-it was Dewey's bullheaded independence that I found so compelling but also so maddening. I said, "Do we really have to go through this whole discussion again?"

As she gently pushed my hands away, she answered, "Nope. But we're going to keep doing the other thing till we get right."

I said, "Are you sure?"

Sliding into bed beside me, she said, "For a guy so quiet, you sure do ask a lot of questions."

And just like that, it was done.

An hour or more went by and she was up again, lights on, walking around naked. She had a towel in her hand, toweling off sweat. She was talking to me as I lay in bed watching her-an attractive woman to watch, the way she moved. As she used the towel, she said, "I gotta tell you, it was a whole lot different for me this time. This time it was…fun. Even with you in one of those Gary Cooper moods, it was a really good time." She reflected for a moment. "Something like that, how many calories you figure?"

How much energy had we burned, as if I were her physical trainer.

"More for you than me. You were all over the court."

"Nope, just exploring the foul lines, that's all." I watched her disappear into the main room, heard the refrigerator open, heard her say, "I called Bets this afternoon. Talked to her when I was in town."

I listened.

"She wanted to know if you and I'd done the deed yet."

I continued to listen.

"She said I was heading for another disappointment if we did, which is when I told her… wait, listen to this-" Dewey came into full view again: skin golden in the light of the reading lamp, hips canted, a quart of milk in her hand, drinking right from the bottle. "I said to her, 'Look, Bets, I already know you're a better kisser, but Doc's a lot better hung. So it's kind of a toss-up.' That's exactly what I said. Didn't even piss her off; actually made her laugh."

I threw the covers back, took the bottle from her and held her; felt her bury her face in my shoulder. "She's back in New York? Maybe you should fly up there, spend Christmas with her."

Dewey pulled away just enough to look into my face. "You got water in your ears or something? Bets and I are no longer a couple. We'll stay friends, but the other thing's done." When I started to speak, she held her palm to my lips, shushing me. "No need to get nervous, Ford. I don't have any mixed-up dream of moving in with you or any other man. It's not all clear in my mind yet, but I'm getting there-figuring out who I am, what I want. What I am and will always be is a gay woman. It's where my friends are; I like it." She gave me her bemused and slightly wicked smile before she added, "It's just that I have broader interests. Like tennis and golf. Why can't you enjoy both?"

Laughing, I kissed her, then kissed her again. "So which am I?"

She thought for a moment before she said, "Doc, you're more like arena football."

The next day, Sunday-anticipating that I would still be in Cuba on Christmas Day-I carried a sack of small presents around the docks, handing them out to a few of my marina friends. When I got back to the house, I tried once again to call Armando Azcona. I had listened to his recorder so many times that I was taken aback when I heard him answer the phone in his singsong Ricky Ricardo English.

I said, "Armando, this is an old associate of yours. The bird-watcher, remember? Back when we were both birdwatchers."

I knew the first thing that would come into his mind was sitting in the bushes by a path, at night, on the southwestern shore of Mariel Harbor, Cuba, at the time of the refugee exodus. 1980. A thousand American boats in the harbor- stinking shrimp boats and cruisers; anything that could float and carry human beings-but the two of us interested in only one boat, a sailing vessel named Peregrine, and concerned only with the three Cuban Interior Ministry agents, posing as refugees, who had been ordered to sail her to a major U.S. port.

Armando's tone communicated little surprise and less enthusiasm. "Yes," he said, "bird-watching was once a hobby of mine. But no more."

"I've given it up myself."

"I see. Then you haven't called to discuss old times."

"No, I'm calling to ask a favor. Do you remember the place where we went to study falcons?"

I waited while his brain made the quick translation. "Of course I remember. I remember it very clearly."

"I'm going back soon. But not as part of a study group. I was hoping you might know someone there who'd be willing to show me around. If I needed help."

I wondered if that was too cryptic… but no, Armando was right with me. I listened to him say, "I'm surprised you're not going there to study. It's such an interesting place."

"As I told you-I gave it up. This is strictly a personal trip."

As Armando asked, "Are you looking for a tour guide?" I could picture him that night in Mariel, standing to stretch his legs at precisely the wrong time… could hear the stunned thoracic noise that he made when he realized we were not alone… could see the smoky red disc of a gun-sight laser beam on Armando's forehead…

I replied, "I don't need a tour guide. Just the name of someone who might help if I get lost."

Knew that Armando had to be remembering it, too… hearing me charging through the bushes from behind; feeling the impact of my body hitting him behind the legs, knee-high, knocking him to the ground. I wondered if that night had scarred him with the same dream I suffered.

I listened to him say, "Lost? You really think it's possible you might get lost. You once knew the place so well."

"It's unlikely. But it's been a long time. The name of someone who can come to the rescue"-I laughed when I said that, as if it were a joke-"like in the movies? That's the favor I'm asking."

I thought that he would want some time; tell me that he would call me back, give himself some wiggle room and an opportunity to check with other members of his group. Armando was a respected businessman now. He could be expected to take things through proper channels.

But after a very long silence, he said, "I think I may know the names of one or two people. But these are very, very busy people-"

"Only if I really have trouble finding my way around," I told him. "That's the only reason I would impose on them."

"I'm not certain how much they could help you."

Meaning the lives of these people were already in danger and they probably had very little authority.

I said, "I realize that, too."

Another very long silence. I could hear a sound, like a file drawer being opened, then the sound of papers being moved. Knew that, in his businessman's mind, this was final payment on a very old debt. "In that case," Armando said-and he gave me a name.

An hour later, General Juan Rivera's secretary-not that he identified himself-supplied me with another.

That night at dinner, I tried to explain to Dewey why she couldn't leave with me in the morning for Cuba.

"I'll be down there and back," I said. "A couple of days-unless I sail to Key West with Tomlinson. It's not like you're missing anything."