Nelson DeMille - The Cuban Affair

“Which is...?”

“Insert Tab A into Slot B.”

“I fell right into that one.”

“You did.”

So we made love in the tub. Good meeting.

Sara sat in bed wearing one of my clean T-shirts, with the TV tuned to Tele Rebelde and the volume turned up to cover our words. As I got dressed in slacks and a sports jacket, she said, “Be careful, and don’t forget to call.”

I looked at her. “If I don’t call by seven — or if my message is, ‘Don’t wait up for me’ — that means I’m in the company of the police.”

She didn’t reply.

“Go directly to the U.S. Embassy and get yourself inside — one way or the other. Meanwhile, go find some company in the lounge so you don’t get that knock on the door.” I added, “That’s the last contingency.”

She nodded.

I assured her, “All will go well tonight. See you at Floridita at nine.”

“Say hello to Jack.”

“You’ll see him in Cayo Guillermo.”

“Come here.”

I went to the bed and we kissed. She said to me, “I’m going to call my friend in Miami now.”

“Use the phone in the business center.” And keep it short.

I went down to the lobby, where I exchanged five hundred dollars for CUCs at the cashier’s desk, then I went outside and found a Coco cab. “Malecón, por favor.”

And off I went in the little motorized tricycle.

Well, next time I get bored with life I’ll try hang gliding.

My little Coco cab was weaving through traffic, so there was no way anyone could have been following me unless he was the Lone Ranger mounted on Silver. Nevertheless, I did not swing by the Sierra Maestra Cruise Terminal. If Jack was in Havana, I’d know soon enough. Plus, I was running late.

It was still daylight but the Malecón was already hopping on this steamy Saturday evening and the seawall looked like the world’s longest pickup bar.

I told the driver to pull over, gave him ten CUCs, and began walking, past beggars, poets and drunks, and a group of Americans who looked like the cyclone had just blown them in from Kansas.

I turned onto a side street, and continued to the long drive that led to the front of the hotel. I checked my watch: 6:15 P.M.

I entered the Nacional for the third time in as many days and stopped at the front desk to see if Jack — or Sara — had left a message, but they hadn’t. I walked into the high-ceilinged Hall of Fame bar, which was filled with a haze of cigar smoke. I scanned the crowded room but I didn’t see Jack.

I asked the maître d’ for a table, and for ten CUCs he remembered a cancellation and escorted me to a small table under a photo of Mickey Mantle.

I optimistically ordered two Bucaneros from a waitress and asked for the cigar lady, who arrived with her tray, and I bought two Monte Cristos, which I left on the table.

My beers came and I drank alone. It was now 6:30.

So where was Jack? Maybe drunk in a waterfront bar, or getting laid, lost in space, arrested, or still in Key West. And if that was the case, I was going home without three million dollars.

Out of habit, I checked my phone for a text or voice mail. Still no service, so I went to the bar to see if Jack had left a message with the bartender, but there was nothing for me.

Sara must be worried by now, so before she called here I asked the bartender to dial the Parque Central from the bar phone and he handed it to me.

As the phone was ringing, a hand grabbed my forearm. “You are under arrest.”

I turned and looked at Jack, who was smiling. “Did you piss your pants?”

“You’re fired.”

“Again?”

The call connected and I said to the operator, “Message for Sara Ortega in Room 535. We’re having a drink. See you at nine.” I asked her to repeat the message and hung up.

Jack asked, “You banging her yet?”

“She sends her regards.”

I led Jack to the far end of the lounge and we sat.

Jack was wearing a decent pair of khakis and a white Polo shirt that I recognized as the one I kept on The Maine for formal occasions. He also had a fanny pack around his waist, something I’d never seen him wear before. “What’s in there?”

“Condoms.” He raised his beer bottle and we clinked. “Good to see you.”

“Same here.”

There were a few tables of well-dressed men around us speaking Spanish, and no one seemed interested in our conversation. I asked Jack, “How did you get here?”

“Fifty-seven Chevy convertible. My old man had a fifty-eight Chevy—”

“Were you paying attention to being followed?”

“Followed?” He thought about that and said, “I gave the guy an American ten to let me drive.” He smiled. “I was all excited, but the guy’d put a fucking Toyota four-cylinder in the car and it was like two hamsters on a treadmill—”

“Jack, were you followed ?”

“No.” He added, “I don’t think so.”

Well, neither did I. Or if he was followed it was because the police already knew there was a connection between Jack Colby, Daniel MacCormick, and the newly renamed Fishy Business , and if they knew that, they’d want to know more. So we may as well have another beer. “Why are you late?”

Jack was looking around the Hall of Fame bar. “This is some high-class place.”

“It’s older than you.”

“Yeah? Hey, there’s a picture of Sinatra. And Churchill... Marlon Brando, John Wayne... There’s Mickey Mantle—”

“They’re all dead, Jack, like you’re going to be if you don’t tell me why you’re late.”

Jack looked at me. “I had a few beers with our three fishermen. Couldn’t tell them I had to meet you, and couldn’t think of an excuse to ditch them. I tried to call you but there’s no service.” He observed, “This place is fucked up.” He asked, “How’s it going here?”

“So far, okay.” I asked, “What time did the fleet get in?”

“About noon.”

“Any problems?”

“Nope. I navigated right into the harbor. Piece of cake.”

“I assume you just followed the boat in front of you.”

“Yeah. But it was tricky.”

“How is Felipe?”

“He seems okay.” Jack thought of something and said, “He knows Sara.”

“Right.”

“You fuck her?”

“She has a boyfriend.”

“So what? You got to use the old ‘We could be dead tomorrow’ line.”

“How are the three fishermen?”

“Regular guys. Can’t even tell they’re Cuban.”

“I hope you complimented them on that.”

He got that I was mocking him and laughed. Clearly he’d already had a few, but even when Jack’s half in the bag he can be coherent if I’m up his butt. “How did it go after you docked?”

“Okay. A couple of Commie assholes went from boat to boat to check passports and stuff, and collect a fifty-dollar arrival fee — twenty-five for Fidel, twenty-five for them. Felipe gave them a couple bags of food and a bag of stuff from Walgreens — toothpaste, vitamins, and stuff — and they stamped our visas and went di-di mau.”

Jack sometimes uses Vietnamese expressions, especially when he’s had a few. I said, “I hope some of the crew stayed behind to secure the boats.”

“You think we’re stupid?” I didn’t answer so he continued, “Felipe stayed onboard, and each of the boats left somebody onboard. Otherwise, there’d be nothing left when we got back.”

Or there’d be ten fishing boats headed to Key West with five hundred Cubans onboard. “Was there any security on the pier?”

“Yeah. About ten military types with AKs. Haven’t been that close to one of those since I took one off a dead gook.”

“Did you tell them that?”