Nelson DeMille - The Cuban Affair

“Okay. If you got the balls for this, I’ll see you in Cayo Guillermo.”

“Trust my instincts.”

“Your instincts are as fucked up as your judgement.”

“They must be if I hired you.”

The sandwiches came, but we weren’t hungry and we ordered two more beers. Dino was singing, “When the moon hits your eye, like a big pizza pie, that’s amore...”

On that subject, Jack said, “I hope you’re not just showing off for your girlfriend.”

There’s always a little of that. But... “I’m here for the money. Same as you.”

“If you say so.”

I looked at my watch. It was early for my rendezvous with Sara, but I said, “I have to go.”

“One more thing.”

“What?”

“The old man — Eduardo.”

I already knew what he was going to say.

“He’s onboard. Got himself a phony passport. Says he wants to see Cuba one last time before he dies.”

“Shit.” I asked, “Did he come ashore with you?”

“No, and Felipe is sitting on him.”

Well, Eduardo wouldn’t see much of Cuba from a docked boat. So by now he could have given Felipe the slip, and he could be wandering around Havana, drunk, yelling, “Down with the revolution!” False passport or not, Eduardo Valazquez in Cuba was a massive security breach, making my security breach in meeting Jack look like a minor lapse of judgement. “Why did you let him onboard?”

“You think I let him onboard? He stowed away in a stateroom. Squeezed his skinny ass under a bunk. Nobody knew he was onboard until we got into Havana Harbor.”

I wondered if Carlos knew. Carlos wasn’t stupid enough to okay this, but Eduardo was the client and Eduardo had the money and called the shots. I was pissed.

I asked, “Did the Cubans who came onboard see him?”

“No. Like I said, they didn’t even go below.”

“Okay. When you left the pier, was there any passport control?”

“Yeah. Just one guy.”

“Did he have a passport scanner?”

“Just his eyeballs.” He added, “The place don’t look open for business yet.”

“All right...” I suspected that Eduardo’s passport was a gift from the people he called “our friends in American intelligence,” and I assumed it was a very good passport that would withstand scrutiny. But if Eduardo wound up in an interrogation room, he would not withstand a good beating, and he’d tell them he’d arrived on Fishy Business. Damn it.

I looked at Jack. “Okay... When you get to Cayo, make sure the old man doesn’t step foot off the boat.”

Jack suggested, “I can throw him overboard on the way if you want.”

“Just keep him below.” I let Jack know, “He’s Felipe’s grand-uncle or something.”

“Yeah? Nobody told me that.”

“Now you know. So don’t feed him to the sharks.”

“Okay.”

I wondered if Sara knew that Eduardo had a nostalgic yearning to see Cuba one last time. Maybe. And maybe that was why she didn’t want me to meet up with Jack. Same with Carlos. Though to be fair and rational, neither Sara nor Carlos would put the mission at risk for something so stupid as Eduardo’s homesickness, so neither of them could have known. On the other hand... well, if I was Cuban, I might understand this.

I checked my watch. It was 8:30. I asked Jack, “Anything else?”

“Just the gun.”

“Okay. You leave first and leave the fanny pack on your seat.”

“You buyin’ the gun?”

“It’s my gun.”

“I’ll give you a deal. Four hundred thousand and that includes three magazines, one locked and loaded, ready to rock and roll.”

“Okay, asshole, I’ll buy the gun. But you’re not getting combat pay.”

“Okay. Sold.” Jack finished his beer and looked at me. “Here’s what else I’ll throw in. There’s an old waterfront bar called Dos Hermanos a few blocks from the pier. All the crews and fishermen are gonna meet up there at eleven. If you and your lady have nothing to do, meet me there at eleven-thirty — with your passports and money, no luggage. I bought a few blank visitor passes from the security guys — to get women onboard. They’re stamped and signed. So I’ll be able to get her — and maybe you — onboard The Maine.” He added, “When the fleet sails for Cayo at first light, The Maine is gonna sail for Key West.”

“I’ll see you in Cayo Guillermo.”

“You should ask Sara.”

“Okay. But if we’re not at Dos Hermanos at eleven-thirty, have a drink for us.”

“You got balls, Mac.”

“You gotta die someplace.”

He unhooked his fanny pack and stood. “My sister’s name is Betty. Elizabeth. Lives in Hoboken. Last name Kuwalski. Married a Polack. He’s an asshole. Two kids, Derek and Sophie, both grown up and on their own. See if you can find them. They could use the money.”

“Okay.”

“And if I make it and you don’t—?”

“Go see my parents in Portland and say good things about me.”

“I’ll try to think of something.”

“You know the drill, Jack — ‘died quickly with no pain or suffering.’ Last words were ‘God bless America’ or something.”

“I know the drill. Okay, see you later.”

I stood and we shook. “This is your last fishing trip, Jack. Good luck.”

“You too.” He turned and left.

I called for the check, sat in Jack’s chair, and buckled the fanny pack under my sports jacket. I paid the check in cash and headed toward the lobby, half expecting to hear, “Stop where you are, señor. You are under arrest. For real this time.”

I moved through the lobby, exited the hotel, and the doorman signaled to a white Pontiac convertible.

I got in and said to the driver, “Floridita, por favor.”

The cabbie, who spoke English said, “Yes. We go to Florida.” He laughed.

Everyone’s a comedian.

So off we went in the mid-century American convertible.

Not only was this place a time warp, it was an alternate universe where the past and the present fought to become the future. And I thought Key West was fucked up.

Floridita, a pink stucco place on Calle Obispo, looked like a dive bar in a seedy Miami neighborhood, complete with a neon sign. I passed under a white awning that said ERNEST HEMINGWAY, and inside, Señor Hemingway was at the bar, captured in a life-sized bronze, sitting precariously at the edge of a stool with his elbow on the polished mahogany. I would have bought him a drink, but he was already ossified.

On the wall behind Hemingway was a black-and-white photograph of E.H. and F.C. sharing a moment, and I deduced that the occasion was the Hemingway Tournament before or after F.C. won the trophy with his lead-belly marlin.

The inside of Floridita looked better than the outside, more 1890s than 1950s. There was a large mural behind the handsome bar, depicting what looked like Havana Harbor in some past era of square-riggers. The long open room had a blue ceiling and mottled beige walls, and a staircase that led to an upper floor. The café tables were littered with guide books, and the chairs were filled with American tourists, half of whom were badly dressed in shorts and T-shirts. The other half were badly dressed. The waitstaff wore nice red jackets and bow ties. Lined up on the bar were five electric blenders beating rum into glucose tolerance test cocktails.

The maître d’ sized me up as an Americano — who else would come here? — and asked in English, “Table or bar, señor?”

“Table for two, por favor.”

He showed me to a table against the wall, and a waiter came by for my order.

The drink menu listed half a dozen kinds of overpriced daiquiris, including a Papa Hemingway — but no Fidel Castro. I actually wanted a beer, but to get into the spirit I ordered a Daiquiri Rebelde — a rebellious daiquiri.