Nelson DeMille - The Cuban Affair

“Excellent. Will someone be joining you?”

Well, you never know in a police state. I checked my watch: 8:55. “Make it two.”

So I sat there listening to American accents and the clatter of electric blenders.

The A/C was trying to keep up, but the place was warm. I would have taken off my jacket, but... well, the other thing about a police state is that you’re not supposed to be carrying a loaded 9mm Glock in your fanny pack. I mean, this wasn’t Florida, where a gun permit was easier to get than a fishing license.

Anyway, Floridita was a tourist trap, but a nice enough one, though Richard Neville might not agree.

The daiquiris came and I sipped one. These things should come with insulin. I checked my watch: 9:05. I checked my cell phone: no service. Maybe next year.

A guy walked in wearing a light green shirt with military epaulets, a black beret, and a gun belt and holster.

The crowd got a little quieter as the guy walked toward the bar, and before he got there the bartender squirted a seltzer siphon into a glass and handed it to him with a forced smile. So the guy — cop or military — was a regular on a break, not on a mission. That was the good news. The bad news was that he put his back to the bar and scanned the crowd as he lit a cigarette and sipped his seltzer. Half the tourists looked away and the other half looked excited. What a great picture this would be. A real Commie with a gun. In Floridita! Shit.

The guy’s gaze settled on me, sitting by myself, wearing the only blue blazer in the place, not to mention the only fanny pack that hid criminal evidence. Stop-and-frisk was not a debatable issue here. Thanks, Jack.

The cop — or soldier, or whatever he was — gave me a final look, then shifted his attention to a table of two young ladies in shorts. They had good legs.

I looked at my watch: 9:15.

I would have used the bar phone to call the Parque Central, but that could be an invitation for this guy to engage me in conversation. It is warm in here, señor. Take off your jacket.

Señor Beret put his seltzer on the bar, then started toward me. I buttoned my jacket to hide the fanny strap. The baños were in the back, and I stood, evaluating my chances of getting to the crapper and doing a Michael Corleone with the gun.

Just then, Sara came through the door and the guy gave her a glance, then stopped at the table with the four pretty legs.

Sara noticed the guy, frowned, then saw me and smiled. She came over to me and gave me a kiss on the cheek. I pulled out her chair and she sat. “Sorry I’m late.”

I gave the guy another glance. He was smiling as he chatted up the two American señoritas.

I sat. Sara was wearing black pants and a white silk blouse. “You look beautiful.”

“Thank you.” She said, “You’re sweating.”

“It’s warm in here.”

“Take off your jacket.”

“I’m okay.”

Sara looked at me. “I’m late because I had trouble finding a Coco cab. Not because I was on the phone.”

“You don’t have to explain.”

“I actually didn’t make that call to Miami. I decided to take your advice and do it in person.”

Also known as keeping your options open.

“That gives us time to... make sure...”

I thought we already had this conversation. “If you still want me after you hear me snoring tonight, I’m yours.”

She smiled and we held hands. She looked at the drinks. “What is this?”

“Daiquiri Rebelde.”

She sipped her drink. “Not bad.” We clinked glasses.

Sara informed me, “Long before Hemingway came here, expats from Florida used to gather here, so the locals called this place Floridita — Little Florida — and the name stuck.”

“I thought it meant ‘tourist trap.’ ”

She smiled. “If you’re in Havana, you have to come here at least once.”

“Right. I’ll cross it off my bucket list.” In fact, I’ll cross this whole country off my list of places to see before I die.

I was keeping my eye on the man with the gun, and Sara glanced over her shoulder, then turned back to me. “He’s BE — Brigada Especial — part of the PNR, the Policía Nacional Revolucionaria. A branch of the Ministry of the Interior.” She added, “They have an eye for the foreign girls. The blonder the better.”

“That leaves you out.”

“They’re thugs.”

The BE guy gave me another glance — or he was checking out Sara.

She said, “If he asks us for our passports, just show them to him without comment — though I doubt he’d do that in here.”

Or he’d ask us to step outside. I glanced at her shoulder bag filled with pesos, plus her map — a copy of which I had in my jacket. Was that suspicious? Not as suspicious as the gun. I knew that if I got busted, Sara was going down with me. Not good.

She said, “The PNR have a scam where a street peddler will accuse a tourist of underpaying for something, and a PNR or BE guy suddenly appears and settles the dispute for money. And if a tourist gets into a car accident and one of them shows up, you’ve got a problem. And if you report that your passport was stolen, they’ll actually arrest you for not having a passport.”

“Well, there’s a certain logic to that.”

“They’re comemierdas. Shit eaters. That’s what the people call them and call the Communist Party officials. Shit eaters.”

“Sounds better in Spanish.” It also sounded like the revolution had taken a bad turn.

“They’re actually trained to be paranoid about foreigners. They work closely with the chivatos.”

“Maybe Eduardo was right. When you overthrow the regime, shoot them all. Or better yet, torture them with a job in the hospitality industry.”

Sara smiled. “Let’s talk about something more pleasant.” She leaned toward me. “So the fleet is in.”

“Yes. Jack sends his regards.”

“Did he ask if you were sleeping with me?”

“It was written all over my face.”

“I hope he doesn’t say anything to Felipe.”

I reminded her, “No one knows that Jack and I were meeting.” Though I forgot to tell him to keep his mouth shut.

The BE guy was now posing with the two young ladies, and a waiter took a picture with the guy’s cell phone, but not with the ladies’ phones.

Sara said, “You’re not allowed to take pictures of them. But they collect pictures of themselves posing with” — she nodded toward the girls — “dumb blondes.”

“He was giving you the eye.”

“He won’t come over here because I’m with you. But when I was here last year, if I strayed even twenty feet from the tour group, I got pestered by the police and every jinetero on the street.”

“Every...?”

“Hustler. Gigolo. Asshole. Havana is full of them. Women are fair game here.”

“I see now why you wanted me along.”

“I can take care of myself. In Spanish and English. I just needed your boat.”

“I also carry steamer trunks.”

“The perfect man.”

The BE guy seemed to be finished with his seltzer and señoritas and he headed for the door, then glanced back at Sara before he exited.

Sara seemed happy he was gone, and so was I.

She asked, “So tell me what happened with Jack.”

“It went well. Are you ready for another?”

“I am.”

I signaled to the waiter and ordered another Daiquiri Rebelde for Sara. I switched to Bucanero.

Sara also ordered two cheroots. “We have something to celebrate.” She said, “So I assume the fleet is sailing to Cayo Guillermo tomorrow.”

“As of now. I told Jack to leave a message for me at the hotel either way.”

“Good thinking. But let’s think positive.” She asked, “Did Jack say if there were any problems at the pier?”