Nelson DeMille - The Cuban Affair

“Thirty thousand pesos. About twelve hundred dollars, which is a lot of money.”

“Are we good with God now?”

“We’ll find out tonight.”

Indeed we would.

Before the revolution, the Vedado district of Havana was controlled by Cuban mobsters and the American Mafia in a profitable joint business venture that might be a good model for the future.

Our taxi, a dilapidated Soviet Lada whose upholstery smelled like bleu cheese, traveled along the Malecón toward the far western edge of Vedado, where we were to meet Antonio in a bar called Rolando.

Parts of Vedado, according to Sara, still retained some of its pre-revolutionary flavor, and remained home to a number of unauthorized activities, including black marketeering, midnight auto sales, rooms by the hour, and unlicensed rum joints, to name just a few of Vedado’s private enterprises. Every city needs a Vedado.

Our driver, who spoke a little English, had never heard of Rolando’s, and our hotel concierge couldn’t find it listed anywhere, but our driver made a few cell phone calls to his colleagues and thought he had an address. If this was a trap, Antonio wasn’t making it easy for us to fall into it.

I’d left a note at the hotel for Tad and Alison saying that Sara and I had been stricken with Fidel’s revenge and would not be joining the group for dinner. P.S.: Gotta run now.

We continued along the Malecón, and Sara didn’t have much to say, except things like, “This is a mistake,” and “This was your idea.”

Sara and I were casually dressed in jeans and T-shirts, and we both wore our running shoes in case the evening included a sprint to the American Embassy.

I’d left my treasure map in my room, stuck in my backpack with my Cuba guide, but my Glock and the three loaded magazines were now in Sara’s backpack, buried under wads of Cuban pesos, along with her map and all my American dollars. Now all we had to do was find a place to stash this before we met Antonio.

The driver turned off the Malecón and traveled south along a dark residential street of shabby multi-family housing units, almost invisible behind overgrown vegetation.

The driver slowed down and we all looked out the windows, trying to find the address or a sign, but most of the street lights were out and the landscapers hadn’t been here since 1959.

Sara told the driver to pull over and said to me, “We’ll walk.”

I paid the driver, and we began walking. The only sounds on this dark, quiet street were tree frogs croaking in the hot night air. I wasn’t concerned about being followed, because if this was a trap the police were already at Rolando having a beer with Antonio while they waited for us. I checked my watch: 7:16.

Up ahead I could see a small bridge over a narrow river that Sara ID’d as the Río Almendares, and on the opposite bank was a well-lighted area that she said was Miramar, Havana’s wealthy and clubby suburb, now occupied by foreign businessmen, embassy people, and the Communist elite. So we had come to the end of Vedado and the literal end of the road where Rolando’s was supposed to be.

Just as I was wondering how to call Uber, I spotted a pink two-story building near the river, set back from the road. There were lights in the windows, and a high hedge ran around the building. I didn’t see any cars parked out front, but I could see a few bicycles leaning against the hedge.

Sara said, “That has to be it.”

As we walked toward the pink building, we came to a shoulder-high wall running along the sidewalk, and on the other side of the wall was the shell of an abandoned house, nearly invisible in the middle of an overgrown lot. I suggested, “Good place to lose your backpack.”

She nodded and we both looked up and down the dark street. And though we hadn’t seen a car or a person since we began walking, I knew that every street in Havana had los vigilantes — the kind of people who peeked through the window blinds.

Sara looked over the wall, then dropped her backpack into a thick growth of vines.

I asked, “Did you remove all your ID?”

“No, Mac, I left my passport so the police could track us down and return your gun.”

“Good thinking.” She didn’t seem to be in a good mood. “Okay, let’s have a drink.”

We continued to the end of the street and stood at the gated opening in the hedge, through which we could see a patio and a half dozen tables whose chairs were filled with tough-looking hombres, smoking, drinking, and playing cards.

I took her arm and we walked onto the patio of what I hoped was Rolando’s.

The customers gave us the once-over, but no one said anything. I saw this scene in a movie once, but I don’t remember how it ended.

Over the entrance door was a hand-painted sign that said: ROLANDO — AQUÍ JAMÁS ESTUVO HEMINGWAY. Sara translated, “ ‘Hemingway was never here,’ ” which was funny, and which was also what Antonio promised. I should give this address to the Nevilles.

I entered first, with Sara right behind me.

The front room looked like a grocery store with shelves along the dingy stucco walls displaying canned food. The only person in the room was an old man sitting behind a counter, reading a newspaper. He glanced at us, and before I could say, “Antonio sent us,” he cocked his head toward a curtain in the wall.

I led the way, and we passed through the curtain into a stairwell where steps led to the upper floor.

I could hear recorded music at the top of the stairs — “Empire State of Mind” — and we ascended into a dimly lit room with louvered windows, unadorned red walls, and floor fans.

Men and women sat on ratty upholstered furniture that was scattered haphazardly around the concrete floor, and a few couples were dancing. Everyone seemed to have a drink and a cigarette, and a few of the couples were working up to the main event. There must be rooms available. Or maybe a broom closet.

I didn’t see Antonio, but a guy got up from a chair and motioned us to follow him. He led us to a door that went out to a small rooftop terrace dimly lit by oil lamps on the four tables. The only customer was Antonio, sitting by himself, drinking a beer, smoking a cigarette, and talking on his cell phone.

He saw us, hung up, stood, and smiled. “Bienvenidos.”

Antonio was wearing his tight black pants and a tight black T-shirt, which looked kind of ridiculous. We didn’t shake hands, but he invited us to sit.

He asked, “Did you have difficulties finding this place?”

“It wasn’t in my Michelin guide.”

He looked at us. “Do you think you were followed here?”

That was a funny question coming from a police informant. “You tell me.”

He shrugged. “It’s not important. I have taken American tourists here before. To show them how the people relax after work.”

Right. Those twenty-dollar-a-month jobs can be stressful. “You live around here?”

“Yes. This is my neighborhood bar.”

Jack would advise me to get Antonio’s address, follow him home, and shoot him in the head. Sara might second that.

He also let us know, “We have this terrace to ourselves until we are done.”

Sara said, “That could be two minutes.”

Antonio looked at her, but didn’t reply.

I could hear Black Eyed Peas singing “I Gotta Feeling.”

A young waiter wearing an Atlanta Braves T-shirt came out to the terrace. Rolando’s cocktail menu was limited to rum and beer, and because everyone here made twenty bucks a month, all drinks were ten pesos — forty cents. Well, the price was right. Antonio was drinking Bucanero, but Sara and I ordered colas. I told the waiter, “Unopened bottles. No glasses.”