Nelson DeMille - The Cuban Affair

The old man — obviously the lookout — grabbed the walking cane and smacked it hard three times against the steel door, then said, “Go in. They are waiting for you.”

High-tech security. I led the way, and as I passed the old man he tapped my stomach with his cane and said, “You don’t need that,” referring to my gun, not my gut. Well, I liked the Glock where it was and I opened the rusty door, which creaked on cue. Sara was right behind me and I heard the old man say, “Bolt the door.”

Sara bolted the door as I peered into the dimly lit space, and as my eyes adjusted to the darkness I could see that this was indeed a garage, or an auto repair shop. Car parts — mufflers, exhaust pipes, hoods, and doors — lay strewn on the floor, and acetylene torches sat on a work bench. An engine hung from the ceiling on chains, reminding me for some reason of the Texas Chainsaw Massacre. If it wasn’t for my Glock, this could be a scary place.

I spotted a movement at the far end of the shop and saw two men coming toward us. One of them said in English, “Welcome to Chico’s Chop Shop.” The other man said nothing.

Sara strode toward them — getting in the way of my line of fire — and they all shook hands and chatted in Spanish as I covered the rear and checked out the dark corners in the cavernous space. I noticed a few motorcycles, which might be our transportation to Camagüey.

Sara and her new friends came toward me and she introduced me to Chico, a scruffily dressed man of about fifty with recently degreased hands, and a younger guy named Flavio, who was neatly dressed, handsome, and clearly nervous about something. Nervous people make me nervous.

Chico said to me, in nearly perfect English, “I have a car for you. Do you have a hundred and fifty thousand pesos for me?”

Recalling that Cubans liked clever conversation, I replied, “Is this an authorized dealership?”

He laughed. “He told me you had a sense of humor.”

“Who told you?”

He didn’t reply and led me and Sara across the shop to an old Buick station wagon. Flavio stayed behind.

“This is a beauty,” said Chico, sounding like he’d once worked in a used car lot in Miami. “A real cream puff. A piece of history.”

Actually, it looked like a piece of shit.

“It’s a fifty-three Roadmaster Estate Wagon. I got it from a little old lady in Miramar who only drove it on weekends since her husband was arrested in 1959.” He laughed.

Did I just enter the Twilight Zone?

I asked, “Does this thing run?”

“Like a rabbit. Take a look.”

Sara and I slipped off our backpacks and moved closer to the Buick wagon, which had recently been spray-painted in black, except for the original wood paneling that looked like it might have termites. The iconic Buick chromework was pitted, but none of the windows were broken and the headlights and taillights were intact. I asked, “Who are these plates registered to?”

“The little old lady.” He added, “They’re not hot.”

I didn’t reply.

He assured me, “This is not the U.S., señor. The police don’t have computers in their cars to check plates.” He also assured me, “You won’t get stopped.”

Famous last words.

I glanced around the shop. “You got anything newer? Like a red Porsche convertible?”

“For another hundred thousand pesos, I got a ten-year-old Honda Civic. But they told me you needed a wagon, or a van or an SUV.”

“Who told you—?”

“Because you got some stuff to haul.”

Obviously this station wagon couldn’t haul a dozen steamer trunks. “What stuff?”

“How do I know?” He opened the Buick’s hood and said, “Take a look at this motor. You know what this is?”

I peered under the hood. “No. Do you?”

“It’s a Perkins ninety-horsepower boat motor. Completely rebuilt.” Chico smiled. “I got the suspension from a Russian military jeep, and I rebuilt the steering with some Kia parts. The transmission is from a Hyundai, five years old, the shocks are from a Renault truck, and the disc brakes are from a Mercedes.” He informed me, “This is what we call a Frankenstein car.”

“Because it kills people?”

He laughed and said to Sara, “He’s funny.”

She had no response.

I looked at the tires. “How’s the rubber?”

“Tires are something you can buy new in Cuba. You got four Goodyears imported from Mexico. Cost me a fortune. Don’t kick them.”

“Spare?”

“Don’t get a flat.”

Chico opened the driver’s door. “The interior is original.”

“I see that.”

“Sorry, the interior lights don’t work.” He slid behind the wheel and hit the brakes. “See the brake lights?”

“I do.”

He demonstrated that the turn signals and headlights also worked, then started the engine, which sounded good, though I wasn’t sure the 90-horsepower could move this monster.

Chico called out over the sound of the engine, “Purrs like a kitten.”

“Can I take it for a test drive?”

“Sure. After you buy it.” He turned on the windshield wipers, then blasted the horn and shouted, “Get that donkey outta my way!”

The man was obviously nuts, but he seemed like the happiest man I’d seen in Havana. And I guess that was because Chico worked for Chico.

He shut off the engine and slid out of the car. “Okay, keys are in there. You got a full tank of gas, but the gauge reads empty. None of the instruments work, but you don’t need them. Radio works, but the tubes are a little loose, so it might cut out when you hit a bump. Give it a whack. It has a cigarette lighter that still works.”

“Where is the air-conditioner control?”

“In the Honda.” He laughed.

Well, we could do this all night, but we were both running out of one-liners. I looked at Sara, who nodded.

I asked Chico, “Can you do better than one-fifty?”

“If I restored her, I could sell her for five hundred thousand. Only six hundred of these babies made in Detroit. As is, she’s yours for one-fifty.” He added, “That includes sales tax and dealer prep.” He laughed.

“Okay... sold.”

“You got a beauty there.”

“Right.” Bride of Frankenstein.

“Come into my office.”

Sara and I followed Chico to a table in the rear of his man cave. Flavio seemed to have disappeared.

Chico slid some beer bottles and coffee cups to the side. “Hundred and fifty. Gas is on me.”

Sara pulled a wad of five-hundred-peso notes from her shoulder bag and she and Chico began counting.

Well, we had a vehicle that could hopefully get us to Camagüey, but we didn’t have a name or address in Camagüey, and I didn’t think Chico had that for us. Maybe Flavio. This wasn’t playing out as I’d imagined, but nothing had so far — including us needing a station wagon to haul something. Maybe pickaxes for the cave.

Sara and Chico re-counted the equivalent of about six thousand dollars, leaving us enough, I guess, to give to our contact in Camagüey for the truck we’d need to transport the dozen steamer trunks to Cayo Guillermo. Which, now that I saw Chico’s sub rosa chop shop, raised the question of why Chico wasn’t told we needed a truck. I mean, this guy could build a sixteen-wheeler out of Legos. There was something missing here. Like who told Chico I had a sense of humor.

The recount was done and we all shook hands as Chico stuffed the pesos in his pockets.

I asked him, “Does this vehicle have a registration?”

“The only paperwork, señor, is the pesos.”

“Right.” No use asking about insurance or an inspection sticker. The good news was that there was no paper trail here — no car rental agency and no limo or taxi driver who might have the police on their speed dial. There was only Chico. And Flavio. And I guess we trusted them.