Nelson DeMille - The Cuban Affair

As for Portland, it’s a nice town of about sixty-five thousand people, historic, quaint, and recently trendy and touristy, with lots of new upscale bars and restaurants. In some ways it reminds me of Key West, mostly because it’s a seaport, though nobody swims nude in Portland, especially in the winter. The family house, a big old Victorian, is haunted, though not by ghosts, but by memories. Portland, though, was a good place to grow up and it’s a good place to grow old. It’s the years in between that are a challenge to some people.

But maybe if I scored big on this deal, I’d give it another try. Maggie was married, and my parents were still crazy, and my brother had moved to Boston, but I could see myself in one of the old sea captain’s mansions, staring out to sea... I actually missed the winter storms.

I finished my Coke, stood, and looked down the long dock, but I didn’t see my customers. It was possible they’d had a conversation and decided that Captain MacCormick wasn’t their man. Which would be a relief. Or maybe a disappointment, especially if no one else came along with a two-million-dollar offer this week.

Jack asked, “Where are these Beaners?”

“Jack, for the record, I think Mexicans are Beaners.”

“All these fucking people are like, mañana, mañana.”

“No one around here is good with time, either, including you, gringo.”

He laughed.

Jack’s world view and prejudices are a generational thing, I think, and he reminds me in some ways of my father, who grew up in what amounts to another country. Jack Colby and Webster MacCormick are unknowable to me because their screwed-up heads were screwed up in a screwed-up war that was different from my screwed-up war. Also, I had the impression from both of them that they’d like to go back to that other country. My generation, on the other hand, has no nostalgia for the past, which was screwed up when we arrived. In any case, as my father once said to me in a rare philosophical moment, “Memories about the past are always about the present.”

As for the future, that wasn’t looking so good, either. But it might look better with a few million in the bank.

I spotted my customers at the end of the long dock. Carlos, an older guy, and a young woman. “Our party is here.”

Jack swiveled his chair around. “Hey! She’s a looker.”

“Look at me — and listen.”

He turned his attention to me. “What’s up?”

“Carlos, the lawyer, has offered me thirty Gs to charter The Maine for the Pescando Por la Paz.”

“Yeah? So we’re going to Cuba?”

“I haven’t accepted the job.”

“Why not?”

“I wanted to speak to you first.”

“Yeah? Well, I accept.”

“You will be skippering The Maine.”

“Me?”

“Right. You sail to Havana for a goodwill stop, then a place called Cayo Guillermo for the tournament, then home. Three fishermen onboard, and—”

“These three?”

“No. Just shut up and listen. They’ll supply you with a mate. It’s a ten-day cruise. I’ll give you half.”

“Yeah? I’ll take it. But how come you’re not going?”

“I fly to Havana. Then meet you, probably in Cayo Guillermo.”

“Why?”

“Because I have a job to do in Cuba.”

“What job?”

“You don’t want to know. But we sail back to Key West together.”

Jack stared at me. “Are you outta your fucking mind?”

I didn’t reply, though I knew the answer.

Jack stood and got in my face. “Listen, sonny, your luck ran out when you got blown up. You got no luck in the bank. If you get involved with these crazy fucking anti-Castro—”

“That’s my decision, Jack. All you have to do is join a fishing tournament.”

“Yeah? And if the shit hits the fan, I’ll be trying to outrun Cuban gunboats with a bunch of wetbacks onboard.”

“We’re not smuggling people out of Cuba.”

“Then what are you doing in Cuba while I’m fishing?”

“I don’t know yet.”

He put his hand on my shoulder and gave me some fatherly advice. “If you say yes to this, I’ll rip off your head and shit down your neck.”

“I want to hear what they have to say.”

“No you don’t. And I’m not going.”

“Okay... but there’s a lot of money involved. More than thirty thousand.”

“Yeah? You need money? Sink this fucking boat and collect the insurance.”

“I missed an insurance payment.”

“Then rob a bank. It’s safer. And they don’t torture you here if they catch you.”

Carlos and the other two approached. The lady was wearing white jeans and a blue Polo shirt, and had long dark hair topped with a baseball cap. She looked about my age, mid-thirties, and she had a nice stride.

“Mac? You listening to me?”

“Yeah... look, Jack, they’re offering me... us... two million.”

“Two... what ?”

“I said I’d listen and make a decision.”

“Yeah? And if you listen and turn it down, then you know too much and you could wind up—” He made a cutting motion across his throat. “Comprende?”

“Your share is half a million.”

Jack was uncharacteristically quiet, then said, “Make sure you listen good. ’Cause I don’t want to hear anything.”

“And they don’t want you to hear anything.”

Our charter guests arrived and Carlos said, “Beautiful boat.”

Jack and I simultaneously reached out to help the attractive young lady aboard. She had nice hands. I pictured us together in Havana.

Carlos introduced his clients, Eduardo and Sara — no last names — and we shook hands all around.

Eduardo was a distinguished-looking gentleman, older and taller than Jack, and with better posture. He was dressed in black slacks, sandals, and a white guayabera shirt. A gold cross hung on a chain around his neck. Eduardo had a heavy accent and I could easily guess at his personal history: He and his family were rich in Cuba, they escaped the godless Communists with just the guayaberas on their backs, and Eduardo was still pissed off.

Sara, like Carlos, had no accent and she seemed a bit reserved and not overly smiley, but her eyes sparkled.

We made small talk for a few minutes and I thought that Carlos was trying to determine if Sara or I seemed interested in a trip to Havana together. Also, my customers were checking out Jack’s T-shirt, maybe wondering if he was crazy.

Carlos said, “Looks like it’ll be a good sunset.”

Time, tide, and sunset wait for no man, so I told Jack, “Cast off,” and I went into the cabin and started the engine.

Carlos and Eduardo made themselves comfortable in the fighting chairs and Sara sat on the upholstered bench in the stern, looking at me in the cabin.

Jack yelled, “Clear!” and I eased the throttle forward. Within ten minutes we were out of the marina, heading west toward the Marquesas Keys.

The smell of the sea always brings back memories of Maine, of summer in the family sailboat and lobster bakes on the beach at sunset. Good memories.

I ran it up to twenty knots and took a southwesterly heading. The sea was calm, the wind was from the south at about five knots, and the sun was about 20 degrees above the horizon, so we’d have time to anchor, make drinks, and salute the dying sun.

Jack came into the cabin, sat in the left-hand seat, and lit a cigarette. “Want one?”

“No.”

“They’re gluten-free.”

“Go set up the drinks.”

“Who are these people?”

“I told you.”

“Who’s the broad?”

“The lady may be flying with me to Havana.”

“Just fuck her here.”

“Jack—”

“If you go to Havana, you don’t want a pair of tits watching your back.”