Alfredo Garcia found a seat near the ticket-taker’s booth from where he could see the shadowy figure on the top row of the bleachers. He was so nervous he twitched.
Like Hector Sedano, he too was in awe of the news he had just learned: Fidel Castro was dying.
Alfredo Garcia trembled as he thought about it. That priest in the top row of the bleachers was one of the contenders for power in post-Castro Cuba. There were others of course, Alejo Vargas, the Minister of Interior and head of the secret police, prominently among them.
Yes, Garcia talked to the secret police of Alejo Vargas — he had to. No one could refuse the Department of State Security, least of all a fugitive from American justice seeking sanctuary.
And of course he cooperated on an ongoing basis. Vargas’s spies were everywhere, witnessed every conversation, every meal, every waking moment … or so it seemed. One could never be certain what the secret police knew from other sources, what they were just guessing at, what he was their only source for. Garcia had handled this reality the only way he could: he answered direct questions with a bit of the truth — if he knew it — and volunteered nothing.
If the secret police knew Alfredo had a CIA contact they had never let on. They did know Hector Sedano was a power in the underground although they seemed to think he was a small fish.
Garcia thought otherwise. He thought Hector Sedano was the most powerful man in Cuba after Fidel Castro, even more powerful than Alejo Vargas.
Why didn’t Hector understand the excruciating predicament that Alfredo Garcia found himself in? Certainly Hector knew what it was like to have few options, or none at all.
Alfredo was a weak man. He had never been able to resist the temptations of the flesh. God had forgiven him, of that he was sure, but would Hector Sedano?
As he sat in the darkness watching Hector, Alfredo Garcia smiled grimly. One of the contenders for power in post-Castro Cuba would be Hector’s own brother, Maximo Luís Sedano, the finance minister. Maximo was Fidel’s most trusted lieutenant, one of his inner circle. Three years older than Hector, he had lived and breathed Castro’s revolution all his life, willingly standing in the great man’s shadow. Those days were about over, and Maximo’s friends whispered that he was ready — he wanted more. That was the general street gossip that Garcia heard, and like most gossip, he thought it probably had a kernel of truth inside.
For his part, Maximo probably thought his only serious rival was Alejo Vargas. He was going to get a bad shock in the near future.
And then there were the exiles. God only knew what those fools would do when Fidel breathed his last.
Yes, indeed, when Fidel died the fireworks would begin.
Hector Sedano was taking the last few puffs on his cigar when his youngest brother, El Ocho, climbed the bleachers. Ocho settled onto a bench in front of Hector and leaned back so that he could rest his feet on the bench in front of him.
“You played well tonight. The home run was a thing of beauty.”
“It’s just a game.”
“And you play it well.”
Ocho snorted. “Just a game,” he repeated.
“All of life is a game,” his older brother told him, and ground out his cigar.
“Was that Mercedes I saw talking to you earlier?”
“She is here for Mima’s birthday.”
Ocho nodded. He seemed to gather himself before he spoke again.
“My manager, Diego Coca, wants me to go to the United States.”
Hector let that statement lie there. Sometimes Ocho said outrageous things to get a reaction. Hector had quit playing that game years ago.
“Diego says I could play in the major leagues.”
“Do you believe him?”
Ocho turned toward his older brother and closest friend. “Diego is a dreamer. I look good playing this game because the other players are not so good. The pitch I hit out tonight was a belt-high fastball right down the middle. American major league pitchers don’t throw stuff like that because all those guys can hit it.”
“Could you pitch there?”
“In Cuba my fastball is a little faster than everyone else’s. My curve breaks a little more. In America all the pitchers have a good fastball and breaking ball. Everyone is better.”
Hector laughed. “So you aren’t interested in going to America and getting rich, like your uncle Tomas?” Tomas had defected ten years ago while a team of baseball stars was on a trip to Mexico City. He now owned five dry-cleaning plants in metropolitan Miami. Oh, yes, Tomas was getting rich!
“I’m not good enough to play in the big leagues. Diego tells me I am. I think he believes it. He wants me to go, take him with me, sign a big contract. I’m his chance.”
“He wants to go with you?”
“That’s right.”
“On a boat?”
“He says he knows a man who has a boat. He can take us to Florida, where people will be waiting.”
“You believe that?”
“Diego does. That is what is important.”
“You owe Diego a few hours of sweat on the baseball field, nothing else.”
Ocho didn’t reply. He lay back on his elbows and wiggled his feet.
“Why don’t you tell me all of it?” Hector suggested gently.
Ocho didn’t look at him. After a bit he said, “I got Diego’s daughter pregnant. Dora, the second one.”
“He knows this?”
Ocho nodded affirmatively.
“So marry the girl. This is an embarrassment, not dishonor. My God, Mima was pregnant when Papa married her! Welcome to the world, Ocho. And congratulations.”
“Diego is the girl’s father.”
“I will talk to him,” Hector said. “You are both young, with hot blood in your veins. Surely he will understand. I will promise him that you will do the right thing by this girl. You will stand up with her in church, love her, cherish her ….”
“Diego wants the best for her, for the baby, for me.”
“For himself.”
“And for himself, yes. He wants us to go on his friend’s boat to America. I will play baseball and earn much money and we will live the good life in America. That is his dream.”
“I see,” said Hector Sedano, and leaned back against the fence. “Is it yours?”
“I haven’t told anyone else,” Ocho said, meaning the family.
“Are you going to tell Mima?”
“Not on her birthday. I thought maybe you could tell her, after we get to America.”
“Está loco, Ocho. This boat … you could all drown. Hundreds — thousands of people have drowned out there. The sea swallows them. They leave here and are never heard from again.”
Ocho studied his toes.
“If they catch you, the Americans will send you back. They don’t want boat people.”
“Diego Coca says that—”
“Damn Diego Coca! The Cuban Navy will probably catch you before you get out of sight of Mima’s house. Pray that they do, that you don’t die out there in the Gulf Stream. And if you are lucky enough to survive the trip to Florida, the Americans will arrest you, put you in a camp at Guantánamo Bay. Even if you get back to Cuba, the government won’t let you play baseball again. You’ll spend your life in the fields chopping cane. Think about that!”