I optimistically ordered two Bucaneros from a waitress and asked for the cigar lady, who arrived with her tray, and I bought two Monte Cristos, which I left on the table.
My beers came and I drank alone. It was now 6:30.
So where was Jack? Maybe drunk in a waterfront bar, or getting laid, lost in space, arrested, or still in Key West. And if that was the case, I was going home without three million dollars.
Out of habit, I checked my phone for a text or voice mail. Still no service, so I went to the bar to see if Jack had left a message with the bartender, but there was nothing for me.
Sara must be worried by now, so before she called here I asked the bartender to dial the Parque Central from the bar phone and he handed it to me.
As the phone was ringing, a hand grabbed my forearm. “You are under arrest.”
I turned and looked at Jack, who was smiling. “Did you piss your pants?”
“You’re fired.”
“Again?”
The call connected and I said to the operator, “Message for Sara Ortega in Room 535. We’re having a drink. See you at nine.” I asked her to repeat the message and hung up.
Jack asked, “You banging her yet?”
“She sends her regards.”
I led Jack to the far end of the lounge and we sat.
Jack was wearing a decent pair of khakis and a white Polo shirt that I recognized as the one I kept on The Maine for formal occasions. He also had a fanny pack around his waist, something I’d never seen him wear before. “What’s in there?”
“Condoms.” He raised his beer bottle and we clinked. “Good to see you.”
“Same here.”
There were a few tables of well-dressed men around us speaking Spanish, and no one seemed interested in our conversation. I asked Jack, “How did you get here?”
“Fifty-seven Chevy convertible. My old man had a fifty-eight Chevy—”
“Were you paying attention to being followed?”
“Followed?” He thought about that and said, “I gave the guy an American ten to let me drive.” He smiled. “I was all excited, but the guy’d put a fucking Toyota four-cylinder in the car and it was like two hamsters on a treadmill—”
“Jack, were you followed?”
“No.” He added, “I don’t think so.”
Well, neither did I. Or if he was followed it was because the police already knew there was a connection between Jack Colby, Daniel MacCormick, and the newly renamed Fishy Business, and if they knew that, they’d want to know more. So we may as well have another beer. “Why are you late?”
Jack was looking around the Hall of Fame bar. “This is some high-class place.”
“It’s older than you.”
“Yeah? Hey, there’s a picture of Sinatra. And Churchill... Marlon Brando, John Wayne... There’s Mickey Mantle—”
“They’re all dead, Jack, like you’re going to be if you don’t tell me why you’re late.”
Jack looked at me. “I had a few beers with our three fishermen. Couldn’t tell them I had to meet you, and couldn’t think of an excuse to ditch them. I tried to call you but there’s no service.” He observed, “This place is fucked up.” He asked, “How’s it going here?”
“So far, okay.” I asked, “What time did the fleet get in?”
“About noon.”
“Any problems?”
“Nope. I navigated right into the harbor. Piece of cake.”
“I assume you just followed the boat in front of you.”
“Yeah. But it was tricky.”
“How is Felipe?”
“He seems okay.” Jack thought of something and said, “He knows Sara.”
“Right.”
“You fuck her?”
“She has a boyfriend.”
“So what? You got to use the old ‘We could be dead tomorrow’ line.”
“How are the three fishermen?”
“Regular guys. Can’t even tell they’re Cuban.”
“I hope you complimented them on that.”
He got that I was mocking him and laughed. Clearly he’d already had a few, but even when Jack’s half in the bag he can be coherent if I’m up his butt. “How did it go after you docked?”
“Okay. A couple of Commie assholes went from boat to boat to check passports and stuff, and collect a fifty-dollar arrival fee — twenty-five for Fidel, twenty-five for them. Felipe gave them a couple bags of food and a bag of stuff from Walgreens — toothpaste, vitamins, and stuff — and they stamped our visas and went di-di mau.”
Jack sometimes uses Vietnamese expressions, especially when he’s had a few. I said, “I hope some of the crew stayed behind to secure the boats.”
“You think we’re stupid?” I didn’t answer so he continued, “Felipe stayed onboard, and each of the boats left somebody onboard. Otherwise, there’d be nothing left when we got back.”
Or there’d be ten fishing boats headed to Key West with five hundred Cubans onboard. “Was there any security on the pier?”
“Yeah. About ten military types with AKs. Haven’t been that close to one of those since I took one off a dead gook.”
“Did you tell them that?”
Jack laughed, then continued, “These bastards shook us down for twenty bucks from each boat — to help us keep an eye on the boats.”
“You got off easy.”
“If they didn’t have guns, I’d’ve kicked them in the nuts and told them to do their fucking jobs.”
“Right.” But negotiations tend to favor the guy with the submachine gun, as Jack and I learned long ago when we held the guns. I asked him, “When you left the terminal, did you get a brass band?”
“No. But there was a film crew and, like, maybe a few hundred people in this plaza.”
“Friendly?”
“Most of them. They were yelling, ‘Welcome, Americanos,’ and stuff. But there was another group yelling, ‘Yankee, go home,’ and ‘Cuba sí, Yankee no.’ Shit like that. So we got stuck there in front of the terminal.” He took a swig of beer. “Fuck them.”
I could picture this on Cuban TV with some creative film editing. The anti-American demonstration would look like half of Havana. The friendly group — who had somehow gotten word of the fleet’s arrival — wouldn’t be seen on Tele Rebelde. I asked, “Any police? Military?”
“A few cop cars. But the cops just sat there, then a loudspeaker blasted something in Spanish and everybody left.”
End of spontaneous demonstration.
Jack said, “Tell your lady friend this wasn’t the big welcome she talked about.”
Nor the welcome that Antonio had talked about. And that made me wonder how Antonio knew so much about the arrival of the American fleet if it hadn’t been reported on the news. Maybe the same way that the anti-American group knew about it — from the police.
In any case, the news blackout and the staged anti-American protest was a peek into the regime’s mind-set about the Thaw. No big deal, unless the tournament was going to be cancelled. I asked, “Any word about your sail to Cayo Guillermo?”
“We leave at first light.”
“Okay. Before you sail, I want you to get to a pay phone, or borrow a cell phone from a local, and call the Parque Central Hotel.” I gave him my cashier’s receipt that had the hotel phone number on it. “You’ll leave a message for Mr. MacCormick in Room 615. If you’re sailing for Cayo, your message is, ‘My flight is on time.’ If the tournament has been cancelled, your message is, ‘My flight has been cancelled.’ And your name is...” I looked at the cigars. “Cristo.” I asked him, “How copy?”
He smiled at the Army radio lingo. “Solid copy.” He asked, “Why do you think the tournament—?”
“I don’t think anything. But I have no way of knowing if the Commie assholes are going to find an excuse to cancel the tournament.”