I looked at Jack. “Okay... When you get to Cayo, make sure the old man doesn’t step foot off the boat.”
Jack suggested, “I can throw him overboard on the way if you want.”
“Just keep him below.” I let Jack know, “He’s Felipe’s grand-uncle or something.”
“Yeah? Nobody told me that.”
“Now you know. So don’t feed him to the sharks.”
“Okay.”
I wondered if Sara knew that Eduardo had a nostalgic yearning to see Cuba one last time. Maybe. And maybe that was why she didn’t want me to meet up with Jack. Same with Carlos. Though to be fair and rational, neither Sara nor Carlos would put the mission at risk for something so stupid as Eduardo’s homesickness, so neither of them could have known. On the other hand... well, if I was Cuban, I might understand this.
I checked my watch. It was 8:30. I asked Jack, “Anything else?”
“Just the gun.”
“Okay. You leave first and leave the fanny pack on your seat.”
“You buyin’ the gun?”
“It’s my gun.”
“I’ll give you a deal. Four hundred thousand and that includes three magazines, one locked and loaded, ready to rock and roll.”
“Okay, asshole, I’ll buy the gun. But you’re not getting combat pay.”
“Okay. Sold.” Jack finished his beer and looked at me. “Here’s what else I’ll throw in. There’s an old waterfront bar called Dos Hermanos a few blocks from the pier. All the crews and fishermen are gonna meet up there at eleven. If you and your lady have nothing to do, meet me there at eleven-thirty — with your passports and money, no luggage. I bought a few blank visitor passes from the security guys — to get women onboard. They’re stamped and signed. So I’ll be able to get her — and maybe you — onboard The Maine.” He added, “When the fleet sails for Cayo at first light, The Maine is gonna sail for Key West.”
“I’ll see you in Cayo Guillermo.”
“You should ask Sara.”
“Okay. But if we’re not at Dos Hermanos at eleven-thirty, have a drink for us.”
“You got balls, Mac.”
“You gotta die someplace.”
He unhooked his fanny pack and stood. “My sister’s name is Betty. Elizabeth. Lives in Hoboken. Last name Kuwalski. Married a Polack. He’s an asshole. Two kids, Derek and Sophie, both grown up and on their own. See if you can find them. They could use the money.”
“Okay.”
“And if I make it and you don’t—?”
“Go see my parents in Portland and say good things about me.”
“I’ll try to think of something.”
“You know the drill, Jack — ‘died quickly with no pain or suffering.’ Last words were ‘God bless America’ or something.”
“I know the drill. Okay, see you later.”
I stood and we shook. “This is your last fishing trip, Jack. Good luck.”
“You too.” He turned and left.
I called for the check, sat in Jack’s chair, and buckled the fanny pack under my sports jacket. I paid the check in cash and headed toward the lobby, half expecting to hear, “Stop where you are, señor. You are under arrest. For real this time.”
I moved through the lobby, exited the hotel, and the doorman signaled to a white Pontiac convertible.
I got in and said to the driver, “Floridita, por favor.”
The cabbie, who spoke English said, “Yes. We go to Florida.” He laughed.
Everyone’s a comedian.
So off we went in the mid-century American convertible.
Not only was this place a time warp, it was an alternate universe where the past and the present fought to become the future. And I thought Key West was fucked up.
Chapter 32
Floridita, a pink stucco place on Calle Obispo, looked like a dive bar in a seedy Miami neighborhood, complete with a neon sign. I passed under a white awning that said ERNEST HEMINGWAY, and inside, Señor Hemingway was at the bar, captured in a life-sized bronze, sitting precariously at the edge of a stool with his elbow on the polished mahogany. I would have bought him a drink, but he was already ossified.
On the wall behind Hemingway was a black-and-white photograph of E.H. and F.C. sharing a moment, and I deduced that the occasion was the Hemingway Tournament before or after F.C. won the trophy with his lead-belly marlin.
The inside of Floridita looked better than the outside, more 1890s than 1950s. There was a large mural behind the handsome bar, depicting what looked like Havana Harbor in some past era of square-riggers. The long open room had a blue ceiling and mottled beige walls, and a staircase that led to an upper floor. The café tables were littered with guide books, and the chairs were filled with American tourists, half of whom were badly dressed in shorts and T-shirts. The other half were badly dressed. The waitstaff wore nice red jackets and bow ties. Lined up on the bar were five electric blenders beating rum into glucose tolerance test cocktails.
The maître d’ sized me up as an Americano — who else would come here? — and asked in English, “Table or bar, señor?”
“Table for two, por favor.”
He showed me to a table against the wall, and a waiter came by for my order.
The drink menu listed half a dozen kinds of overpriced daiquiris, including a Papa Hemingway — but no Fidel Castro. I actually wanted a beer, but to get into the spirit I ordered a Daiquiri Rebelde — a rebellious daiquiri.
“Excellent. Will someone be joining you?”
Well, you never know in a police state. I checked my watch: 8:55. “Make it two.”
So I sat there listening to American accents and the clatter of electric blenders.
The A/C was trying to keep up, but the place was warm. I would have taken off my jacket, but... well, the other thing about a police state is that you’re not supposed to be carrying a loaded 9mm Glock in your fanny pack. I mean, this wasn’t Florida, where a gun permit was easier to get than a fishing license.
Anyway, Floridita was a tourist trap, but a nice enough one, though Richard Neville might not agree.
The daiquiris came and I sipped one. These things should come with insulin. I checked my watch: 9:05. I checked my cell phone: no service. Maybe next year.
A guy walked in wearing a light green shirt with military epaulets, a black beret, and a gun belt and holster.
The crowd got a little quieter as the guy walked toward the bar, and before he got there the bartender squirted a seltzer siphon into a glass and handed it to him with a forced smile. So the guy — cop or military — was a regular on a break, not on a mission. That was the good news. The bad news was that he put his back to the bar and scanned the crowd as he lit a cigarette and sipped his seltzer. Half the tourists looked away and the other half looked excited. What a great picture this would be. A real Commie with a gun. In Floridita! Shit.
The guy’s gaze settled on me, sitting by myself, wearing the only blue blazer in the place, not to mention the only fanny pack that hid criminal evidence. Stop-and-frisk was not a debatable issue here. Thanks, Jack.
The cop — or soldier, or whatever he was — gave me a final look, then shifted his attention to a table of two young ladies in shorts. They had good legs.
I looked at my watch: 9:15.
I would have used the bar phone to call the Parque Central, but that could be an invitation for this guy to engage me in conversation. It is warm in here, señor. Take off your jacket.
Señor Beret put his seltzer on the bar, then started toward me. I buttoned my jacket to hide the fanny strap. The baños were in the back, and I stood, evaluating my chances of getting to the crapper and doing a Michael Corleone with the gun.