Just then, Sara came through the door and the guy gave her a glance, then stopped at the table with the four pretty legs.
Sara noticed the guy, frowned, then saw me and smiled. She came over to me and gave me a kiss on the cheek. I pulled out her chair and she sat. “Sorry I’m late.”
I gave the guy another glance. He was smiling as he chatted up the two American señoritas.
I sat. Sara was wearing black pants and a white silk blouse. “You look beautiful.”
“Thank you.” She said, “You’re sweating.”
“It’s warm in here.”
“Take off your jacket.”
“I’m okay.”
Sara looked at me. “I’m late because I had trouble finding a Coco cab. Not because I was on the phone.”
“You don’t have to explain.”
“I actually didn’t make that call to Miami. I decided to take your advice and do it in person.”
Also known as keeping your options open.
“That gives us time to... make sure...”
I thought we already had this conversation. “If you still want me after you hear me snoring tonight, I’m yours.”
She smiled and we held hands. She looked at the drinks. “What is this?”
“Daiquiri Rebelde.”
She sipped her drink. “Not bad.” We clinked glasses.
Sara informed me, “Long before Hemingway came here, expats from Florida used to gather here, so the locals called this place Floridita — Little Florida — and the name stuck.”
“I thought it meant ‘tourist trap.’ ”
She smiled. “If you’re in Havana, you have to come here at least once.”
“Right. I’ll cross it off my bucket list.” In fact, I’ll cross this whole country off my list of places to see before I die.
I was keeping my eye on the man with the gun, and Sara glanced over her shoulder, then turned back to me. “He’s BE — Brigada Especial — part of the PNR, the Policía Nacional Revolucionaria. A branch of the Ministry of the Interior.” She added, “They have an eye for the foreign girls. The blonder the better.”
“That leaves you out.”
“They’re thugs.”
The BE guy gave me another glance — or he was checking out Sara.
She said, “If he asks us for our passports, just show them to him without comment — though I doubt he’d do that in here.”
Or he’d ask us to step outside. I glanced at her shoulder bag filled with pesos, plus her map — a copy of which I had in my jacket. Was that suspicious? Not as suspicious as the gun. I knew that if I got busted, Sara was going down with me. Not good.
She said, “The PNR have a scam where a street peddler will accuse a tourist of underpaying for something, and a PNR or BE guy suddenly appears and settles the dispute for money. And if a tourist gets into a car accident and one of them shows up, you’ve got a problem. And if you report that your passport was stolen, they’ll actually arrest you for not having a passport.”
“Well, there’s a certain logic to that.”
“They’re comemierdas. Shit eaters. That’s what the people call them and call the Communist Party officials. Shit eaters.”
“Sounds better in Spanish.” It also sounded like the revolution had taken a bad turn.
“They’re actually trained to be paranoid about foreigners. They work closely with the chivatos.”
“Maybe Eduardo was right. When you overthrow the regime, shoot them all. Or better yet, torture them with a job in the hospitality industry.”
Sara smiled. “Let’s talk about something more pleasant.” She leaned toward me. “So the fleet is in.”
“Yes. Jack sends his regards.”
“Did he ask if you were sleeping with me?”
“It was written all over my face.”
“I hope he doesn’t say anything to Felipe.”
I reminded her, “No one knows that Jack and I were meeting.” Though I forgot to tell him to keep his mouth shut.
The BE guy was now posing with the two young ladies, and a waiter took a picture with the guy’s cell phone, but not with the ladies’ phones.
Sara said, “You’re not allowed to take pictures of them. But they collect pictures of themselves posing with” — she nodded toward the girls — “dumb blondes.”
“He was giving you the eye.”
“He won’t come over here because I’m with you. But when I was here last year, if I strayed even twenty feet from the tour group, I got pestered by the police and every jinetero on the street.”
“Every...?”
“Hustler. Gigolo. Asshole. Havana is full of them. Women are fair game here.”
“I see now why you wanted me along.”
“I can take care of myself. In Spanish and English. I just needed your boat.”
“I also carry steamer trunks.”
“The perfect man.”
The BE guy seemed to be finished with his seltzer and señoritas and he headed for the door, then glanced back at Sara before he exited.
Sara seemed happy he was gone, and so was I.
She asked, “So tell me what happened with Jack.”
“It went well. Are you ready for another?”
“I am.”
I signaled to the waiter and ordered another Daiquiri Rebelde for Sara. I switched to Bucanero.
Sara also ordered two cheroots. “We have something to celebrate.” She said, “So I assume the fleet is sailing to Cayo Guillermo tomorrow.”
“As of now. I told Jack to leave a message for me at the hotel either way.”
“Good thinking. But let’s think positive.” She asked, “Did Jack say if there were any problems at the pier?”
“Nothing that greenbacks couldn’t solve.”
“Good... Was there any official welcoming ceremony in the plaza?”
“Not exactly.” I related Jack’s description of what happened.
Sara nodded and said, “The anti-American demonstrators were the BRR — the Brigadas de Respuesta Rápida. The Rapid Response Brigades.”
“What do they rapidly respond to?”
“To whatever the government tells them to respond to.” She explained, “They’re officially sanctioned civilian volunteers who are supposed to look like spontaneous demonstrators. But as I told you, nothing here is spontaneous.”
“Except... love.”
She smiled.
I asked, “Does the BRR turnout mean that the government may cancel the tournament?”
She thought about that, and replied, “The regime is like someone who agreed to host a house party, then changed their mind too late. And we’ll see more of that in the months ahead.” She added, “They’ve been isolated so long that they can’t make decisions. Also, there are pro- and anti-Thaw factions within the regime.”
“So is that a yes or no?”
“If they’re looking for an excuse to cancel the tournament, they’ll find one. But they may be satisfied with the propaganda value of the anti-American demonstration. And they may have another one planned for Cayo Guillermo.”
“Right.” I asked, “How did all the pro-American Cubans know about the fleet’s arrival?”
“Word of mouth, which is bigger than texting here. Or Radio Martí, broadcast from the States if it isn’t being jammed.”
“So Antonio could have heard about Pescando Por la Paz from Radio Martí.”
“Or from the Rapid Response Brigades, whose members include los vigilantes — the chivatos who in turn report to the PNR — the National Revolutionary Police.”
“Sorry I asked.”
“This is a police state, Mac. That’s all you have to remember.”
“Right. Okay, we’ll find out tomorrow night where Antonio gets his information.”
“You still want to meet him?”
“When a local offers to sell you information, you never say no. Even bullshit has some Intel value.”