“What’d he want?”
“Didn’t say.”
Well, one of these days I needed to talk to Carlos about financial and legal matters, and other things. Did I still have his card?
“He said you weren’t answering your cell phone.” She added, “I tried to call you.”
“Lost my cell in Cuba.” I thought back to our air-sea rescue. Age and infirmity get rescued first, and that was Jack, but he said, “Beauty first,” and Sara went up in the basket, then Jack. Captain goes last and I reminded Felipe that he’d mutinied and wanted to be captain, but he also wanted off The Maine quickly in case the engine blew, so he took the third basket into the chopper, and I went last.
We argued with the crew chief about bringing the two trunks up, but Keith, who seemed to be in charge, said they’d be retrieved by the second Black Hawk. But when we got to Plantation Key and asked for the return of the trunks — our trunks — the story changed, and a Coast Guard officer said they’d gone down with the ship. Which of course was bullshit. And there was more bullshit to come.
Amber glanced at her watch. “Last call.”
“I’m okay.”
As for Carlos, I hope he had insurance on his boat. More importantly, I think he owed me at least fifty grand, and I think I owed him a kick in the nuts. What I knew for sure was that there wasn’t going to be any press conference in Miami. In fact, our new friend Keith strongly suggested to me, Jack, Sara, and Felipe that because of the legal and diplomatic issues we shouldn’t discuss our Cuba trip with anyone — except him. Felipe agreed, and urged me, Jack, and Sara to heed Keith’s advice. Felipe, of course, had worked with Keith’s colleagues — or maybe with Keith himself — on our escape plan from Cuba, and it appeared to me that Felipe was still working for the Company. I mean, you don’t have to read Richard Neville novels to figure that out.
On the more important issue of my money, Eduardo had promised me a consolation prize in lieu of my three million dollars, in exchange for my cooperation and my appearances on radio and TV. But that press conference wasn’t going to happen, and also Eduardo was either dead by now or in a Cuban jail. Or he was wandering around a cemetery. I asked Amber, “What day is this?”
“November second.”
“Day of the Dead.”
“The what?”
“All Souls’ Day. The Spanish call it Day of the Dead.”
“Weird.” She glanced at her watch again. “I gotta run the register and do some stuff. You want to wait? We can go for a beer.”
“I’ll take a rain check.”
“Sure.” She let me know, “I’m off tomorrow.”
“Me too.” I spontaneously suggested, “Let’s go swimming.”
“Sounds good.”
I stood. “I’ll call you.”
“You lost your phone.”
“I have a house phone.” I gave Amber the number. “Call me if you get a better offer.”
“See you tomorrow.”
I went out to Whitehead and began walking toward my house. It was a nice night, the kind of breezy, balmy night you get in the Keys by November, like the nights you get in Portland in summer.
A block from the Parrot was the Zero Mile Marker of U.S. Highway One and I stopped there and looked at the marker, which was actually a standard highway pole with traffic signs attached. The sign on the top said BEGIN, the next one said 1, then NORTH, and finally a small green sign at the bottom said MILE 0.
During the day there’re dozens of tourists here having their pictures taken — thousands every year. And you can get a T-shirt of the sign on Duval. Some people come here believing that the marker has telepathic powers or something, so I stood at the Zero Mile Marker, waiting for some profound thought or a divine message directing me toward the road I needed to take. I thought I heard a voice say, “Go get Amber, get drunk, then take her home and bang her. That will make you feel good.” I don’t think a divine voice would say that. But that’s what I would have heard and done before Sara Ortega.
On that subject, the Coast Guard had offered us rides home, and Sara and Felipe went to Miami together. Jack wanted a ride to Miami Airport, destination Newark Airport, to see his sister in Hoboken, which was good. Me going to Miami with the three of them would be awkward, so I asked for a ride to Key West. That was two days ago. Sara and I hadn’t exchanged landline numbers, so we both had good excuses for not calling. She had said, however, “Let me work this out and I’ll come see you in Key West.”
I guess she was still working it out. If it took two more days, we’d be passing each other on the Overseas Highway as I was heading north to Maine. I’d always thought about making that trip by car, starting right here at Zero Mile, and following old U.S. One to Portland. So now I decided to do this. Should be interesting. And give me time to clear my head. My parents will be pleasantly surprised at the return of their prodigal son.
I started walking home, but my feet took me toward Charter Boat Row.
On my way through the quiet, palm-lined streets, I gave some additional thought to Cuba — not to what I’d seen, heard, and experienced, but what I hadn’t.
As best I could figure — drawing on my limited knowledge of clandestine operations — Eduardo and his amigos had gone to their amigos in the CIA with a plan. The CIA obviously liked the plan and offered to back it. They were suckers for any plan that included screwing Cuba, even if it wasn’t their own plan. But the CIA likes to control other people’s plans, and take credit if the plan goes well, or take a hike if it goes south.
Bottom line, I was certain that the CIA was more interested in the remains of the American servicemen murdered in Villa Marista prison than they were in Sara’s grandpa’s money hidden in a cave. I was sure the money once existed, and that was Sara’s deep belief. But there was no way of knowing if the money was still there, and if it was, the CIA didn’t care. It wasn’t their money. As for the property deeds, I think the CIA thought these documents might be useful to have in their possession — and not the possession of the Cuban exile community who had their own agenda and did crazy things.
I could imagine the Company seeming to be enthusiastic about Eduardo’s press conference in Miami, and about the storm of outrage it would cause in Congress, the media, the public, and within the MIA and veterans’ organizations. Bye-bye Cuban Thaw.
The CIA, however, had no intention of leaving something as important as American foreign policy to the Cuban exile community. In fact, the Company, while approving and backing the plan of Eduardo and his friends, pictured a different outcome: The Company would take charge of the evidence and control how, when, and if it would be revealed.
I mean, this was a no-brainer, and I was surprised that Eduardo and his amigos didn’t see how the last act was going to be re-written by their CIA partners. And the reason they didn’t see this, I think, is that the Cuban exile community, like the CIA, had such a big hard-on for screwing the Castro brothers that they couldn’t see or think straight. Blinded by hate, the way guys get blinded by lust.
I had no idea what the CIA intended to do with the contents of those two trunks, and for all I knew, the Company — maybe on orders from the top — had come onboard for the Cuban Thaw, and they were going to bury the evidence that would screw it up, like they buried The Maine. Or maybe they’d reveal to certain people in Washington the existence and contents of the trunks, to be used as a bargaining chip in the negotiations. Not my problem, except that I’d like to see those remains returned to their families. And maybe they would be. Quietly. Someday. But in the meantime, the CIA’s story was that the trunks had gone to the bottom of Davy Jones’ locker. Keith said he was sorry about that.