“Oh, he nice man. Always smiling. Happy. He good singer, you know.”
“Yes, I know. You said he vanished, and there were rumors about what happened. Can you tell me, please?”
She nibbled on her fingernail. “They say many things. He kill her and then go hiding. They both dead. They even say he went to America.”
Charlene’s mind flicked back to the uniform he’d been wearing and the gun strapped to his shoulder. “Do you know if he had another job? Like in the army?”
“Army?” She shook her head. “I don’t know.”
“What else? Tell me about his girlfriend.”
“I didn’t know her. She was dancer at social club. She very quiet. Just do her job, then go home, you know.” She flicked her hand and turned her attention outside.
Charlene eased back on the seat and glanced out the window. Her brain told her she should try to memorize where she was going, but as the mansions and shanties flicked by, she couldn’t focus on anything but the possibility that she was about to meet the brother of Peter’s ex-girlfriend. What was she going to say? Would he even remember Peter—or Pueblo, as Kamila had called him? It was over twenty years ago. And if he did remember Pueblo, would he blame him for the disappearance of his sister? The questions tumbled through her mind like rocks in a gold mine. Except the chunks weren’t precious nuggets; they were lumps of coal… dark and sinister.
Although it was the middle of the night, it was still very humid, and the only air-conditioning was the open window. They cruised along a section of road that had hotels on one side, except they were deserted and looked more like a scene from an apocalypse movie. On the other side was a long esplanade that skirted the ocean, and hundreds of people were enjoying the broad expanse. Some were eating ice cream. Some were fishing, some playing cards; many were dancing and making music. None were on cell phones. It was vastly different from any city she’d visited in America.
“What’s this place?” Charlene pointed out her side of the window.
“It’s the Malecón. It beautiful, si?”
“Yes, it’s beautiful.”
“Lovers meet there. It where I met my husband.”
“Oh, that’s wonderful.”
“Yeah, it long time ago now.”
The giant sea wall continued for about four miles, then the driver turned inland from the ocean. The houses lining the streets were a mixture of opulence and poverty, but the farther they went, the less opulence there was. As the miles rumbled beneath the bone-rattling car, sweat dribbled down Charlene’s back. She had no way to judge time. The clock on the dashboard hadn’t moved since she’d stepped into the car, and neither Kamila nor the driver wore a watch. It seemed that time wasn’t a driving force in Cuba, unlike in her home country.
Her home country. That was an interesting thought. Was it possible that Cuba was actually her home country? The thought came out of nowhere. If it was, then where did that leave her? Was she an undocumented immigrant? As much as she didn’t have a home to go back to, America was the country she wanted to return to.
That thought had her thinking about Marshall. If she missed his deadline, she had no idea what she’d do. And, in turn, she had no idea what Marshall would do. They had no way to contact each other.
The car slowed and pulled into the curb, dragging Charlene from her tumbling thoughts. “Oh, are we there?”
“No.” Kamila chuckled. “This my home. Eduardo take you to Airshee.”
“What? I thought you were coming.”
Again she chuckled. “No. Too far. But no worry. Eduardo know where you go. He look after you.”
Charlene’s heart set to explode as Kamila opened her door.
“Wait! Please.”
When Kamila slammed her door shut, fear ripped through Charlene like icy tentacles. Kamila ignored Charlene’s pleas by stepping around to the driver’s door and when she spoke to him, the only words Charlene recognized were Airshee and gracias. But before Charlene could do anything, the driver took off again.
She was trapped.
With her fingers clutching the cane, she contemplated jumping from the moving car. But the images that came with that idea forced her to rethink. The driver seemed harmless. Besides, he was just doing the job he’d been asked to do.
As the darkened streets whizzed by, she played out what would happen if she did jump from the taxi. If she survived the tumble. She had no idea where she was. No idea where she was going. She couldn’t speak the language, and she had no way to contact anyone. On top of all that, she had nobody to contact anyway.
The image that she’d had yesterday of her unidentified body washing up on the beach morphed to her being bound and gagged and locked in the trunk of the taxi. She slapped that vision from her mind and forced herself to focus on what she did know. If Kamila had been right, then Peter was actually Pueblo García. And if that was true, she was on her way to meet someone who knew him.
That was the best opportunity she’d had in weeks.
Despite the horrifying images feeding her thoughts, she had to go through with it.
She pushed forward on her chair. “Hello, do you speak English?”
He smiled a crooked smile over his shoulder but shook his head. “Lo siento, señora. No hablo inglés.”
That’d be a no. But the move hadn’t been a total loss. She saw enough of the driver to be certain she’d be able to overcome him should he attempt anything. With his pudgy belly and double chin, he’d have no hope of catching her, and if he did, within three seconds his testicles would be wishing he hadn’t.
With that knowledge comforting her a little, she eased back on the seat, and as she watched the scenery whiz by, she tried to picture how the meeting with Diego would play out. She pulled the photo from her bag. This would be her first tactic. With a bit of luck, the big businessman would speak English.
The journey seemed to go on forever, and soon there was nothing but paddocks of nothing. Her mind flashed to one of her interviews with Detective Chapel. She’d described traveling through fields of nothing on the night that’d changed her life forever. She sat up and scanned the landscape, looking for something, anything that would trigger a memory to prove she’d been along this road before. They seemed to be following a pair of long, straight tracks. Train tracks. Only these tracks were covered in weeds, and she hadn’t seen one train station. These train tracks hadn’t been used in some time.
The minutes ticked by, as did the miles, and it seemed to be an eternity before the driver changed gear. Her heart skipped a beat when he pulled to a stop in front of an enormous brick fence. He pointed out his window. “Airshee factory.”
Charlene glanced ahead and stared unblinking at the sign dangling from a rusted archway over the entrance. “Hershey? Hershey chocolates?”
“Si, si.”
Charlene sat in stunned silence for a couple of heartbeats before she comprehended that the driver was waiting for her to get out. It was only now that she realized she should have asked Kamila to instruct the driver to wait for her. She reached into her bag and held another hundred-dollar note toward him. “Can you wait for me?”
He took the cash from her. “Si, si gracias.” His enormous grin showed off two missing teeth.
“Good. Okay then. Wait for me here. I come back here.”
He nodded. She nodded.
Then, clutching her cane and bag, she opened the door and climbed out. Her back groaned as she stood upright, and her neck cracked as she rolled it from side to side. The taxi’s headlights showed the condition of the building. A couple of steps closer revealed that the building wasn’t just in need of a fresh can of a paint—it was derelict. The windows were either smashed or missing glass altogether. Some of the upper levels had collapsed upon themselves.
She took another step, and the sound of the taxi’s engine revving had her spinning to th
e noise. Next second, the car drove off. Charlene dropped her cane and raced after him. “Stop. Wait!” Her sandals were no match for the rocky road, and each step jarred her heels. She pumped her arms and legs, desperate to catch him. She waved her arms, trying to catch his attention.
But he didn’t stop.
Gasping for breath, she picked up a rock and threw it at the departing taillights. “Asshole!”
Soon he was gone altogether, and Charlene was alone on a road that was barely visible beneath her feet. Above her, the stars were a million twinkling lights, and she was reminded of her stint beneath the bow of Marshall’s boat. Somehow, that seemed easy compared to what she was facing now.
She turned and tracked her way back to her cane.
On the way out here, she’d relied on a flicker of hope. Now though, as she looked through the rusted gates of the derelict Hershey factory, all hope was lost. She stepped through the threshold and eased to the side so that her back was against the fence wall.
Charlene slid down the wall, clutched her knees to her chest, and cried.
Chapter 17
Marshall kept one eye on the digital clock on Miss B Hayve’s console and one eye on the Cuban navy men who were busy hauling a bunch of refugees off a boat that looked as big as and as seaworthy as a Cadillac. When he’d first spotted the Cuban cutter flying toward him, Marshall had almost shit his pants as he’d thought they’d somehow seen him, even with his lights off.
That’d been forty minutes ago. It’d been his lucky night. Not so lucky for the people in the other boat, though. Marshall had cut the engines, and he rode the swell as he watched the action through his binoculars. They were taking their time too. Time he didn’t have. He promised Charlene he’d be back at midnight. That was twenty minutes away. He was going to be late.
He didn’t do late.
The failure of the refugees’ escape, although it was shit luck for them, was actually good news for Marshall. It meant the Cuban navy would be occupied for the next couple of hours. And given that he was running late, he was going to need that distraction.
It was ten past midnight when the patrol boat fired its engines again and headed off. Marshall had been ready for this moment. The second he decided it was safe, he pulled the rip cord on his runabout and aimed full-tilt for the shore.
The whole time he bounced over the waves, his thoughts were on Charlene. She’d probably be thinking he’d abandoned her. God knows what she’d do with that thought. He didn’t dial back the speed as he neared the marina. Instead, he shot straight into the cove and continued full power right up to Rusian’s dinky jetty.
He tied up the boat, jumped ashore, and, using his flashlight, raced up the path to the house. The second he burst through the clearing, he knew something wasn’t right. All the lanterns were lit, and it seemed the entire family was in the kitchen.
He raced into the house, and everyone turned to him with alarm flaring across their faces.
“She’s gone.” Aleyna’s first words sliced him like a machete.
“What?” He strode through the crowd to the kitchen bench.
“She’s disappeared. I took her to Legendarios del Guajirito like you asked. But she no came out. I look for her but she gone.”
“How could she disappear?”
“I don’t know.” Panic flashed in Aleyna’s eyes.
“Jesus Christ.” Marshall threw his hands up. “Did you ask around?”
“Yes. Nobody see her. She just vanish.”
“Fuck.” Marshall’s training was based on a lifetime of choices involving risk assessment, often done at breakneck speed. But that was in war zones and involved good guys and bad guys. He had no idea what Charlene had gotten herself into. But his gut told him he was about to meet a whole new round of bad guys.
In a split second, he made a decision that would be forever categorized as fucking stupid. “Where’s José?”
“He still in Havana. He looking for her.”
Marshall turned to the oldest of the brothers. “Maceo, todavía tienes tu moto?”
“Si, come, come.” Maceo raced out the back door, heading toward the only mode of transport the family had. Marshall was right on his heels.
Maceo led him to his motorcycle, which was wedged between the chicken pen and the outhouse. The vintage Russian Ural motorcycle and sidecar was built in 1943, still had most of its original parts; based on what Marshall had seen the last time Maceo had ridden it, the damn thing was still fast as hell. Marshall had ridden in the sidecar once and just about lost his teeth on the bone-rattling ride.
Marshall sacrificed courtesy for speed, and without asking for permission, he jumped onto the bike, kicked the stand up, and rammed his foot down on the ratcheting lever. The bike coughed and died. He gripped the handle, straightened the wheel, and stomped the pedal again. When the bike roared to life, Marshall turned to Maceo and told him he’d look after it. Maceo’s eyes bulged with an uncommunicated statement that told Marshall he had better. This bike was the only thing keeping the family in contact with urgently needed supplies.
Marshall turned the throttle and shot up the nonexistent drive like he’d been released from a catapult. The bike was originally built to aid fighting the Germans in World War Two, and that’s exactly how Marshall felt now—like he was heading off to war. At least that’s what his gut told him. He refused to believe Charlene would just wander off by herself. Nobody would be that stupid.
The Ural was made for traveling rough terrain, but its original shock absorbers had long ago been obliterated, and Marshall felt every single bump. Top that with the sidecar clamped onto the Ural’s body, and he had to wrestle the handlebars to stop the bike from veering into the ditches lining the road. And the damn racket made his old landlady’s rusty secondhand mower sound like a lullaby.
With each mile he hurtled over, his brain fought with his decision to go after Charlene. He was risking everything… his boat, his freedom, his reputation. The second he’d laid eyes on her, he’d known she was trouble. He would never have guessed this much trouble, though. He thought she’d told him everything, and it pissed him off that she’d held back. If she was stupid enough to get herself lost in Cuba, then he should let her go. But he wasn’t built like that. Never before had he left a man behind, neither alive nor dead, and he had no intention of starting now. He just hoped it wasn’t a body he’d be bringing home.
Marshall knew his way around Havana. Thanks to his seventeen midnight runs, he could get his customers to the finest Cuban cigars or the best rum in the space of thirty minutes. But he didn’t need those contrabands now. What he needed was someone from the Buena Vista Social Club.
He just had to find them.
The average income in Cuba was just twenty bucks a month, so most people needed two jobs to survive. Despite the continual upheaval between the United States and Cuba, the number of tourists from other countries was increasing each year. Smart Cubans were capitalizing on that, and what the tourists loved was the music. So Marshall had no doubt that some of the entertainers from Legendarios del Guajirito would be continuing their night shift with more gigs in old-town Havana.
He headed straight for Plaza Vieja. It was the oldest neighborhood in town and the most popular. The narrow cobblestone streets were a bitch to navigate, and the muscles in his arms were already burning. Despite the early hours of the morning, the party atmosphere was still rocking, and Marshall had to dodge tourists and locals, stray dogs, horses, and people selling their wares on rickety old carts.
At a strip of restaurants overlooking La Fuerza fortress, he left the motor running and ran into La Bodeguita del Medio. The place was famous for both its mojitos and its music. Marshall squeezed between the tables, overflowing with people in various stages of dinner, and raced up to the four-piece band. He didn’t even wait for a pause in the song as he leaned into the ear of the guy playing the kett
ledrums. “Hola, ¿alguno de ustedes trabajó en Legendarios del Guajirito?”
“No señor, no esta noche.” He shook his head.
“Gracias.”
Marshall turned and raced back out. The next three bars offered similar opportunities, but all came up empty. Marshall cruised up and down the streets, asking both the street buskers and the full band ensembles in the fancier hotels.
In one street, he found four men who had to be closer to a hundred than fifty, each with an instrument that was as old as they were. They puffed Cuban cigars and belted out tunes with intensity. When Marshall asked the question, he again came up empty, but he dropped fifty Cuban pesos into their tip hat all the same. The money would feed the foursome for about a month.
Somewhere in the back of his brain, an incessant clock was pounding out the seconds. Time was against him. Against both of them. He’d gone into plenty of military situations where he’d had limited intel. Tonight he had nothing but a niggling feeling that Charlene was in trouble and the sooner he got to her, the better.
A few blocks from El Capitolio, he stopped at La Floridita. The two-hundred-year-old bar, made famous by Hemingway’s penchant for daiquiris with no sugar and double the rum, was packed with people stupid enough to pay twelve bucks for a drink. Fortunately for Marshall, the six-piece band was right at the front door. Over the ruckus of the crowd and the music, he shouted his question to the closest guitarist.
“Si, señor, Daylin, trabajó detrás del bar.” The man pointed at the lead singer.
Marshall’s pulse quickened as he eyeballed the woman. She had thick black hair that fell in waves down her back, lips that required zero fillers, and a little blue dress that hid none of her voluptuous curves. The woman knew how to use those curves too, and the crowd seemed to be loving every minute of it. Marshall, however, tapped out the tune with his foot, waiting with dwindling patience for the song to end.
The second the crowd burst into applause, he made his move.
“Hola, Daylin, puedes ayudarme por favor. ¿Trabajaste en Legendarios del Guajirito?”
Out of Luck Page 17
