by Manuel Ramos
I did read the sports pages almost every day. Not because I was a fanatic, but because those pages always had stories right out of a soap opera or telenovela: drugs, divorces, assaults, betrayals, health crises and the occasional poor boy or girl makes good. Pure entertainment. My kind of reading. But if it was up to me only, I could think of plenty of other ways to spend the sizable chunk of change it cost to watch millionaires make more millions playing children’s games while they generated even many more millions for the team owners, league bosses and TV executives.
Still, even I knew that Kino Machaco was something special in the world of professional baseball. If he wasn’t getting ready for the upcoming season, plenty of well-heeled team owners, TV execs, sporting goods CEOs and other one-percenters would sweat blood counting potential lost revenue as Kino and I talked about his family problems with a Cuban gangster.
“Yes,” Kino said, “I should be in camp. But I can’t think about baseball. Alberto’s hiding out, more or less. He won’t leave our house, won’t travel to Arizona with me like he always does. But I should be in camp. This has to be fixed. Before something happens.”
Several different thoughts tried to connect, each one making my skull draw tighter around the feeling that the more I learned about Kino’s “personal problem,” the deeper I fell into a hole of obligation to the super jock. And I didn’t have a good history of climbing out of holes.
“When you say ‘something bad’ is going to happen, what do you mean? Is your brother’s life in danger? Do you need to talk to the police?”
His eyes narrowed, and his gaze focused on the space between my eyes. I felt like a curve ball that didn’t break, waiting for the swing of his bat to knock me over the left field fence.
“You’re a smart man, Gus. It’s obvious. And I talked with people about you. You speak like an educated person, carry yourself with confidence, which impresses me because I know your history.”
He had my attention.
“Plenty of time to read in prison,” I said. “That was where I got my education.”
“I know that. You overcame that, used it. That’s why I can talk to you about things that maybe a less intelligent man might not appreciate. ¿Entiendes?”
“Whatever, man.”
He frowned but continued. “I can’t get mixed up in this business with Almeida, officially. But here’s the truth . . . ” He hesitated, eyes on mine. “No one else hears about this?”
“Yeah, I got it.”
“My brother gambles. There are times he has no control. He bets on everything. He was that way when he was a boy and he sold numbers for la bolita, the lottery. It was illegal, sure. Castro outlawed the game, called it counter-revolutionary. But Alberto took the risk. Eventually, he made bets with his customers.”
He waved his arms as though he could shake off his brother’s screw-ups. “He thinks he will always win. Now, he owes this man several thousands of dollars for bets he lost.”
“How much?”
“Half a million dollars.”
I made a sound that must’ve been a groan or a whimper. That was a lot of money.
“If I’m connected to that, I could get thrown out of baseball. I can’t risk the police. And I can’t pay off the debts. Alberto has to do that.”
“He has that kind of money?”
“He’s my partner in a few businesses. He can get his hands on the money, especially if I don’t get in his way.”
He meant that he would give his brother the money, but he couldn’t say it.
According to a recent newspaper profile about the star player, Kino Machaco was a heavy investor in Denver real estate. He had to have options for the kind of money the Rockies paid him and those options apparently meant opportunity for the brother. Kino made his brother a rich man, but he still needed to bail Alberto out of trouble with his bookie.
“I don’t want to call the police,” he continued. “They couldn’t do anything to Almeida. I want you, or someone, to fix this. Almeida has to leave my brother alone. That’s what has to happen.”
The tightening skin around my forehead was joined by warning bells that echoed against my eardrums. I’d become an investigator more out of necessity than choice. It’s no news flash that ex-cons weren’t usually at the top of the list of likely-to-be-hired, no matter what the job might be. I thought I was good at what I did; a bit more experience and I’d be excellent, I told myself on those days when no one called, no one stopped by the office. I’d grown up on the Northside of Denver, where I’d perfected survival skills—skills that came in handy on some of my less glamorous jobs. Old habits die hard. I tried to ignore the internal alarm by telling myself that I had to let go of my prison paranoia and not always assume the worst about people, or the messes they brought to me. I needed their troubles to make a living. I carried on with my questions.
“Well, if your brother can get the money, why won’t he pay? Or, you could give the money to your brother, then let him pay off his debts. Isn’t that the easiest solution?”
“Yes, of course. I . . . uh . . . I’m just worried that if I’m involved in any way, no matter how small, my career is over. I don’t want to touch the money. Baseball is very nervous these days about gambling.”
As well as performance-enhancing drugs and domestic violence, I thought. “Other guys have been suspended or thrown out for stuff you’d never expect would be a problem. I love my brother, but I have to be careful.”
“He bet on your games? Maybe on you?”
He nodded.
“Yes. He made stupid bets that could cause me trouble.” He again thumped his fist on my desk. “But that’s not the reason I want to make this go away.”
“It’s a good enough reason.”
“Maybe. But it could be dangerous for Alberto. This man doesn’t like him. He hates our entire family. Alberto says that some of the debts are from years ago, and Almeida accused him of running away to avoid paying. He could hurt Alberto, even if he’s paid. But if you’re with him, he won’t do anything. He won’t touch a messenger who has money, especially if the messenger is from the States.”
“He kept taking your brother’s bets, even though he wasn’t getting paid?”
“Yes. I think he wanted to get him in as deep as he could, and . . . ”
“What else?”
“And sometimes Alberto used other names, or other people to make the bets. But now . . . ”
“Almeida knows the truth?”
“Yes.”
“And you want me to carry the money to pay him off?”
“My brother has to make the payoff, even though he’s afraid. I told him he must go. He has to make this right. But someone should be with him. To hold the cash.”
“Hold up. Why not just transfer the money from your brother’s bank to a bank in Havana? Why does someone have to actually deliver the money?”
He shook his head.
“Cuba and the U.S. don’t have that kind of system in place. Not yet. It’s still not that open. And Almeida can’t risk that his business gets out in public. Even if we could set up a bank transfer, he wouldn’t go for it. What he does is illegal, and you don’t want to be caught doing anything illegal in Castro’s Cuba. No, the money has to be handed over face-to-face.”
“That’s what I’ll do?”
“Yeah, sure. That, and you will also be with Alberto for protection, and to make sure Hoochie gets the message that he can’t do anything to my brother. Or me.”
“Hoochie?”
“That’s what they call him.”
“What kind of name is that?”
“His name’s Miguel Almeida, like I said. But when he was a boy his family lived for about a year in New Orleans. His father, Jorge Martínez Almeida, was on Castro’s payroll, although he said he worked for a Mexican company. The story’s always been that during his time as a spy he passed himself off as a businessman, and he used his family for cover. The kid got the nickname around then: Hoochie Coochie
Man becuase he worked as a bouncer in a strip club . . . or a whorehouse. Who knows? Might have been both. He was only sixteen or seventeen, but he was big and tough.”
I wrote down everything he said, including Hoochie Coochie.
“These days,” he said, “he’s just Hoochie. He’s been back on the island for years, but he still uses that damn nickname.”
How bad could the man be if he called himself Hoochie? Almeida must have thought the name was strong or cool or intimidating or whatever, and that was enough. Things like common sense and reality pulled no weight against what people wanted to hear and believe.
I didn’t say anything about the nickname. “One thing I don’t get.”
“What’s that?” he asked.
“This guy, Almeida, sounds like he’s got a major operation in place. But, in Cuba? No disrespect, but isn’t it a poor country? Very poor? People have money for gambling on that scale? Small bets, I understand, but for something like what you describe, there’d have to be a lot of money floating around. Is that what’s happening?”
He shook his finger at me, as though I were a kid talking out of turn.
“It’s complicated, sure. But even in Cuba, where things have been controlled for years, there are people who have more than others. People who still live in fancy houses, who hire maids and drivers, who make decisions for others. They have money, or the power to get money. And some of them use that money for things the government would never approve. Almeida survives because of these people, and he has become rich because of their illegal activities.”
I pushed ahead.
“You want me to tag along with your brother, to carry the cash, then watch the payoff and make sure nothing goes screwy. That about it?”
“Yeah, that’s most of it.”
His words hung in the air, but he didn’t offer to explain what else there was.
“Let me guess,” I said. “Not only do I protect your brother from this Hoochie guy, but maybe I protect Alberto, and the money, from Alberto himself? Five hundred grand will be a big temptation for a man with a gambling problem. That part of the job, too?”
He started to say something, but the words wouldn’t come out. He nodded.
“This will be an expensive job,” I said.
“I’ll pay for what needs to be done. Not a problem.”
“Yeah, I believe it. But even though it’s easier to get into Cuba, there’s still a few hoops we have to go through. How soon does this have to happen?”
I tripped out on the idea that Cuba might be just what I needed, especially if someone else was paying for the ride: get away from the cold, miserable blasts of the dying Colorado winter. Stretch out on a beach, eat arroz con pollo and kick back with a rum concoction or two. Maybe commingle with the locals over a set of Latin jazz even, or a more traditional son. And all I had to do was make sure a Cuban bad guy didn’t hurt the brother of a baseball superstar while a payment of a pile of overdue money was made to that same bad guy—money that somehow would make its way into the island fortress of Cuba. And this only, if I could keep the brother away from the Miami racetrack or the underground floating Havana poker game in the meantime. That’s all.
“It has to be done quickly,” Kino said. He sounded out-of-breath. “In the next few weeks.”
And just like that, the Cuban beach sunk into the mire of my muddy alley, and my arroz con pollo turned into another Burger King Whopper.
“I don’t think that can happen. I need time.”
“What’s the problem?” Kino asked. “You need a passport? Or can’t you travel out of Colorado?”
“No, I’ve got a passport. But I have responsibilities to my clients. I can’t just leave my business. I’m barely making it now. I have standing obligations to various clients that need attention. If I don’t follow through, my future as an investigator won’t be too profitable. Give me a month, no problem.” I paused for a heartbeat. I didn’t want to say it, but I had no choice: “You better find someone else.”
He didn’t look fazed by my words. He shook his head.
“No, you’re the guy. I know guys like you, from the street. You’re my man. You’ll be paid very well and if this works out, I’ll send you more business than you can handle. Many clients.” He surveyed my drab office. “Important clients.”
I thought all the clients I had were important, but I let it slide. “You talking about the Rockies?”
“No, not the Rockies. People who owe me favors, who want to help me. They do what they can to make my life here in the States as comfortable as it can be. Sometimes they need the kind of help I think you can give them.” He rubbed his shaved head with a slow circular motion. “Ben Sardo, my agent, from L.A.,” he added, as though that explained everything. “He will contact you soon. Today. He’s in Denver, closing a deal for office space. He will be a good resource for you and can take care of the papers and travel arrangements. He’s okay. He saved me when I came to the States.”
This guy really wanted me to work for him. I had to wonder, Why me? But I didn’t ask that question. The answer might’ve killed the deal.
“I guess I don’t have a lot of time to pack.”
Kino stretched his hand to me and I grabbed it. When he finally let go, he smiled. He turned to walk out of my office, then he twisted back to me.
“There’s one more thing you should probably know.”
I shook the blood back into my fingers. “What’s that?”
“I killed Hoochie’s brother before I left Cuba. That’s still a thing with him.”
— Chapter 2 —
LA IGLESIA DE BOXEO
Kino returned to the chair and told me his story. He spoke quietly, sometimes barely above a whisper. At times, he closed his eyes.
He began with a simple statement: “Boxing in Cuba is a religion, not a sport.”
I believed him. From what I knew of Cuban fascination with the sweet science, faithful throngs worshipped before the god of jabs and hooks, and they prayed for miracles. Their prayers were often answered; although professional boxing was officially outlawed, amateur fighters brought glory to Cuba. Cuban teams won more international matches than any other country, including gold medals in the Olympics. Holding up his family’s tradition, Kino Machaco was baptized into the iglesia de boxeo at the age of twelve, when he started lessons and training at the Rafael Trejo gym in Havana.
“I was big and strong,” he said, pride creeping into his accent. “I could knock down fighters twice my age. My feet were fast. The legendary Julio Mateo was my trainer, and he was part of the team that developed another legend, Félix Savón, Ninote. Everyone said I could be as good as him, if I kept at it. And I did, for years. But I didn’t love boxing. I loved baseball.”
He executed a muscle-bound shrug, and baby elephants crawled across his shoulders.
“I had to be angry when I boxed. Mateo said, again and again, that if I wasn’t mad, I would be hurt. He preached that without coraje, I was just another poor Cuban boy waiting to have his brains, and all sense, knocked out.”
His hands folded into fists. I don’t think he noticed.
“I believed him and that’s how I fought. It became part of me. Mateo taught me to fight with anger, coraje, pasión. I learned the lesson well—I had to. Boxing was fire and stone fists and lightning moves.”
He unclenched his fists and spread his fingers along the front edge of my desk.
“I didn’t have to be mad to play baseball. I just had to play. Baseball is like . . . like a river in a valley, flowing to the sea.”
He looked away, embarrassed, I assumed, by his poetic description of the sport that had made him a millionaire several times over.
The sports pages consistently carried stories of Machaco’s generosity. Reporters often commented on his “softer” side: his friendship with Latino writers and musicians, his commitment to causes such as cultural museums and art exhibits, his frequent visits to children’s hospitals. The super jock appeared to hav
e more going for him than brainless athletic skill.
“That’s where you met this Hoochie character?” I asked.
“He was a few years older. He and his brother hung around the gym, but only Claudio, the younger brother, worked out. Hoochie was too busy trying to impress the girls, or running an angle on a mark, or betting on the matches our trainers set up. He was that way as a boy—a manipulator, an operator, and he stayed that way as a man.”
I nodded because I knew the type of man he described. At one point in my life, I would have fit the description.
“We all wanted to be picked for the national team, for the chance to fight in the Pan Am Games, even the Olympics. Entonces, most of us ignored Hoochie and his shady business. We were too busy, training hard.”
“You fought Claudio? Is that how he died?”
He folded his arms in front of his chest.
“We fought, yes, but it was his brother who wanted the match. He drilled into Claudio that he was the next champ, the next Cuban hero. He knew that a fight with me could jump start Claudio’s career. I didn’t want to do it. I was bigger, better. Everyone knew that, but Hoochie wouldn’t let it go. Finally, one very hot day when I was fed up with Hoochie’s constant challenges and taunts, and even Mateo was tired of his bragging and loud talk, we told him we would do it. I was mad enough to fight, just like I’d been trained.”
“Why would Claudio agree? Did he think he could win a match with you?”
His head jerked rapidly, left and right. “He knew. He knew he had no chance. But he couldn’t resist his brother. He imitated his swagger and his talk and his attitude.” He paused, and it was obvious he debated with himself about what he would say next. “And there was a girl.”
