by Manuel Ramos
“I got it.”
“Frankly, at the beginning, Kino wasn’t sure about you. Your lawyer friend, Móntez, recommended you, and Kino thinks Móntez is the best. Móntez helped him out a few years ago when a gold-digger with greedy fingers grabbed what she thought was her ticket to ride. He solved it quickly and, what’s more important, quietly. A real stand-up guy—trustworthy, loyal. Those things are important to Kino. He’d rather trust someone like your lawyer than any high-priced firm. In many ways, he’s still running in the Havana streets, true to his roots.”
“Good to know,” I said.
“So . . . based on Móntez’s recommendation, he had you checked and decided to give you a look-see, to feel you out—take your temperature, if you know what I mean. He was still wary.”
“His visit today was to audition me?”
“Something like that. Whatever it was, now you’re Kino’s guy. I guess he liked this office, or your attitude, or the way you handled his story about his brother and the boxing match. You passed. I admit I myself don’t understand it, and I gave him other names and referrals, but he’s my client and my friend and I usually go along with what he wants.”
A loose, out-of-place thread on the collar of his soft-looking shirt jiggled as he spoke. The thread tainted the impression he worked hard to create.
He quit smiling. “You need to grasp one thing. I am very protective of both my clients and my friends. Like I said, Kino is both. You do anything that might harm him, and I’ll cut you off at the knees.” He wiggled his index finger at me. “You got that, right?”
He wasn’t the same flim-flam man who’d walked into my office. He’d changed like a snake dropping his dead skin. The fact that he threatened me in my own office made it clear that now he was something else, something darker around the edges, maybe even dangerous. For an instant I thought about what he might do if I crossed him, but only for an instant. His client wanted me and that was enough. Whatever show he thought he had to put on, whatever game the agent wanted to play, he could do without my participation—or my worry.
“It’s all good, Ben,” I said. “There’s nothing I can do that will harm Kino Machaco, and we both want it that way. Kino came to me, remember? If you walk out now, my life doesn’t change. Neither good or bad. If you stay, I’ll do the best I can for your man. Guaranteed.”
The edginess left him, and the glib salesman was back. “Your next question?” he asked.
“How’s the money getting into Cuba?”
“You probably shouldn’t know. Not that anything illegal is planned, but there are people involved, here and in Cuba, who don’t appreciate a spotlight on their affairs. Any of their affairs. Kino is important to these people, so they go out of their way to accommodate him. Helping him feel secure about his brother is all part of protecting their investment. They will take care of the money, at least as far as delivering it to the island.”
I didn’t believe for a second that nothing illegal was planned.
“We’ll pick it up in Cuba?”
“The money will be waiting for you and Alberto when you land in Havana. Lourdes Rivera, Kino’s sister, will have it.”
“If Alberto has that kind of money, why not pay his bets? Why all this trouble if money is not the issue?”
Sardo moved forward in his seat. Again, he looked uncomfortable. I made a note to replace the chair.
“The money’s not your concern, other than making sure it gets delivered. Kino does a lot for his brother: allows him in on his business, looks after him, but that’s because Alberto helps Kino in many ways. That’s all you need to know about that.”
“I might need to know more about that, actually, but that’s enough for now.”
Without realizing it, I had become a participant in a weird game with Sardo. Every word had two meanings, every shrug was a message, every eye blink was a sign, a tell. I wondered if all high-end agents, managers and other parasites who made money from someone else’s talent were like Ben Sardo.
“The sister meets us at the airport, with the money. Then what?”
“She will set up the meet with Almeida. You transport the money to him, make sure he’s fully aware that his days of threatening the Machaco family are over and then you return to Denver. Or spend a few days enjoying the sights if that’s what you’re into. There shouldn’t be any trouble. Although, and I’m pretty sure you know this, Hoochie might need convincing that he can’t take any more bets from Alberto. You believe that nickname? Crazy, right?”
“Yeah, crazy. How much convincing is expected from me?”
He grinned, and his shiny white teeth beamed at me like a lighthouse in the fog.
“Kino expects this payoff to end his troubles with Hoochie. That’s your job: end this. You’re a big boy, been around, did time. I know about you and I don’t think you’re a babe in the woods. That’s one reason I went along with Kino when he said he wanted you to handle this. Do what you have to so that Kino never has to worry about his brother’s gambling problem in Cuba again.”
I knew exactly what he meant but I wanted to test him. “Within reason, right?”
“Of course, of course.” He was a little too quick with his response. “Within reason. Nothing too outrageous, Gus. We’re civilized men and Kino can’t be involved in anything over the line.”
The words sounded as sincere as a billionaire president promising to fulfill the dreams of the poor middle class.
He stood up, looked around my pathetic office, shrugged, and then smiled at me. I was really getting tired of his smile.
“Just make sure it’s over, Gus. Absolutely over.”
His smile went away again. His faded blue eyes bored into me, and I had to look away. He pulled a bulky clasp-and-string envelope out of his briefcase.
“Here’s a contract you should sign. Says you’re working for A&M Enterprises, one of Alberto’s companies. You’re finalizing a business arrangement with the honorable Miguel Almeida, Cuban businessman. You also have to sign a few papers so your trip to Cuba is legal. Nothing too difficult. You’ll be paid twenty-five grand when you return from Cuba with a successful completion of your project. Plus, all your expenses are paid or will be reimbursed. There’s two grand in the envelope to get you started. Get what you think you’ll need for the job. This money doesn’t count against your twenty-five thousand.”
He handed the envelope to me. I undid the string, spread the money and contract pages on my desk.
“Be ready to leave day after tomorrow. You’re booked on a seven a.m. flight to Los Angeles. You’ll meet Alberto there. Then the two of you fly nonstop to Havana. Before you ask—it’s easier this way; there are no nonstops to Havana from Denver, and the flights to Cuba from DIA are a lot longer than five hours. Once in Havana Lourdes will have instructions for you.”
He was strictly business. Serious and focused. I’d seen three different Ben Sardos in the short time of his visit. First, the slick, fast-talking con man. Then the menacing, edgy enforcer. Finally, the no-nonsense agent, efficiently and professionally wrapping up loose ends for his client. I wondered how many other Ben Sardos existed, and how many I would confront before my latest job ended. And if I’d ever meet the real Ben Sardo.
— Chapter 4 —
NO ENCHILADAS
I braced for a lecture from Corrine when I stopped by her house to tell her about my upcoming trip. Corrine was the oldest in the family: age-wise, I was stuck between her and my younger sister Maxine, so, of course, she thought she knew what was best for me and how I should live my life. She was usually right, but I’d never admit that—not directly anyway.
I’d said it before. I loved my sisters, both of them. Corrine and Maxine were rock solid in their own ways. Max was married to the love of her life, Sandra, and together they made waves in the Colorado music scene with their band, Mezcla. Corrine was a historic figure in the Denver Latino community. If there was a protest, petition or press conference happening, Corrine was there. She was
a hard act to follow, so I didn’t try.
And she was a total pain in the butt.
She told me once that I was the smartest in the family, the one with the most promise, but that I’d wasted my life and brought embarrassment to the family name. Believe it or not, she was trying to be nice and supportive when she said that.
While I walked to her front door I practiced in my head the possible responses to her resistance. I had quick comebacks and wise-ass quips ready for her. I didn’t have a good logical explanation, other than the caper was a good-paying job, but money had never impressed Corrine.
She opened the door and immediately retreated to the kitchen.
“Back here,” she hollered. “I’m making something for tomorrow’s potluck at the rec center. There’s coffee.”
I smelled bubbling, red chile sauce. I was in luck, I figured, thinking a late lunch was in the picture. I sat down at her kitchen table and drank the small cup of very strong espresso she had served me. She moved gracefully from her stove to the counter to the sink and back to the stove. I explained my new job and waited for her reaction.
Her eyebrows turned up and I braced myself. A quick instant of disapproval or maybe ridicule passed across her face. Then, the eyebrows relaxed.
“I’m jealous,” she said. “I want to visit Cuba before Starbucks ruins it for everybody.”
The purpose behind my travel plans didn’t seem to matter to her.
“That’s all?” I asked, underwhelmed by her words.
She shrugged. “I’ve given up trying to understand you, Gus. You’re a grown man. You want to play footsies with these people and dare the Cuban government to lock your ass up, that’s totally on you.”
I guess I’d expected her to talk me out of the job. She was my compass, my guide. If she didn’t care anymore, I was in trouble.
“Maybe I can get you a ticket—if you want to tag along.”
I was only half-joking.
She sprinkled chopped onion on a tray of enchiladas as she talked. My stomach rumbled, my nose twitched and my mouth watered.
She shook her head. “No way. I’d love to see Havana, talk with the Cuban people. But not on this mission. When you get arrested—and you will get arrested—you’ll have to deal with the embassy. They’ll want a contact in the States, someone to vouch for you, someone who can verify your crazy story, whatever it is.” She paused. “Don’t use my name.”
She looked up from the food to emphasize her words, then wiped her hands on a dish towel and tossed it on the counter. She slid the tray into her oven and shut the oven door, a little too forcefully, I thought.
I finished the coffee, said a quick goodbye and left. She didn’t offer me any enchiladas. Corrine was pissed, and in a way I hadn’t seen before. Now I was worried.
I spent the night reading everything I could find on the Internet about Kino Machaco and Cuba. There was a lot.
I read baseball stories, Cuban restaurant reviews, travel tips and Kino’s Wikipedia page, complete with photographs of him as a child—a large child—in Cuba. I learned about his many business ventures and the good work of his charitable foundation, KinoKare Unlimited, dedicated to education progress in Latin America.
I surprised myself when I stumbled on an article about the chef and restaurant owner Miguel Almeida, one of the “more successful capitalist entrepreneurs in the new Cuba,” who was “leading the charge into an open and vibrant Cuban economy.” No mention of his nickname.
I found very little about the rest of Machaco’s family, other than minimal mentions that he had a younger brother and an older sister.
I fell asleep at the computer. About two in the morning I woke up, downed a shot of tequila and stumbled to my bedroom.
I dreamed I was on a leaky raft with Jerome. Sea water collected around my feet. Sharks bumped the raft and tried to ram their heads through the bottom. The sun reflected off the water and blinded me. I felt the raft slipping away. I no longer saw Jerome, but I heard Corrine laughing. The ocean rolled over me. I smelled enchilada sauce. Then I woke up.
Most mornings, I forgot my dreams as soon as I opened my eyes. If I did remember any part of a dream, I never dwelled on the nonsense my brain had created while I slept. This raft dream, though, just wouldn’t let go. I retained details, like shark teeth and Jerome’s flip-flops. The colors were vivid.
I didn’t like the idea that a dream might actually mean something. I shook it off. I concluded that the dream was a creature of my upcoming trip to Cuba, of my conversation with Jerome, my disappointment at Corrine’s failure to feed me and the cheap tequila I drank before I hit the sack. Nothing more.
I hurried through my morning routine. I felt as though I didn’t have enough time for everything I had to do before Cuba.
When I got to my office, a man waited in the dimness of the narrow hallway. He looked as though he’d had a hard night and looked even more like it was just another stacked at the top of a hard life. A thin shabby overcoat draped across sloping shoulders. The cuffs of shiny pants dragged at the back of worn and muddy sneakers. At least three days of beard darkened his face. Bloodshot eyes blinked through dirty glasses.
I’d come to the office to tie up some loose ends before Cuba. I planned to let clients know I’d be out of touch for several days but that I’d be back to wrap up whatever it was they hired me to do for them. Despite what I’d told Kino, none of them had anything urgent. Most were divorce lawyers who wanted papers served for hearings weeks away, or background information on the opposing parties or—surprise—on their own clients. Nothing that couldn’t be put on hold for a couple of weeks.
“Gus Corral?” the overcoat man asked. His bruised voice sounded hollow in the empty lobby.
His face squared up at me and I knew what he was going to say. I spoke first. “Sorry, buddy. I’m leaving town. I can’t take on any new clients right now. Come back in ten days or so.”
His lower lip trembled slightly. I couldn’t think of what need a guy on the skids would have for a private detective. I pitied him a bit until I realized he wasn’t going anywhere. He shifted his weight from one leg to the other and stood quietly in the hallway while I unlocked the office door. He was as tall as me but not as heavy. He looked tough. A hard character. I watched him over my shoulder, fearful that he would try something behind my back, or that he might have a weapon.
As I turned the key I told myself to knock it off. It hadn’t been that long ago that his wardrobe and general scruffy appearance would have fit me to a T. I thought, Where’s your compassion, Corral? I opened the door and was about to shut it in his face, when he rushed past me.
“Hey,” I said. “What the hell are you doing?”
He backed into a corner and held his hands up, palms forward. “I’m not any trouble. Honest. I just got something . . . I need to talk with you. Just five minutes. That’s all. Honest.”
He sounded as though he might start crying, and again I found myself feeling sorry for the guy. But I had to put him off.
“I don’t have time. I told you. I’m leaving town. Tomorrow. I have a lot of things to deal with before I can leave. No time for you.”
He reached inside his coat. I tensed and readied myself to jump, in one direction or the other.
“Maybe this will help.” He held up a plastic bag.
“I don’t want any drugs,” I said.
“It’s not drugs.”
I looked closely at the bag and saw that it was filled with money.
“I can pay,” he said. “I’ll pay you just to talk. I’m not a crook.”
He dumped the money on my desk. Most of the bills were twenties but I scanned a few fifties and a couple of hundreds in the pile.
“There’s no need for that,” I said.
His lip continued to shake.
“You want some water?”
He nodded, then sat down. It seemed like me newly revamped chair was seeing a lot of action lately; it was probably as ready for me to be in Cuba
as I was. The man’s chin drooped to his chest. I grabbed a bottle of water from the cooler along the wall and handed it to him.
He said, “Thanks,” but didn’t do anything with the bottle.
I picked up a few of the bills and looked at them closely. They were wrinkled, as though they’d been in the bag for a long time. Several had coffee stains. I gathered the money and put it back in the bag.
“What’s your name? Where’d you get this money? What do you want from me?”
“My name’s Hudgens. Leo Hudgens.” He looked nervous, and as he spoke his words ran over one another like fish trapped in a net. “I’m a cop, was a cop—retired. Might not look like one now. That money’s from my savings. I took it out of the bank a long time ago, but I haven’t needed it until now. I’ve been livin’ on the street.” He searched my office with his eyes. “I’ve had some problems with . . . uh . . . with booze and my back and painkillers. But I can’t put it off any more. I need your help.”
“How’d you get my name?”
He blinked his eyes several times before he answered. “Ana Domingo. The Community Liaison Officer over at the Denver PD. I met her when I was on the force. You know her? She said she knew you. Said you were the kind of investigator I needed, that you could help. You know her, right?”
Ana had dumped me for a Mexican cop, who then dumped her. It felt like ancient history that I didn’t want to resurrect.
“Oh yeah, I know Ana. Kind of surprised she recommended me, but okay, okay.”
“I didn’t tell her everything. Only that I needed someone who was good and did out-of-the-ordinary jobs. That I needed to find somebody without attracting too much attention. She gave me your name pretty quick.”
“Doesn’t change the fact that I’m leaving town.”
He cleared his throat, then coughed into his fist. His coughing continued for several seconds. He opened the bottle of water and took a long drink.
When he caught his breath and calmed down, he said, barely above a whisper, “Hear me out. Five minutes. Honest.”
He drank more water. His fingers shook, badly, and he had to hold the bottle with both hands.
