When there was work to be done to the home it was usually done by Alazar. His only son Bobby moved out soon after he was married but still returned to run the small diesel tractor over the grass when it got too high or to trim a few trees when they started to encroach on the house. This home was more than a house. It was a symbol, standing for security and warmth to the immediate family and beyond.
The grounds were neatly groomed this Friday afternoon, with the grass kept at an average two-inch height, trimmed accurately around the fence and all the trees. The slash pines, known for producing rust-colored pine needles, were kept in check, with the needles raked up to the base of each tree. Alazar himself did the work this time. His wife, Mima, watched that day as he quietly drove the diesel tractor in straight rows. She felt that the solace and time spent alone was good therapy. It had been a month since they learned of their only son’s death. It was a long month of grieving with the situation made even worse by the bodiless funeral. The Alazars were strong though, and as Roberto informed the family at the funeral’s reception, they were going to overcome. Alazar was a natural born leader. His words alone inspired people to do more than they realized they had potential for. The only one who doubted the family’s ability for success was Alazar himself, but he was strong enough to not show it.
Mima had planned a homecoming party for Del, but after their son went missing and was presumed dead, the event changed its tone. By three in the afternoon, the lawns were covered with people. Their kids played with each other. This was going to be the first chance the family and their close friends had had to gather since the funeral. It was meant as a way for everyone to cope and move on.
Brothers Gordo and Roberto tended the grill, one of the biggest in South Miami, custom-made by Roberto. It was made from two, fifty-five gallon drums that were sliced in half by his blowtorch to form four halves with a steel grate placed over the top. Lignum vitae wood and chunks of coral rock were heated beneath to give anything they cooked an authentic island flavor. Above roasted a one hundred and twenty pound pig, slow cooked over the smoldering wood and blistering rocks, the pig’s head still intact, its tongue projecting two inches past its open mouth. As primitive as it seemed, the process was still not entirely orthodox. Generations before used to bury the pig in a mound of sand over a bed of hot coals for twelve hours giving the heat time to saturate the meat and cure it. This was a Latin art practiced by many Cubans in South Florida. Roberto Alazar, however, had a craving for smoked meat and the open-air method he was using didn’t dry it out like the other methods. Meanwhile, the children took turns making faces at the dead pig and then running away with giggles.
Mima prepared two large, deep trays of white rice, saturated with black beans, garlic, and laced with ham. This had been stewing all day in the oven, steaming and seasoning the rice until it had a charcoal gray color to it. This was a Cuban tradition and just as Italians craved pasta and Jews cherished their matzahs, the Cubans immortalized black beans and rice, especially Gordo, who heaped mounds of the stuff over lengths of toasted garlic bread. Despite eight years of marriage to his wife Cecilia, Gordo could not get her to match Mima’s knack for cooking, despite having all the family recipes.
Mima was Roberto’s treasure. The two grew up together in Havana and were raised by very conservative Catholic parents. Despite the changing political climate that surrounded their families in the early fifties, Roberto and Mima lived fairly sheltered lives.
Del set up a fish fryer next to a long redwood picnic table. He did not eat pork regularly and it was agreed that since he had a special recipe for deep fried battered fish, he would do the honors. He brought his own supply of dolphin and grouper. It was like old times for him to go up to his favorite fish market in Hialeah and purchase the stuff over the counter, although he still would have rather caught it himself. In time, he would soon be fishing the Gulf Stream again.
Amidst the preparation of food, children played, running, chasing each other throughout the tables. The Alazar family had its share of kids, mostly bore to cousins and friends. Roberto and Mima had tried on several attempts to conceive a child, ending in three miscarriages before leaving Havana in 1956. Due to the miracles of modern American medicine however, Mima bore a son in 1960, Bobby. The process was not without complications though and she underwent an immediate hysterectomy soon after making Bobby their only child.
Off in the distance playing with pinecones was a child less energetic than the others. Gordo’s son was five, chunky, and dressed in Bermuda shorts and a Hawaiian shirt. He had already developed a frame like his father. The family called him Gordito.
Despite the numerous children present, Roberto and Mima had only one small child that belonged to them. Bobby’s daughter, Monica, was three and she was not there, only adding to their grief. Mima watched from the kitchen window as the children scurried by, their screams of excitement, although aggravating to some, were in a way soothing to Mima who had missed the sound. She only had one son and one grandchild. She lost him and in doing so, felt she was also losing her.
“Where are Tessa and the baby?” Cecilia asked as she was cleaning some utensils in the stainless steel sink.
“Mima!” Cecilia asked again, trying to break Mima’s trance.
“Wha!” Mima said, without paying attention. “Oh, I’m sorry, Cecilia, what did you say?”
“Where is Tessa?”
“Oh, I don’t know, she has been very busy, you know. Maybe she will come later.”
“Mima, have you tried calling her? This isn’t like her; maybe she needs something. After all, I’m sure she needs all the support a young girl in her position can get.”
“Yes, well, we have left many messages on her answering machine. If she needs us, she knows where we are,” Mima replied, discouraged and heartbroken.
“Tessa always was the independent one, full of ideas and dreams,” Cecilia said, almost envious.
“Cecilia, Tessa needs a lesson in respect, especially the respect of her husband, her dead husband!” Mima replied, her lips quivering with the last few words.
Cecilia took her cue to change the subject. “Do you have another towel? I will take this tray outside.”
Cecilia and Mima each grabbed a tray of steaming hot black beans and rice. The trays, generally used for basting turkeys, bowed at the middle from the weight. If the pig roasting in the Alazar’s backyard was the Thanksgiving turkey, black beans and rice were the stuffing. The only difference was that the Alazars didn’t have to wait for the traditional four-day weekend in late November to indulge in this type of feast. This event occurred quite regularly.
The ladies joined the others around the long picnic table. Del retrieved the last batch of fish from the cooker and laid the steaming breaded pieces on a bed of paper towels to soak out the excess grease.
Roberto took his place at the head of the long table as everyone else took their seats. Even the kids came to attention next to a series of card tables set off by themselves.
“Jesus Christ, our Lord in heaven, please bless this food to our bodies and help those hearts which are heavy with sorrow tonight. We thank you for the safe return of our brother Del. We have missed him dearly. In your name, Jesus Christ, Amen.”
Everyone sat down as Gordo reiterated, “Amen!”
The feast was no less than satisfying. Gordo was on his second plate in less than ten minutes and Cecilia had to remind him to slow down and save some for the kids. At one of the smaller card tables, Gordito followed suit like his father, consuming more than his share as fast as humanly possible. The paper tablecloth in front of the child was covered in spilled food, some falling off the side of his overfilled plate and some landing as projectiles from the child’s mouth, which kept up at a ravenous pace like a well-oiled machine.
“Bet you haven’t eaten like this in a while,” Gordo asked Del nudging him in the side.
“Gordo!” Cecilia snapped.
“No, you’re right Gordo. This is heaven. I tho
ught I’d never smell the garlic in Mima’s beans again. Everything we ate had saltpeter in it. You could taste it. I’m so sick of that bitter taste.”
“Saltpeter?” Gordo asked.
“Not in front of the ladies Gordo,” Del replied.
The meal lasted as long as their appetites would let them indulge. Like Americans on Thanksgiving, the Alazars always made more food than was customarily needed. Leftovers were the rule for at least three to four days following an Alazar feast.
Roberto lit a long, wooden match on a brick that made up the foundation for the gazebo where the men had gathered to relax and let the food settle. Two, three puffs from the long Cuban cigar and smoke erupted from the end. The match was passed to Del, who followed suit. Gordo lit his own.
“So Del, what’s it like in the camp?” Gordo asked.
“Altogether different from anything I’ve ever experienced in my life. The emotions, I can’t begin to explain. It was like Cuba. The only difference was that Fidel wore an Army uniform and drove a Plymouth sedan. I was so sick of people telling me what to do. How to eat, how to sleep, how to shit. Oh yeah, by the way Gordo, the saltpeter was put in the food so you don’t get a hard dick. I guess it was their way of keeping us straight.”
“Damn!” Gordo replied with fascination.
“Yeah, there were fags in there but it’s not like you hear. They basically kept to themselves. Mostly the people inside were doctors, lawyers, and accountants. Shit, there were a lot of accountants. My third roommate was a doctor.”
“A doctor? How does a doctor end up in a federal prison?” Roberto asked.
“The doctor loved to hunt. One day while chasing game in the great Okefenokee Swamp, he decided to take a pot shot at a hawk. The only thing was that it wasn’t a hawk; it was a bald eagle, a big one with little chicks back at some nest in the woods. He didn’t kill it. Missed the damn thing by a mile, but a ranger in a fire tower saw the whole thing and reported him to some more rangers on the ground and the rest was history. He did his time okay except for the evening of his daughter’s high school graduation. His only kid and she was a salutatorian, that’s second in the class, and it was a big-ass school. Well, he missed it. As long as I live, I’ll never forget that grown man on his knees crying like a baby. It made me real sad man. I hate hunting.”
All three men sat there in a pool of silence for a few seconds before Gordo asked, “So you really didn’t like the food?”
“The food! What, are you planning a trip there Gordo?” Roberto asked with a chuckle.
“No man, I just wondered. You know, haven’t you ever wondered about what it would be like?”
“I did,” Del replied “and then I found out for myself and you know what? It’s an experience you really can’t prepare for. You just have to pray you never have to find out. Pray and make your sacrifices. And for God’s sake, don’t think that just because you got some hotshot lawyer that you’re going to walk. They’re the ones who make the real money at this business. Fucking pigs,” Del said, relaxing for a second before continuing. “The guys who are the anxious types hurt the most. I watched them worry about everything. They thought their girlfriends were fucking around on them. Some worried that their wives were plotting to steal their money then spend it with someone else. God, it went on and on. Sometimes I didn’t sleep for a whole week. When Marcia left me, I think she was really doing me a favor. The only thing I regretted was not being able to be with you guys.”
“That bitch!” Gordo said.
“What it all comes down to is family. We all have to stick together,” Roberto emphasized.
“I am sorry I could not be here for you and Mima during your hard times. I loved Bobby like a son,” Del said as the table became quiet. The three sat in silence for a few minutes before they were interrupted.
“Any more food for you guys?” Mima asked, as she wrapped aluminum foil over one of the trays.
“No, no thank you, baby,” Roberto answered.
The three grabbed their drinks and headed over to Roberto’s workshop, far from the others. Roberto pulled out another cigar and lit it.
“How is my boat coming? I heard you talked to Scotty today,” Roberto said.
“They spent the day waking the mold and are going to start laying it up in the morning,” Del answered.
“Since you’ve been gone, things have been tough over there. Real slow. I can tell these things you know. I’ve got a good mind for business,” Roberto declared, puffing out a proud, long puff of smoke.
“We are holding our own. Things could have been worse while I was gone. Scotty has managed to keep the doors open,” Del responded.
“Good. I’m glad. Indian is a good boat. It has never let me down,” Roberto said.
“So how’s our business been?” Del asked.
“Aw, kind of slow. You know how it is just before the season,” Roberto said.
“Things will pick up soon,” Gordo replied.
“Well, I met some people at Eglin. I met this guy, Gus Greico. He’s American and very well connected. He works for this other guy named Sal Alcone. This guy Gus and I spent a lot of time together. He’s got some really good ideas Roberto, and I think we can do some business,” Del suggested.
“I don’t know Del. Everyone I’ve ever met who’s come back from doing time has met someone and most of the time it never works out.”
“I know. I met a lot of those too, but this guy’s different. He’s been a lot of places. I really think he can do things for us,” Del said, this time with enthusiasm.
“But things are good now Del. What do you want to do, be Tony Montana? Scarface!” Roberto joked as the three laughed.
“Oh yeah, well FUCK YOU!” Roberto cried.
“No FUCK YOU!” Gordo replied as the three laughed again. “Hey Del, you gotta see this movie Scarface. It’s the best comedy I have ever seen.”
“In all seriousness Del, I respect your judgment and I am not opposed to meeting with this guy Sal Alcone, but I don’t want you to get upset if we decide to leave well enough alone. You understand me brother?” Roberto asked.
“Sure Roberto. I’ll call him next week.”
“You do that and let me know how things go…and Del…watch out for Casper Gomez and the Diaz Brothers,” Roberto said with his strongest Latin drawl, reciting another line from Scarface as the three broke into laughter again.
* * * * *
Conception
Indian Powerboats, Inc. was a struggling venture. A modest steel-framed building made up the company’s sixteen thousand square foot facility on a street made famous by high performance boats, Miami’s Northeast 188th Street, better known has Thunderboat Row. Huge overhead cranes hung from the twenty-five foot-high ceilings like a spider’s web. Dangling below were motor driven hoists with case hardened steel chains and large hooks that held everything from Fiberglas boat molds to supercharged engines. An acrid smell of polyester resin filled the air. The local environmental agencies had a field day with shops like these. Everything from volatile emissions to hazardous waste dumping, Indian Powerboats was on the hit list, drawing weekly visits and monthly citations. The fines were staggering, choking the small company, but that was only part of the problem. Rising crude oil prices meant rising resin prices that translated into a higher material cost for the boats Indian built. Higher fuel prices also caused a significant decline in boat sales. Indians loved fuel. Each boat was built with the premise to be faster and more powerful than the one before it. While some models had only two engines, most had three. Each boat was capable of carrying an excess of fuel. Some models came with a capacity of a thousand gallons or more.
They were called plastic boats at first and consisted of blended polymers laced with woven materials and a glossy shine which repelled water and, most importantly, wood-boring organisms. The marine industry and the consumers who supported it were not immune from the phobias of change. Change they did however, and with time came even more advancements. Boats were
later built with lighter and stronger composites and fibers including Kevlar, a hybrid fiber called aramid that rendered the finished product bulletproof. Graphite fibers and space age core materials were also used, sandwiched between more orthodox ones. These boats were half the weight of their predecessors twenty years before.
Indian was not functionally removed from this evolution, unlike other boat builders who, practicing out of ignorance, believed that the thicker a hull was, the better. Scott Roberts believed he had to do everything possible to compete with the other guy. The building of a faster, lighter and more efficient craft came from a constant battle with the forces of physics and the ammunition was research, development and a continual search for the newest products offered on the market.
Boat names were very important to an industry that relied on an element of ego. Stiletto, Cougar, Magnum, and the Native American motif brands that reflected the Indianhead Mishawaka symbol of the smuggler like Indian and Chief all competed for their share of the market.
Since shops like Roberts’s dotted the East Coast, he had to be sharp, cutting corners wherever practical without sacrificing quality. He had to take the business that came to him, no matter how difficult or illegal. One thing was for certain: his customers would get a good product but they would also pay a price.
Mid Ocean Page 5
