Comrades in Miami

by Jose Latour

  On Friday morning, the power was restored around 8:00 A.M. As their nephew packed his things, Aunt Tatica and Uncle Eusebio returned to Carmina’s to say their final good-byes. Elliot gave five hundred dollars to each and got into the car without looking back, because to see them cry unashamedly was more than he could endure. Havana-bound, a mile or so after leaving town, he took a moment to ease the rental along the shoulder of the freeway, turn off the engine, and get off. His gaze scanned the surrounds. Straight ahead, the new apartment blocks hid from view most of Santa Cruz. To the left, tame bluish waves lapped soundlessly against the rocky coastline, swirled around its crevices, and retreated. Gulls circled overhead. On the horizon, a merchant ship sailed east. To the right, beyond the low green hills, the refinery’s two chimneys spewed a whitish smoke that looked virginal compared to what the power plant was vomiting. Nodding a good-bye, two tears rolled down Elliot’s cheeks. Then he dried his eyes, blew his nose, took a deep breath of seabreeze, slipped back into his sonofabitch personality, and drove along.

  …

  That evening, as he watched Victoria and Pardo ease themselves into the two wood-and-vinyl armchairs by the picture window, Elliot was considering that not in the least did the bad guys seem bad. If something besides unremarkable, they looked the parts they were playing: bureaucrats trying to save their asses. He mulled that, on a ten-point scale, the nine-point bad guys seem deserving of trust, esteem, and respect; the ten-point bad guys come across as the nicest individuals on earth. It occurred to him that, for almost a century, Hollywood had succeeded in making people believe the opposite and had reaped a rich harvest from such disinformation.

  Hands were shaken, smiles flashed, pleasantries exchanged. Victoria was better dressed in a plain, nut-colored pantsuit, a white blouse, brown medium-heeled shoes, and a red purse. Her husband wore a chocolate-colored sports jacket over a white shirt, khaki trousers, and brown loafers. Two tired business executives after a grueling day at the office. Sure, they would have a beer, if it wasn’t too much trouble.

  “You won’t have one?” Pardo asked when Elliot, having served them, poured half a can of Seven-Up in his glass.

  “I don’t drink alcohol,” he said while easing himself onto the edge of his mattress.

  “Oh.”

  Elliot thought he saw a glint of respect in the woman’s eyes, as if she had just reevaluated her opponent. Pardo emptied his glass by swallowing eagerly, just a man quenching his thirst with something cold, indifferent to what it was. Victoria only took two sips and ran the tip of her tongue over her lips. Both left their glasses atop the coffee table separating the armchairs at the same time.

  “First of all, Mr. Steil,” Pardo began, pocketing the handkerchief with which he had dabbed at his lips, “the president of the corporation has asked me to convey his gratitude. We know you are doing it for Cuba, but as you rightly pointed out, you will be helping him, too, and both of us. It’s one of those situations in which the personal side can’t be separated from the business side and, whatever the final outcome, we shall always remember and value your collaboration. He sends you this as a token of his appreciation.”

  Pardo extracted from the side pocket of his jacket a small, gift-wrapped package that he passed on to the surprised Elliot. After unwrapping it, he opened a box that he suspected contained a wristwatch. A pure silver Meisterstück Solitaire Mont Blanc fountain pen lay in the box’s velvet-lined interior. Examining it, he thought it a well-considered gift. Top quality, expensive, very appropriate for impressing customers when signing contracts. A motivational gift, not payment for services rendered.

  Elliot could not know he was overestimating his opponents. In 1994, a Madrid tour operator had presented the pen to Pardo, to express his gratitude for having had his computer upgraded and his programs updated for free. Considering it too princely for his work environment, Pardo had never used it and remembered it when thinking of a gift that would please Steil.

  “Well, tell Mr.—what’s his name?”

  “Everardo Bencomo.”

  “Okay, tell Mr. Bencomo thanks. But maybe he has acted hastily, maybe Mrs. Scheindlin won’t find the money, or will refuse to give it back.”

  “I said, ‘Whatever the outcome,’ we would be grateful to you, Mr. Steil.”

  “Elliot,” said Steil, pretending that the gift had wheedled him into increased friendliness.

  Victoria drew out an inhaler from her purse, uncapped it, shook it, put it in her mouth. Steil forced himself to turn his gaze away from her and locked it on Pardo. She pumped the inhaler twice, recapped it, and dropped it into the purse.

  “Okay. Elliot then. Let’s agree on how to stay in touch,” Pardo proposed.

  “I don’t see any problem with that,” Elliot said. “Give me your phone number. I’ll call you.”

  Pardo raised his eyebrows and, gazing at the carpet, scratched his cheek. His expression implied there was a problem with that. “First time we talked,” Pardo began, “you made very clear that you’d cooperate provided we didn’t ask you to do something that would jeopardize your freedom or your job. We promised we wouldn’t and we want to keep our word.”

  “So?”

  “Go on, Berta.”

  Victoria took what tried to be a deep breath and crossed her legs. “Have you heard about the patriots sentenced to long prison terms by a federal court in Miami?”

  “Are you kidding?” Elliot, with a smile. “Who hasn’t?”

  “Well, the problem is that, a few weeks after the patriots were arrested, our government warned ministries and state-run firms, and foreign companies in Cuba, too, to be careful when making or receiving calls to or from the United States. New gizmos that ETECSA, the Cuban phone company, had installed showed that many phone calls between Cuba and the United States, in particular between Havana and Miami, were being tape recorded. It’s what we were told, but you don’t have to be an expert in espionage to figure that an American agency, the FBI or the CIA, is tapping lines, bugging phones, or doing whatever has to be done to falsely accuse other patriots or friends of our Revolution of spying for Cuba.”

  “I see,” Elliot said, really seeing what would come next. But something was nagging at him. The woman’s talk, sprinkled with slogans, platitudes, and catchphrases, did not fit in with her. She seemed too intelligent and cultured to express herself like the flesh-and-bones robots preferred and recruited by tyrants.

  “Therefore,” Pardo, retaking the lead, “for your protection we should agree on a simple code so you can tell us what you found out without endangering your future in any way.”

  “Excellent.”

  “So, here’s what we suggest. First, don’t call from your home or office. Buy a phone card and call us from a pay phone that’s far from your home or place of work. Call us after sundown. Darkness makes it more unlikely that a friend or relative sees you and wonders who you are calling. Okay?”

  “Okay.”

  “Don’t mention names. Neither Berta’s, nor mine, nor Ms. Scheindlin, nor yours. You’ll be talking to me or to Berta, so you just address us as ‘chico’ or ‘chica’ or ‘buddy’ or ‘cousin.’ If you need to refer to Mrs. Scheindlin, call her Señora. It’s the only name in code you have to remember: Mrs. Scheindlin is the Señora.”

  “The Señora, okay,” Elliot, in acquiescence, easing into it. “Now, I’ve been mulling over your problem these last few days, trying to sort out how to go about it. As far as I can see, there are two possibilities: Either Mrs. Scheindlin knows or can find out where the cash is, or she doesn’t and can’t. If she doesn’t know and can’t find out, it’s over; as you say, end of story. If she does know or manages to find out where the dough is, three things are bound to happen, of which two could be against you. She may deny knowing where it is because she doesn’t want to give it back; in that case, it’s end of story, too. The same thing happens if she tells me she knows where the money is but refuses to give it back because she thinks it’s not yours, or for any oth
er reason. Therefore, I would be reporting something positive only if she has the money and is willing to return it to you. Am I right?”

  “You are right, Elliot,” Victoria and Pardo said in unison.

  “So, how should I go about it?”

  “We think,” Victoria, taking the floor and pushing up her slipping glasses, “the call gets complicated only if she has the money and is willing to give it back. To give us bad news you just have to say that Uncle Gustavo passed away—or any other name, we don’t have to agree on a name in particular. Then we exchange condolences, say he was such a nice man, and hang up. Next day Mr. Bencomo, Mr. Capdevila, and myself inform the government that we’ve lost one hundred thousand dollars and then go home, pack suitcases for the things we’ll need in jail, and kiss our children good-bye.”

  Uncomfortable looks and forced smiles were exchanged.

  “But in case she finds the money and is willing to give it back,” Victoria proceeded, “we ought to agree when, how, and where.”

  “It’s what I figured,” Elliot said, watching his step, fully alert.

  “In that case you would say that Uncle Gustavo has fully recovered and now wants to spend a week in Key West, from day A to day B in so-and-so month. Mr. Capdevila, or I, whoever is on our end, will say it’s great news—and we’ll mean it, too; probably never before or after in our lives will we be more relieved. Then we’ll predict that the son of a gun will live to a hundred, bla, bla, bla, and you’ll tell us the name of the Key West hotel where, on the last day you mentioned, someone will pick up the money for us, at 11:00 A.M., in the lobby.”

  As they had anticipated, Elliot frowned before making the right question. “And who will take the money to Key West and give it to this representative of yours? Mrs. Scheindlin?”

  Victoria shot a sideways glance to Pardo, who cleared his throat, as if realizing he should not take a stab at it but had been ordered to.

  “I assumed you would be willing to …” probingly.

  “Your assumption is 100 percent wrong, Mr. Capdevila,” the muscles at the base of his jaw bulging.

  Elliot had made his retort without thinking, peeved to discover that they wanted to make him their messenger boy, but his reluctance was what Victoria and Pardo expected, thus furnishing further confirmation that Elliot Steil was on the level. Had he agreed to take the money to Key West, they would have grown suspicious. Maybe he would suggest the obvious next. A little more prodding was necessary and the script said those lines were to be delivered by the spurious XEMIC vice president.

  “Carlos, please,” Pardo said, to mollify Elliot. “Of course, I understand. How stupid of me. But perhaps you have a friend who, for a small fee, would agree to do it?”

  Tony Soto came to Elliot’s mind. Tony was a cop; he had been approached by the FBI to make the introduction. The way things were going, perhaps Hart would want to involve him in the follow-through. But not knowing if his friend would approve, Elliot decided against mentioning him.

  “Listen, I know many honest people, but transporting a hundred thousand in cash is dangerous. What happens if the guy is robbed? Or if he steals the money and says he was robbed? Whoever is willing to pick up the cash for you could pick it up at Mrs. Scheindlin’s home in Miami Beach, then take it to Key West. Isn’t that possible?”

  A huge wave of self-complacency surged in Pardo and Victoria. They had planned it that way and painstakingly rehearsed it, word by word, to prompt Steil to suggest the obvious. The outcome had been as expected. Were they good or were they good? But her husband appeared to be flummoxed, Victoria noticed, as though that notion had not crossed his mind before. Her macho had a remarkable thespian talent.

  “Well, yes, I suppose so,” Pardo said. “Okay, then you tell us exactly the same thing, that Uncle Gustavo got well, that he will be in Key West between day A and day B in so-and-so month, and our man will go to Ms. Scheindlin’s the last day at 11:00 A.M. How does that sound?”

  “Sounds better to me. I don’t know if she would agree to seeing your man at her place.”

  “If she agrees to give it back,” Victoria observed, “why wouldn’t she do it at her home? That way she doesn’t have to move around with a briefcase full of cash.”

  Elliot nodded in agreement. “I guess you’re right.”

  “What’s her address?” Pardo asked as he extracted a notebook and ballpoint from his shirt pocket.

  Steil dictated Maria Scheindlin’s address and immediately added: “Now Carlos, Berta, I want it to be clearly understood that your emissary or representative or whatever you call it, will approach this woman only if she has the money and is willing to give it back. Under no circumstance will you, or anyone from XEMIC, the Cuban government, or the Miami Cubans that sympathize with this government, contact her if I report that Uncle Gustavo has died, okay?”

  “Okay,” husband and wife said simultaneously, repressing their desire to whoop and clap.

  “Good. Now tell me your phone number,” wanting to wrap it up.

  “Certainly. You know you have to punch 537 first, then 832-4969.”

  Steil pulled his wallet out, extracting the phony business cards they had given to him last Sunday. “Loan me your ballpoint,” he said.

  “I’m going to ask you,” Pardo said as he presented the pen to Elliot, “to rip up those cards now.”

  “Why?” Steil asked while reaching for the ballpoint, almost in the same instant that the reason for the strange request came to him.

  “You are returning to Miami on Sunday. I know it’s very unlikely, but suppose you are searched at the airport. Those cards say we are with XEMIC, a Cuban corporation …”

  “Enough,” Elliot said. “I understand.”

  He read the name on a card and gave it to Victoria, then surrendered the other to Pardo. On one of his business cards he jotted their phone number.

  “Anything else?” he asked.

  Pardo uncoiled himself from the seat. Victoria and Elliot imitated him.

  “I can’t find the words that would properly express …” Pardo began.

  “Hold it, Carlos,” Steil said, raising his hand. “You’ve very properly expressed your gratitude already. We’ll have to see how things pan out. But the possibility that you recover that money seems very small to me.”

  “I know, but you are our only hope. Remember that you have three new friends in Cuba. Mr. Bencomo, Ms. Berta, and myself.”

  “Who won’t be of any use to you in jail,” Berta said in jest. This time the smiles were real.

  “Thanks again for the pen.”

  Hands were shaken and Elliot escorted them to the door, opened it, closed it after they left. He folded down his hypocritical smile and hissed, “Hijos de puta.”

  …

  On Saturday, after verifying that Old Havana’s skid row remained in the same sorry state, Elliot bought presents in tourist shops. Next he visited two places he regretted not ever having been to: the old Presidential Palace, built in the twenties and decorated by Tiffany, and the Cuban gallery at the Museum of Fine Arts. Despite his orthopedic shoes, the many hours of walking around and standing made his feet hurt. He returned to the hotel after sunset. The lobby was teeming with a slew of young, good-looking women in tight-fitting clothes. A few let him know they were available by making eyes and smiling at him. A scalper tried to sell him a ticket for the evening’s baseball game. He had supper in his room, packed, and went to bed early.

  Victoria and Pardo made love twice on Saturday: after sunrise, before she left for the General Directorate, and before falling asleep close to 1:00 A.M. Victoria closed her eyes wishing she could find out how many men made love to their wives two times the same day after eleven years of marriage. Or was it that danger is the greatest aphrodisiac? She signed off before finding the answers.

  On Sunday, Elliot’s plane departed at 10:52 A.M. and landed in Miami forty-three minutes later.

  And a few minutes before midday on Sunday, in full regalia, Victoria Val
iente swaggered into the smoke-filled office of Gen. Edmundo Lastra and, standing at attention in front of his desk, saluted and said, “Permission to speak, Comrade Gabriel.”

  Lastra lifted his eyes from a file that contained an update of the orbits of American spy satellites over Cuba. It had been obtained from public sources at the request of Army Intelligence. The general felt sure that important hardware was going to be moved when no satellite was passing overhead. Which hardware he had not a clue. Compartmentalization.

  Too surprised to return the salute, Lastra realized that something was wrong, and with the circumspection and self-control with which he always faced crises, he rested the Lancero, which he had lit minutes earlier, in a glass ashtray. The courtesy shown to head honchos in the General Directorate of Intelligence was quite relaxed and excluded military manners. Desk and case officers wore mufti most of the time. Full-dress uniforms and ribbons were for the reviewing stand in anniversaries, promotions, and funerals. It was a Sunday. Had someone died? Lastra stared at the most intelligent of his “intelligents.” The only other time he had seen Micaela wearing her five-pointed gold star had been five months ago, that early morning when the Chief had pinned it on the jacket of the full-dress uniform she now had on.

  “Hey, what’s the matter?” Lastra asked, half smiling in puzzlement, showing cigar-stained teeth.

  “Comrade Gabriel. I suspect that my husband, retired major Manuel Pardo, is a thief and has betrayed the Revolution.”