by Matt Lincoln
“Call me ‘Mike,’ señorita.” He forced a smile. “I understand, and no, I can’t talk about it, Ethan.”
I shrugged. “I didn’t ask.”
“You wanted to.”
“I’m not asking,” I told him. I’m asking when we get home, though, I thought. He must have pissed off some important people.
“Regardless, the order stands,” Nuñez said. “Mr. Birch, then. We are confining you to this house. If you really do have contacts who can work with us, provide that information if not to us, at least to Agents Holm and Marston.”
Mike gave her a nod. “Yes, ma’am.”
Our conversation was interrupted by sharp raps on the front door. Arturo signaled for everyone to stay seated. He answered the door, spoke with the new arrival, and then showed him in. A lean man of Holm’s height entered. He carried several greasy, good-smelling bags and handed them to Arturo, who met the action with a deep scowl. The stocky guard took the bags to the kitchen adjoining the room we were in.
“Philippe!” Nuñez’s grin at the man rankled for a reason I didn’t want to examine. She stood. “Everyone, this is my friend of many years, Philippe Molina. Are you here for the next guard shift?”
Philippe nodded. “The schedule changed. Señor Renteria will be back tomorrow. We’re doing twelve hours, noon to midnight.”
His English was as good as Nuñez’s, but with little trace of an accent. He had a rakish air and dark hair with hints of gold. It was easy to see why Nuñez was happy to see a familiar face when it was as pretty as his.
Arturo returned from the kitchen and glowered at Philippe. Whatever was going on there didn’t auger well for anyone’s protection.
“I will see you in twelve hours,” Arturo said in heavily accented English, and then he left. The diesel engine of his cousin’s car rattled a window for a few seconds until he was away from the house.
We gathered in the kitchen for the food that Philippe had brought. Clyde pulled containers of arroz con pollo, empanadas, and a sweet potato dish from one bag. Nuñez fished out chickpea stew and a couple of beans-and-rice dishes. Dessert came in the form of fried plantains. Nuñez chuckled.
“What’s so funny?” I asked with a smile.
“I made these for mi madre yesterday.” She set the container aside to be opened after we ate the main dishes. “I’m sure these will be delicious, but never as delicious as Mami’s recipe.”
“Secret ingredient?” Mike, ever the bar owner, asked. “If they’re that good, I’ll add them to the menu at the Tango Hut.”
“The Tango Hut?” A tiny crease formed between her eyebrows. “I don’t understand.”
Half the weight Mike carried dropped from his shoulders as he launched into a description of the tacky yet loveable bar. He switched between English and Spanish with fluidity and entertained his new audience while we ate.
The fried plantains were, indeed, good. If we got Mike back to his bar in one piece, I’d make sure he got them onto the menu.
CHAPTER 10
Nuñez drove us to the meet in a Geely Emgrand, a decent SUV that Philippe had brought from her office. She maneuvered the vehicle in the tentative stops and turns that were marks of an inexperienced driver. In a country where running vehicles were precious commodities, I didn’t blame her for being careful.
“Dobla a la derecha,” Philippe said. Nuñez turned right at the next intersection, which led to an alley. “Aquí.”
We parked by a walkway that went between a pair of apartment buildings. Philippe went ahead of us to scout for trouble. He stopped at a simple door and knocked. We joined him as the door opened.
Felix Ortega appeared more haggard than in the photo Nuñez had shown us. He was on the short side of average and held more than a little pudge around the middle. A stubby cigar hung out of his mouth. I’d say he frowned, but between his heavy eyelids and deep crags.
He waved us into a janitorial space and closed and locked the door on our tails. A battered mattress with a thin blanket lay on the floor next to a backpack and small box with a loaf of bread. A faint whiff of urine came from somewhere in the room, and I noted a stash of tissue next to a drain.
“I can’t go home until those men are arrested,” Ortega blurted out before we had a chance to introduce ourselves. He put his cigar out on the cinderblock wall and set it on a flattened tin can next to the mattress. Ortega rubbed his hands together and looked at the floor. “They found out that I told that American where his friend’s boat sank.”
Philippe stepped forward. “You’ll be home before you know it,” he told Ortega. He grinned in my direction. “These are two of the best investigators in America. If anyone can do it, they can.”
I cleared my throat. Best investigators in the States? Not by a long shot, but we did have a good clear rate.
“I’m Special Agent Marston, and this is my partner, Special Agent Holm.” I offered my hand, but Ortega looked at it as if it would bite. I dropped my hand. “The sooner we take them down, the sooner you’ll be safe. A great start would be the names of the people behind the operation.”
Ortega shook his head.
“No lo sé. These people keep their names secret. How do they do this job otherwise? I do know the jefe is in America. Maybe Florida?”
“Do the buyers order from here or Florida?” I asked.
“Sometimes one. Sometimes the other.” Ortega’s Adam’s apple bobbed. “There is a middle man. He works with referrals. If a buyer is lucky, they might run into him on the Malecón, but most of the time, they have to know a friend of a friend.”
“So if someone wants to buy one of these cars, they need a way in.” I looked into Ortega’s eyes. “Do you know someone who might sponsor a couple of Miami playboys?”
“Not anymore.” He met my look with his bloodshot eyes. “I think that if I stay low, I can maybe wait this out. If they find out that I gave out information, and if they stay in charge, I am dead for sure.”
Ortega paced the tiny room and continued to rub his hands. He looked between the four of us as if we might jump him. Whoever these people were, they had this guy all shook up.
“Do you really think they’ll forget you told us about that boat?” Holm hooked his thumbs in his pockets. “You’re fooling yourself if you think you can live in the open before they’re gone.”
Ortega closed his eyes. “You are right, of course.”
“Do you have family?” I asked in a gentle tone.
“Not anymore.” Ortega shrugged. “My wife went back to her family when she learned what I really did for a living. That was a long time ago, and I did not care to try love again.”
“Sounds to me like you don’t have a lot left to lose.” I gestured around the grimy room. “Help us. Get a fresh start.”
His eyes narrowed into a calculating look I recognized from years of dealing with criminals the world over. When a guy like that realizes he holds the cards, he will play them the best he can, but this guy hadn’t played cards with Holm and me. I waited for his opening.
“Get me asylum in America,” he demanded. “You do that, and I’ll give you the middle man’s name.”
Nuñez glared. “No. I can see about cleaning your record, but you do not go to the United States.”
I gestured at her with my thumb. “She’s the boss here. I don’t have that kind of pull, but hey, getting your record purged is a pretty big deal.”
“Asylum or I don’t talk.” Ortega crossed his arms.
“Say, Felix, does the building manager know you’re living here?”
The room didn’t seem to be in regular use. There were no cleaning supplies other than a broom on its last few straws, and the only tools were a few basics stashed in a milk crate.
“I’m here with permission,” Ortega insisted. He cut a sharp look to the left, caught himself, and met my eye. “I paid to borrow the key.”
“Mmm-hmm.” I went over to where a key hung on a nail above the mattress. “I gotta wonder if the perso
n you borrowed the key from is supposed to give it out.” I plucked the key off of the nail. “Holm, let’s take Señor Ortega to the building manager to see about it.”
“Yes, I would like to know the answer to this question as well,” Nuñez stated.
Philippe grabbed Ortega’s arm before Holm even took a step toward the rotund little man. He marched a protesting Ortega toward the door, but I blocked him.
“Felix, I’d hate for you to lose your hidey-hole.” I held my hands out with palms up. “It wouldn’t take much to get the word out that you’re staying here.”
Ortega’s eyes widened, and he tried to pull out of Philippe’s grip, but the guard barely moved.
“Please, señor, I retired. I just want out of the business,” Ortega moaned.
Nuñez stepped in front of the old smuggler. She looked down her nose at him and folded her arms across her chest with an air of disdain.
“Every choice you make has consequences,” she said. “You can’t escape your past. Own it and do something right.” She nodded toward me. “It would be a shame for these agents to mention you to the wrong person.”
Not bad for someone unused to participating in investigations. She caught on quickly. Even better, it was the final straw. Ortega slouched and stopped resisting Philippe’s restraint.
“I have a name,” he said. “It’ll be up to you to find him. He changed his pattern since… since I spoke to the man who was looking for his friend.”
At my nod, Philippe released Ortega. The older man rubbed his hands together and took several deep breaths. He looked around the room as though looking for a way out of his situation.
“The name, and you won’t have to deal with us again,” I told him. “Assuming it pans out.”
“Javier González.” Ortega sighed, went over to his cigar, and relit it. “He worked with me, learned how to make connections. Now he uses the connections to make money.”
“Can he still be found on the Malecón?” Holm asked.
Ortega nodded. “I think so. Los Lobos Locos and Calle de Baile are your best chances. Maybe.”
“Maybe?” Nuñez’s voice turned sharp.
“He likes those clubs. Maybe he still goes, just not the same nights.” Ortega took a deep puff on the cigar and exhaled too soon to savor the smoke. “Speak about cars where staff can hear you. If he is there, they will tell him what they heard.”
“It’s hard to hear anything in a club,” Holm pointed out.
“No, no. Not the dance floor.” Ortega pointed up. “The balcony. Order drinks. Big tips.”
For claiming not to know González’s patterns, Ortega sure had a handle on what they might be.
“Thank you for your time, Señor Ortega,” I said with a light smile. “Good luck with getting your life back. I’m sure the nice people at the liaison’s office will be happy to help you get your record cleared.”
“If the information is useful, I will do what I can,” Nuñez said with a nod.
Once we piled back into the Emgrand, Nuñez turned to face me.
“Do you think his information will lead you to the people responsible?” Doubt etched worry lines at the corners of her eyes. “Maybe this will be cleared up soon?”
“It’s a good start but too early to tell,” I admitted, and then I smiled. “Señorita Nuñez, how would you like to spend the evening on the Malecón?”
She blinked. “You want me to go with you?”
“You’re our liaison and supposed to stick with us.” I grinned wider.
She looked at Philippe, and he nodded. “We follow their lead, Yoani.”
“Okay.” She turned around in the seat and put the Emgrand in gear. “Let’s get ready to dance.”
I forced a smile, but there was a ridiculous tug in my chest than didn’t care for the way her first name had rolled off Philippe’s lips. Holm raised a brow. He knew my expressions, and I had a feeling he saw the smile hadn’t been genuine.
I looked down and shook my head. We’d known Nuñez for less than a day, and here I was, getting annoyed by another man showing her attention. One would think I wouldn’t fall for pretty faces so easily. One would be wrong.
CHAPTER 11
I hated hair gel. Holm did not, and he made a point of making me look younger than I felt.
“It’s a light gel, for crying out loud,” Holm said when I complained.
“You never tried to push this stuff on me before.” I dodged his oh-so-helpful palm. “What’s gotten into you?”
“Well, Liam King, you’re taking a gorgeous woman out dancing.” Holm’s wicked grin about earned him a punch in the arm. “You should at least try to give the impression that you’re trying to impress her.”
“I’ll impress that gel bottle up your—”
“Gentlemen, are you ready?” Nuñez asked from the door to our room. “I want to get this over with.”
Holm and I froze, and I held back a whistle. Nuñez wore a simple red dress with spaghetti straps. Her thick, dark-brown hair hung in waves down her back and over her shoulders. The locks went almost down to her rear like I’d guessed earlier.
The dress’s sequin-lined hem ended halfway down her thigh. Her legs were slightly knock-kneed, but not so bad as to cause her difficulty. In fact, it looked kind of cute when paired with the red heels she sported. They were a lighter red than the dress, but anyone who cared could try telling me to my face.
Nuñez frowned at us and scoffed. “Put your tongues back in your mouths, boys. This is business.” She directed a fierce gaze at me.
“My tongue is in my mouth,” I protested. “You clean up well, Señorita Nuñez. I bet you’ll turn heads when we go out.”
Her cheeks reddened, and she broke eye contact. She looked at Holm instead, saw the blob of hair gel still in his hand, and then shook her head.
“Be ready in ten minutes.” She stalked toward the stairs and then called out, “I mean it, pretty boys.”
The way she said “pretty boys” did not sound like a compliment, but it didn’t sound as harsh as it could have either.
“You have drool on your chin.” Holm laughed as he ran the gel through his blond hair. “Maybe try not to let your jaw hit the ground next time.”
“I don’t have drool on my chin.” I wiped my chin anyway. “I’ll wait downstairs while you get gussied up.”
Holm chuckled and started whistling, which he knew would drive me away. He was terrible at whistling. The guy could not hold a tune if his life depended on it. Believe me. We found out the hard way once.
Nuñez and Philippe met us in the family room. She had photos of Javier González along with a thin file.
“He’s done well at avoiding charges,” she informed us. “The police are aware of his activities, but there isn’t enough evidence for them to act on it.”
As if a lack of evidence stopped Cuban officials from arresting people the government didn’t like. My guess was that González had someone in his pocket. Maybe a few someones.
The photos were a mix of surveillance shots, the only mugshot ever taken of the man, and the one from his government-issued ID. He was on the taller side of average and appeared to be in pretty good condition as the young thirty-something he was. González was good-looking but nothing out of the ordinary. In some professions, it paid not to look like an underwear model. I looked for a telling feature and decided to look for the nickel-sized birthmark just below his left ear.
“Let’s roll,” I told everyone. On the way out to the Emgrand, I held Holm back. “I don’t think she should talk to this González character. If she slips up, we’ll lose him and start from scratch.”
Holm snorted. “We’re barely beyond scratch as it is.”
“Don’t remind me.”
The short drive over to Miramar and El Vedado, which were districts along the Malecón, was quiet. One Señorita Nuñez wasn’t prone to chatter, but she was even less talkative. Okay, maybe gaping at her the way I did had intimidated her. Guilt tried to prickle at
me, but I pushed it aside by resolving to make time for her to enjoy life a little along the waterfront.
We went to Los Lobos Locos first. The crazy wolves theme extended to the building’s entrance. The red door had a wide-eyed wolf painted in the middle. Its mouth hung open with tongue hanging out. Drool dripped onto its chin. For some reason, Holm found the image funny. I wouldn’t know why.
A live salsa band played as Havana’s young and wealthy spun and dazzled beneath the pulsing lights. It was the first time I heard that spin on salsa, and I had to admit I didn’t hate it. The people on the dance floor had decent taste, I decided.
Philippe whispered something in Nuñez’s ear and then disappeared. She made a vague move-on gesture when I frowned in his direction. We wove through the throng and made our way to the bar where they had two beers on tap and a finite list of cocktails.
Ortega had been right about the balcony. When we asked, the dapper bartender pointed and grinned.
“You won’t be there for long. The beat will draw you to the floor!”
“Maybe not,” I answered with a smile of my own. “We’ll knock back a few drinks and see.”
He nodded. “My girls will check in on you.” He handed us the simple drinks we’d ordered. “Enjoy!”
As we went up rickety stairs to the balcony, the song ended, and lights went down. A single spotlight aimed up at a moon painted on a wall to the left of the stage. The crowd howled and jumped in rhythm to a driving bass beat.
They carried on as we found a sticky wood table with four rough-hewn seats, which had a great view of the dance floor and band. When the lights came back up, the lead singer grabbed a trumpet. The band launched into a fast tempo, and the dancers dove in with glee. I had to admit I enjoyed watching from the otherwise empty balcony.
“Sure you don’t want to go dance, Robbie?” I asked.
