Danny reached into his pocket for his Marlboros. His pants were so loose the outline of the pack didn't show. Cobo cupped his hand around the end of the cigarette while Danny lit it for him. He had weird reddish-brown hair that he slicked down with some kind of grease.
"Thanks."
Cobo didn't speak much English, but enough. Danny said, "Do you know that guy who just came in? He's the stepson of José Leiva. The dissident."
"Yeah?" Cobo pulled his knee up and draped a hand over it. His blue jeans were rolled at the cuffs, and he wore brown lace-up shoes.
Danny sat on the end of the next lounge chair and lit a cigarette for himself. "My father took us to their house the other night."
"Leiva's house?"
"Yeah, we listened to him talk his shit."
Cobo took a drag off his cigarette. "He's an opositor. They want to kill Fidel, to make the control by the rich, like before. You gonna see blood in the streets if they do that. Leiva is a friend of your father?"
"No, my father just knows him. He's not really his friend, per se. I wonder what his stepson is doing here? I mean, he's here to see my sister, supposedly, but they hate the army and the generals and everybody who runs the country, so it's kind of funny that Mario would come here acting all friendly and shit. General Vega can see right through him."
Cobo shrugged.
Danny said, "I think José Leiva asked him to come here. You know. He walks around, he sees how a general lives, and then they write about it and sell the story to foreign newspapers. That's what I think."
"Maybe. I don't know."
Cobo looked past him to the street. An old black Mercedes was turning into the driveway, parking behind Mario Cabrera's car. A blond woman in gold sunglasses got out and went around to open the trunk. Danny recognized her from last weekend. Olga something. She wore tight black pants and a red jacket with gold buttons. Last night Cobo had been crying over her, calling her a whore. Danny had tried to find out what was going on, but Cobo had been too drunk.
"Your girlfriend is here."
"Don't say that. Is not true."
Olga crossed the yard with a box, trying not to trip in her high heels. Coming up the steps, she saw Cobo and told him to help her. She had more stuff to bring in.
Cobo just looked back at her.
Danny flipped his cigarette into the bushes and went to open the door.
She said, "¿Cómo andas, mi amor? You speak Spanish? Not so good, eh? You are Anthony Quintana's son, no? Tell me, honey. Where is he?"
"He just left."
"Ay, qué pena." Frown lines showed over the top of her sunglasses. "When he is coming back?"
Danny told her he didn't know when. "Is it important? Maybe it's something I can assist you with?"
"Assist?"
"Help?"
"No, no, gracias, mi amor, is okay. Maybe I see him later. You don't know what time he is coming?"
"Sorry, I don't." He decided not to give her the cell phone number. "I'll tell him you need to speak to him. Does he know how to contact you?"
"Yes, he knows." She smiled. Her front teeth had a gap between them. "You are so sweet." Joo are so esweet. "And very handsome, like your father." She took the box inside and set it on the bench near the stairs. Aunt Marta came over to see what was going on. Olga took off her sunglasses and said, "Buenos días, compañera."
Aunt Marta asked her what was this stuff, and what was she was doing here today? Wasn't she supposed to bring this tomorrow? They didn't have time for this right now; they had to go shopping. She opened the box and took out some plastic cups and plates. The wrong color, completely wrong. They had wanted yellow, not blue.
Olga was sorry, but nothing else was available.
Aunt Marta asked her when the chairs and tables would be delivered. Olga said Friday. Aunt Marta said that wasn't soon enough, and they argued about it. Finally Aunt Marta went out on the porch and told Cobo to get off his butt and carry the stuff in from the car. Danny said he would help.
Walking across the yard, Cobo asked Danny what Olga had said to him on her way into the house.
"She said I was hot. She wanted to see me alone."
"She want to do it with you?"
"Yeah, man. She says she likes young guys. She's really sexy."
"Cono. Don' go with her. She's a woman from hell."
Danny laughed. They brought in boxes and some forms that looked like Greek columns, which they put against the wall in the living room. Gail Connor and her mother were coming down the stairs. Olga noticed them, and when Gail got to the bottom, Olga said, "You're Anthony Quintana's wife, no? And your mother? Hi. Hi. My name is Olga Saavedra. I am doing the party for Janelle. I am also a friend of Anthony, maybe he tell you about me? I used to be on TV, a show called Aquí la Noche."
The women shook their heads.
Olga took hold of Gail's arm. "Can I talk to you, if you got a minute, honey?"
She went out on the porch, taking Gail with her, and Danny could see them through the window, Gail nodding, acting like she wanted to get away at first, but then standing there and listening. Olga wrote something on a piece of paper, and Gail put it in the pocket of her shorts.
They helped Olga carry in some more stuff. When she had left, Marta told Cobo to go get the minivan and bring it around. They were about ready to go. She would drive. Since all this shit had just been dropped off, Cobo had to stay here and unpack it. And sweep the floor in the dining room—get rid of all that glitter. And after that, do the kitchen. The housekeeper wasn't coming in again today, and Marta didn't know why in hell they kept her around. What was the matter with people? Didn't anyone care? Like these damned plates. Blue? This was horrible.
The women stood there listening to her complain. The girls and Mario were in the dining room pretending not to hear it.
Aunt Marta finally dropped her hands by her sides. "Gail, thank you for offering to buy Jani a dress at La Maison, but I don't think it's right. No. We're not going to La Maison."
"¡Mami!"
"Ssst! Jani, be quiet. What I want to say, Gail, is that my children aren't used to luxury. It's bad for them. Like that woman who was here. Did you see her? What is she teaching the young people of this country, dressing that way, showing off her gold jewelry and her designer shoes?"
"¡Mami, por favor! ¡Gail quiere comprarme un vestido!"
"¡Jani, cállate!" Aunt Marta waved at her to be quiet. She said to Gail, "The children of Cuba don't have fine clothes, but they have their self-respect! Jani isn't better than anyone else. This isn't Miami. She isn't going to be like Olga Saavedra. What a parasite!"
Gail said, "Well; all right. We don't have to go to La Maison. Is there somewhere else?"
Janelle's fat face was turning red. She told her mother that Gail had promised to buy her a dress. Aunt Marta said all right, all right, you can have a dress, but from La Época or Centro Náutico or Carlos Tres.
"Carlos Tres? ¡Mami, no!"
Danny saw Karen go over to her mother. She spoke softly, but Danny could hear her. "Mom. Please don't make me go shopping. Can I go with Angela and Mario instead? Please?"
They barely fit in the car, a rear-engine Fiat with no shocks or muffler. Danny had to sit behind Mario and hold the front seat with his knees to keep it from sliding backward. Karen sat as far over on her side as possible. She hadn't known Danny was going. Too bad for her, the little bitch.
They went east on Fifth Avenue heading for the bridge over the Almendros River. Danny was getting to know the city pretty well, having been around with Gio. Angela opened her purse and took out a photograph of a house and set it in a crack on the dashboard, propping it against the windshield, which was also cracked.
She told Mario, "This is what the house used to look like. It's on Twenty-first Street. My family lived there for a hundred and fifty years. They came from Spain."
"¡Qué grande esa casa!"
Angela told him to speak English. He had to learn. If he wanted to come to
Miami to visit them, he had to practice.
Come to Miami?
Mario shifted gears and glanced at the photograph as he drove. "A big house. Is you gran'mother house?"
"That's right. The house of my grandmother. Mi abuela. My father's mother. Her name was Caridad Pedrosa. A very beautiful woman."
"Beautiful like you?"
Angela smiled. "Caridad fell in love, se enamoró, with Luis Quintana. That's my grandfather. You know him. He was a soldier, very poor. His family worked in the sugar fields. Caridad's family was very rich."
Karen put her chin on the back of Angela's seat to listen. Danny had already heard this story a thousand times. He tuned it out and looked at the scenery. Fifth was a wide boulevard with flowers and trees in a grassy median. A lot of the embassies were on this street.
Angela finally got to the end of the story. "Her father said no, forget it, you can't marry this poor soldier, but one night Luis came to her window and threw a little rock to let her know he was there, and she ran away with him."
"Okay. You gran'mother, the beautiful rich girl, is in love ... with the poor soldier, no? Muy romántico."
"Yes. A romantic story. But very sad too. After the Revolution, she went to Miami with her parents, sus padres, and she died there. My grandfather stayed here in Cuba."
Mario picked up the photo again. "I think ... I think I see this house. Maybe ... derrumba'o." He shook his head sadly. "You know what is that?"
"You mean it collapsed? ¿Se cayó?"
He squeezed her hand. "Maybe another house. I don't know."
Danny wanted to put both feet on the driver's seat and shove. He wanted a smoke too, but his sister would tell their father about it. He shifted to make some room for his legs, and his knee accidentally brushed Karen's. She pulled away and shot him a bird. He shot her one back.
She tossed her stringy hair out of her eyes. "You broke my iPod, you jerkoff. You did it on purpose."
"It was broken already."
"Liar. It was in perfect condition before you got your grimy hands on it. You're going to buy me another one. Your father said you had to."
"Well, Karen, if we see a Macintosh store in Havana, I will be happy to buy you another iPod."
Angela turned her head to look at him. "Danny, leave her alone." She asked Mario if he was going to his parents' house Wednesday night. She was thinking of going. His mother had invited her. Mario didn't know what she was talking about, so she explained it in Spanish. The meeting of the independent librarians. Would Mario be there?
"If you're there, I'll come too," she said. "It would be interesting. We could go out later. Go out? Dancing?"
"Okay. I will like to dance with you."
Jesus, what a suck-up, Danny thought.
Angela said, "Danny, come to the meeting with us. You might learn something. You've heard so much shit from Giovany, all his lies."
"Sorry, Angie. I'm only grounded through tonight. On Wednesday me and Gio are going out."
"Fine. Be stupid." She scooted around in her seat to look at Mario again. "So. When are you coming to Miami?"
"To Miami? Never. They don't let me go."
"Yes, they will. My uncle knows everybody. He would fix it for you."
"Okay. You ask him. Say Mario Cabrera wants to go to Miami. And we see."
"All right, I will!"
"No, no, no."
They started arguing in Spanish, and Danny picked up that Mario didn't think the general would do anything for him, the son of dissidents, please don't even ask. He made her promise not to bother the general with it. Angela said she wouldn't, but she was going to speak to her father about it, whether Mario liked it or not. She smiled at him.
"Okay. For you, beautiful, I will come to Miami."
Danny stared at the back of Mario Cabrera's head, at his curly black hair. He was using Angela to get to the United States. It was obvious. He didn't give a shit about her, he just wanted out.
Mario turned south on Twenty-sixth, and they started going back and forth on the side streets. He pointed at one big house, but Angela held up the photo and shook her head. After about half an hour of this, she yelled, "Stop! Mario, stop, that's it!"
Trees made a tunnel of leaves over the street. Mario parked the car outside the wrought-iron fence, which had mostly rusted away. They walked to the bottom of the broken, weedy driveway and looked at the house. It was completely gray. All the paint had faded or flaked off the concrete blocks and wood trim. Electric wires sagged across the front of it. Two of the columns had fallen down, and metal scaffolding held up the balcony. A woman with curlers in her hair was hanging laundry up there. Glass was missing out of most of the windows, and strips of wood had been nailed over two of them. Some black guys sat on the front porch. Another man, wearing no shirt, came out of the house and looked at the four people at the end of the driveway. The others turned to see what he was looking at. One of them smiled and waved.
They looked happy. They probably were happy, Danny thought. They didn't pay rent. They didn't have to work some crap job, fifty hours a week. They could stay on the porch all day and not bother anybody, and nobody would bother them.
Mario told Angela he would go ask permission for her to take some pictures. He would explain that she was American, and her family used to live here.
"Mario, wait. Come back."
"This is the house, no?"
"Yes, but... I don't want to take a picture. Let's just go."
He smiled at her and took her hand. "Okay. I understand." He touched her forehead. "The beautiful house is here. En tus sueños."
"In my dreams." Angela made a little laugh. "I guess that's true."
"You can tell everybody you couldn't find it," Karen said.
"Damn. It's so awful"
"Well, what are we going to do now?" Karen said. "Do we have to go back?"
Mario put his arms around the girls. "Come on, ladies. I take you to Lenin Park. We going to have a good time."
They headed back for the car. Danny walked behind them. Invisible. He could feel the hatred for Mario Cabrera like a force inside him, pushing on his ribs, making his neck hot. His hands were sweating. User. Parasite. His father had given Mario money, and Mario was going to try to screw Angela to get out of Cuba.
Danny imagined his forefinger sending a red laser beam that focused on Mario Cabrera's head. I have the power to destroy you. I have the power, and you don't even know it.
22
From the city, the best route to Las Playas del Este, the beaches east of Havana, is the tunnel under the bay. The road emerges near El Morro and becomes the Via Monumental, a four-lane highway going past the sports stadium, then south of Cojimar, where Hemingway kept his fishing boat. Anthony Quintana had not been this way for several years, but his recollection was clear. He turned onto Vía Blanca, drove for another mile or two, then headed north to Santa Maria del Mar.
He left the rental car in a lot, gave the grizzled attendant a dollar, and crossed the street to the beach. Traffic was sparse, and the flat-roofed houses and shops wanted paint. The sun went in and out of heavy clouds, and the wind tossed the fronds of the palm trees. It would rain before evening. He saw a man in khaki shorts at a pizza stand, the only customer. The man wore a black Che Guevara beret with a red star on the front.
Anthony walked to the farthest of the thatch-roofed tables. A cat with half its tail missing streaked out from under the bench seat and looked back at him, ears flattened, before vanishing into the weeds.
Everett Bookhouser came over with two red cans of Tu-Cola. "Ever since they cracked down on the prostitutes, this beach has taken a nosedive." He set one of the sodas in front of Anthony, who pushed it aside. "No, thanks. Where'd you get the hat?"
"I bought it off my landlady's kid for three bucks." Bookhouser removed the beret and tossed it to the table. He sat on the other bench. His short hair was the same gray as the clouds, and by contrast his eyes, set in their bony sockets, seemed intensely blue. "
Vega and I had a talk yesterday. Did he tell you about it?"
"No."
"You don't know what he's asking for?" "No."
"A million dollars. As soon as it's in an account in Grand Cayman, he'll talk to us. He says he can find his own way out. When he gets wherever it is he's going— and it won't be the United States—he'll call." Bookhouser looked at Anthony a while longer before saying, "Was that your idea?"
"What do you mean? The million dollars? I wish I'd thought of it. Depending on how much you need him, it could be a bargain."
"Was it your idea that he avoid U.S. jurisdiction?"
"It didn't come up."
"We're not going to pay him to thumb his nose at us from Argentina or Beijing or wherever he plans to surface."
"What do you expect me to do about it?" "Change his mind."
"I did what you asked me to," Anthony said. "I put you in touch with him."
"Let me remind you," Bookhouser said, leaning closer. "If he stays here, somebody's going to try to set him up for crimes against the state. For a man of his rank, that means a life sentence—or worse. Vega is aware of this. We're making a good offer, but he has to cooperate. He contacted me. We talked. He's ours now. If he backs out, there have been suggestions made about dropping hints to State Security that Vega is on our side. I personally don't like that kind of squeeze, but there it is."
With a laugh, Anthony said, "I think you like it a lot." Bookhouser's gaze remained steady. "I want you to convince me that Ramiro Vega isn't going to scam us."
"He's being careful. He'd be crazy not to. What about my sister? Did he say he had talked to her?"
"Nope. He didn't say." Bookhouser pulled back the tab on his soda can. "I assured him of safe passage for the family. He said he'd handle it. The guy has a set of balls." Bookhouser held his soda without drinking it. "Did he tell you he might ask Olga Saavedra to go with him? Is that going through his mind?"
"I don't believe he would do that," Anthony said. "Why do you ask?"
"Céspedes doesn't trust her. She's terrified of prison, and she wants to get the hell out of Cuba. Put those together, and you have someone who could be persuaded to turn on Ramiro Vega. I told Vega about it. He didn't seem too worried—but he doesn't reveal a whole lot, does he? You said she wanted to ask you for a favor. Why don't you go ahead and talk to her? Find out what it is. And tell Ramiro to keep his mouth shut, even with his wife, until we get the details figured out. What's he got against coming to the United States?"
Suspicion of Rage Page 20
