***
“The key”—Kayak Jim points at a nine-foot nurse shark patrolling the dock pylons—“if one’s intention is to arrive in Castro’s Cuba illegally, is to land just before sunset in one of the back bays of the Jardines del Rey. Water’s too unpredictable on the ocean side.”
“The ocean side would be the Camagüey Breaks?”
“Roger that.”
Next to my laptop on Hotel Boblo’s dock, I unroll the nautical chart I brought from Chicago. The Jardines del Rey are strung along Cuba’s eastern coastline—120 miles of islands and reefs, one of which is Cayo Romano, where Susie Devereux wrecked. Cayo Romano is two hours from Rum Cay, if one has a seaplane and a deranged pilot. I offer the coveted Witches of Eastwick photo and $300.
Bobby Little steps in grinning and takes the $300. “Your contribution to store-bought dog food and this year’s Burning Man.”
Kayak Jim grabs the photo, then two of the hundreds. “Gas costs money.”
Time to fly.
Rum Cay’s airstrip is littered with DC-3s (shock)—in and out of the water—planes that might’ve had more cocaine aboard than they could fly, or maintenance logs that might’ve been a tad outdated. Carlos Lehder’s infamous Norman’s Cay (cocaine ground zero in the 1980s) is fifty miles northwest.
Kayak Jim’s Cessna 172 Skyhawk vibrates in the water. He wraps a WWI aviator’s scarf around his neck, says, “Onward,” and gooses the throttle. We’re airborne well before our blue-water runway ends at the seawall coral.
The trip to Cuba is loud and low altitude in the copilot seat. “Low altitude” in a single-engine Caribbean seaplane translates to hot, cramped, and National Geographic beautiful.
Two hours into the 250-mile flight, Kayak Jim banks to the south, then due west. He says, “Cuba,” to a string of islands, then drops toward the southeastern end.
The pale-blue water is so bright it hurts my eyes. He points across a long, ragged archipelago with a huge inland bay and a mouth to the ocean. On the west side of the bay is a small one-story town. The town’s docks are bigger than its buildings.
Kayak Jim says, “Ciudad de Nuevitas,” and banks north. “See the railroad tracks? Castro’s sugar port. We land in that bay, we go to prison.”
I say, “Cayo Romano. I need to see it.”
“Dead ahead.” He points at an atoll shaped like a winged skull.
Cayo Romano is arid and sparse, dotted with odd chunks of dense green, and no buildings. The Camagüey Breaks side is foamy reef.
Kayak Jim says, “We could land on the back side in the bay after I fly over and spook the birds. If you want to talk to anyone, we’re better off back near the fishing village.” He thumbs over his shoulder. “You speaka da Spanish? Nobody down there’ll be speaking English.”
I give my pilot a thumbs-up, certain my racetrack Spanish will carry the day.
***
Kayak Jim taxis me into a protected length of knee-deep water but won’t take money to stay. “Not losing my plane. Find a landline; call; I’ll fly back. Your best chance to avoid Mariel prison is stay on the bay side of the cays, away from any civilization except fishermen. Castro’s defense against beach landings by Americans ain’t a joke. And don’t ask about the Gryphon; these out-island Cubans are serious la bruja—witch—people. A Gryphon question may get you burned at the stake or chopped into fish bait.”
“Anything else?”
“Yeah. You know about the Santeria, right? The Palo Mayombe Santeria in particular?”
“Some. Maybe.”
“The bad version is Haitian vodou, the blood-and-death shit from up by Souvenance. The Santeria’s, in Spanish, got the orishas—that’s their saints. And their priests, the palero and palera. Do not step on any saints or priests. Also, anything with ‘black’ in it you interpret as Vaya con Dios—get the fuck outta Dodge.”
Kayak Jim’s Skyhawk does the into-the-sunset goodbye, then banks southeast.
I walk, climb, and wade what I can of the Camagüey Breaks, looking for my Bond girl’s ghost in the sunset and foam. Even the low waves crash. Coral heads appear and disappear in the foam. Susie D.’s coastline isn’t one you’d approach on purpose, not in a storm, and not with Susie D.’s history in boats and water. She had to be running, chancing her way through the coral, hoping it killed whoever was chasing her.
I wait for Susie to do the scantily clad Dr. No Bond-girl entrance and solve the mystery.
She doesn’t.
I spend the night without her, nibbled upon by rock crabs near a maze of inland shallows. The sky is a star carpet; godly, if I were to be honest.
At sunrise, I pee on the crabs for biting me, drink the last of my water, and head for the fishing village.
As I approach, a tiny smiling woman and a boy in mismatched gym shoes meet me.
I mention Susie D.’s boat crash three years ago.
“Si! Si!” The boy has a big Cuban voice. “La bruja Palo Mayombe! She is alive after the four boats explode! Vela negra palera!”
The boy’s mother jerks him to her.
The kid points. “There. Between the lighthouses at Cayo Confites and Faro Colón!”
The mother slaps him silent.
In racetrack Spanish, vela negra would mean “black candle.” Black candle and palera in the same sentence would be Kayak Jim’s “really fucking scary woman.”
The boy’s mother points me south, where her now-crying son pointed, says, “Faro Colón,” and drags her boy back toward the village.
I yell, “Con permiso, señora?”
She looks over her shoulder, but keeps walking. I put three US tens—a month’s wages—on the high coral, add a busted conch shell on top, and say, “No problema. Gracias.”
For three hours, I trek coral and scrub and wade tide-pool ocean to reach the lighthouse at Faro Colón. The tower is a biggie, better than 150 feet, and chalk white. The keeper is outside tending a garden patch with occasional palm trees and breezy white sand. He stands, removes a cane-cutter’s guajiro straw hat, and welcomes me in Spanish, glancing for my vehicle.
I say thanks, then repeat what the boy told me.
The keeper chills. “This boy is mistaken, a spreader of tales, like all children. No persons survived the explosions. Absolutely no one. Except, possibly a honey-bee-colored woman.”
“And?” I offer one US twenty.
The keeper requires three more to utter another word. He 360s our middle of nowhere, then he says, “This woman, who some say might have survived—some say this but not me—is taken by mulañé fletera into the convent near Camagüey.”
At the racetrack, mulañé fletera translates to “mulatto prostitute,” but this far out in the bush it could mean “President Kennedy.” Who the hell knows? I ask, but the lighthouse keeper won’t explain.
He points me down the steps of his lighthouse into the low hills and sun glare. “Convento Nuestra Señora de Regla.”
“Señora who?”
“Señora de Regla. The Black Virgin, the Black Madonna.” He crosses himself, points north. “She stands high above Havana Bay.”
“Was the woman somebody special in Cuba? Why take her to the Black Madonna’s convent?”
The keeper looks both directions, touches the inside of his wrists.
“Her wrists? I don’t get it. No entiendo.”
“When the mulatta wipe away the blood”—his voice breaks—“they say the woman have the marks.”
“What kinda marks?”
He steps backward into the lighthouse.
“What? Like suicide cuts? Stigmata?”
The door slams shut between us.
I knock, repeatedly, wave more twenties, take a wild shot and shout: “The Gryphon?”
No reaction. No faces in the small windows.
In the ’80s (my rum-salesman history in t
he region), I went to Havana six or eight times from Kingston for Myers’s Rum. The black statue that stands high above Havana Bay was Mecca to a specific group of people.
The sun rises all the way out of the Atlantic to scorch the air, me, and the sand. I lather on Banana Boat sunscreen, then begin the trek inland from the Camagüey Breaks.
The Cuban sun is hot on my neck. Three hours into the trek, the final miles to the convent begin to feel like the ill-advised, ill-equipped sunset trip to Dracula’s castle. What little I do know about Palo Mayombe Santeria is that it is serious crazy shit in this part of the world—witch dread they borrowed from European religions that already thought burning and drowning their congregations was reasonable. Add the slave trade and African alchemy. No telling what kinda reception they provide Americans “on a mission from God” at a convent that wants witches.
Bad thought: Maybe Belushi and Aykroyd imported Sister Mary Stigmata from there.
A rumbling sugarcane wagon rolls up on me and stops in the diesel stink and smoke. The driver smiles down from the faded blue cab. Behind him, ten cane cutters and their machetes ride inside the wire mesh that baskets the wagon bed. I catch a ride for ten fabulous miles, drink all the water I can from the jug the cane cutters offer, and don’t mention the convent until the wagon stops to turn off the main road.
I hop out the back, dust off the cane shreds and spiders, say, “Gracias, amigos,” then in Spanish ask about Convento Nuestra Señora de Regla.
None of the brown faces answer.
The driver grinds the wagon into gear, waves me up to the cab, points farther west, then touches a red-and-black card hanging from his rearview mirror. On the card is a bell-shaped face with beads around the forehead.
I say, “Gracias. Vaya con Dios,” and salute with two fingers.
The driver squints at my mention of God, stares at the inside of my wrist, touches the card again, touches that finger to his lips, then rumbles the wagon across the road.
I choke on the diesel, remind myself that the Flyers need me to do this, then look west where the driver pointed.
I arrive outside the convent at sunset; perfect timing if you’re making a horror movie. The good news is there’s no “inside” to get trapped in and tortured. What’s still standing of Dracula’s castle are sections of scorched walls, bits of rubble, and a goat eating weeds and grass. I fisheye the goat—cloven hoof, horns; you know. He makes no move that a real goat wouldn’t make. I wander as it gets darker, dragging fingertips on the walls, talking to the scorch marks and rubble.
“So, Susie, did the witches bring you here? Breathe life back into you?”
Night falls. No Susie Devereux. No Dracula rises from the ground; no la bruja vela negra appears; and better still, no Sister Mary Stigmata. My issues with night terrors are real, even if this Dracula’s castle isn’t. Me and my talisman sleep outside the walls just to be safe.
At sunrise, I hunt for any trace of Susie Devereux three years ago; a clue or a connection that might matter. After an hour, I say goodbye to seeing Susie D. alive in lingerie and the bonus from Barlow that would buy a bigger chunk of the Flyers’ legal defense fund. My feet say hello to the cracked highway, centipedes, and scorpions that will collectively lead me to water and the airport east of ciudad de Camagüey.
***
The police at Camagüey’s airport offer me water and a chance not to go to prison. After I down my third bottle, they ask about my condition. In tourist English, I tell them, “I walked to a convent, then back here, something called the Nuestra Señora or something. Didn’t realize it was that far. Never found it.”
The police nod. In Spanish, one says, “A convent, yes. But this building burned down three years ago.”
“Three years, huh? How’d the fire start? Anybody hurt?”
Shrug. Narrower eyes.
I’m too stupid to shut up. “Any idea where the survivors of the fire went?”
One of the policemen steps forward and says, “Passport, por favor.”
He takes me to an airport policeman with epaulets and subordinates who transports me in handcuffs to el jefe in Camagüey. Seems I have no entry stamp in my USA passport and no visa. I miss the next international plane while they check and recheck my passport, asking me repeatedly: “Why are you in Cuba with no visa or stamp?”
“Again, señor, I came in by seaplane, intended to ask the officials not to stamp my passport so I wouldn’t get in trouble back home. You know, ‘No estampa, por favor’? But I couldn’t find any officials. I went to the lighthouse hoping he could tell me who to see. Sorry.”
“Your intention was to visit Cayo Romano, yes?”
“To fly over it, and we did, twice.”
“Before you went to Faro Colón, the lighthouse?”
The lighthouse keeper must have a phone. Duh? “Yes, we flew over Cayo Romano before I walked to the lighthouse.”
“And there you ask about a woman.” He cuts to the name carved across the lifeline of my right palm.
“No, not her.”
“This woman you ask about, she is a survivor of—”
“The wife of a friend was on one of the boats that sank at Cayo Romano three years ago. No one in the USA knows what happened to her.” I say a silent thank-you that I am not holding the Witches of Eastwick photo that includes a Cuban revolutionary of unspecified politics. “The wife’s name is Lisa Reins, from Moore, Oklahoma.”
“Why did you go to the convent?” He points a finger. “The truth, señor.”
“The lighthouse keeper said maybe there had been a survivor, a ‘honey-bee-colored woman,’ who had been taken to the convent. Lisa Reins is kind of that color.”
They run Lisa’s name for three hours, ask about drugs and guns, then take me back to the airport and wait with me until I am buckled into a Cubana Airlines 737 bound for Cancun. God bless, Lisa. She turns men’s heads even when you can’t see her.
***
The air we deplane into at Cancun International is that unmistakable, musty-mildew-Mexico aromatic cocktail. The police are cruise-ship-destination pleasant. Unfortunately, the restaurants inside are USA chains. I pick the least offensive and drink a showy margarita to my safe passage and the Flyers’ partially funded impending victory over Ms. Balloon-Ass Law & Order.
Nubile college girls throng past on “the adventure of a lifetime.” None rise to Susie D.
Finishing margarita two, I redebate the trip to Jamaica, fantasizing Anne Bonny in a Maureen O’Hara Against All Flags outfit and me as Errol Flynn. I add a possible three-way with Susie D.—on-screen the Bond girls are a promiscuous bunch—after I rescue her from some horrible volcano-dwelling villain.
Ordering margarita three, I admit the historical “Anne and me” also included Carel Roos, Anne’s Afrikaner boyfriend, a three-way that never made it past two—her and Carel.
I walk across the concourse to the pay phones. But, discretion being the better part, I call my employer in Chicago instead of Anne Bonny, regaling Mr. Barlow’s voicemail with my trip to Cuba, then close with, “I’ll be by your office in a few days; some of this doesn’t belong on voicemail.” I hang up, think about direct dial to Kingston, and—
—scurry back to the Corona Beach Bar’s plastic sand, where I will stay, listening to the mariachi-pop soundtrack until my flight to Chicago is ready to board.
Two gates down, an electronic departures board blinks a flight to Kingston. I pivot away, being a bit impulsive where women are concerned. My palm with the name grips the Flyers talisman at my neck . . .
The last time I saw Anne Bonny was 1986; I’d been gang raped and beaten almost to death in a Haitian prison. Haiti was on fire and Anne walked into it like she was Joan of Arc and saved my life. Yep, that’s what happened. Then Anne and I and her boyfriend’s crew of Rhodesian mercenaries began three days that would kill a lot of people.
&nbs
p; Like I said, Anne was no Hannah Montana.
I suck down the last of my margarita.
And back then, for a brief, horrible time, neither was I.
Chicago
(One month later)
Chapter 4
Bill Owens
September 2009
10:30 a.m.
Today is a race day. I’m feeling better than lucky—the Flyers have prevailed in two court appearances, both of which required me to sit in the witness chair and defend accusations that would cringe an errant priest. Not something you want to endure if the accusations involve children, especially handicapped wards of the state.
But we have prevailed, partially because Todd Smith himself showed up to backstop our new lawyer, and Todd Smith be a playa. Unfortunately, Ms. Balloon-Ass Law & Order has decided to take our victories as personal insults. (As a lowly citizen, I’m supposed to live with the shit they inferred I was guilty of and bear the legal costs.) Her continued use of public funds to fuel her attack translates into a second round of I’ll find the money.
For round two (thankfully, this round won’t include a Barlow mission), I am again properly attired in my blue-and-white seersucker suit, a new pair of Sperry Top-Siders, and misted with Old Spice aftershave, walking through a sweltering construction site littered with ruined rebar, masonry sand, and wasted concrete, all of which I have to pay for. I begin a silent duet with my inner Daryl Hall and the svelte “Maneater” on my arm.
The young lady on my arm is nicknamed “Better Offer” because when I dated her, Lisa Reins kept her options officially open until you were both naked. And even then, I was never certain she’d still be there for the big finish.
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