“Let’s go!”
He grabbed the wheel with both hands and hit that gas. I wondered if he could hear my heart pounding or if he’d seen me launch the chicken. I peered back over the seat. The roller-blader was Karen Parks, now bent over the scrawny hen on the sidewalk. She looked up and waved a fist at us. I hunkered lower in the seat and prayed she hadn’t seen me.
“The hell’s wrong with you?” Currito said.
“You sure Santeria isn’t involved with the missing boat?”
“Willy didn’t tell you about all the fuss?”
My eyelid twitched. “You mean the picketers?”
“That’s the tip of the shitberg. This has Cuba’s bloody fingerprints all over it. Now Poquito’s coming unglued, screaming for action. I’m telling you, it’s a different world today, cuz. We got a president trying to cover his ass for the last invasion. Starting another one might be the ticket.”
Currito echoed what many news pundits warned. The administration might seek opportunities to divert public attention from the Mideast quagmire if an easy win could be achieved elsewhere. All under the guise of a pre-emptive doctrine, which was intended to make sure the first punch won. Iran’s thumbing its nose at the United Nation’s Security Council over their nuclear program didn’t help matters.
“If the press jumps on this thing,” I said, “they’ll have it packaged and branded with theme music before the evening news.”
For years my father, the statesman and puzzle freak, had been fearful that after the Soviet Union disintegrated and the Russians pulled out of Cuba, U.S. intervention there was inevitable. The thawing of relations had done nothing to change the hardliner’s rhetoric, nor change the reality that the island was armed to the teeth, and the crevasse that separated political and military strategists on whether the eleven million Cuban people would welcome emancipation or fight out of nationalistic pride was wide. The proponents argued that it would be a short operation. Just as they had about Iraq.
“Who’s Poquito?” I said.
“Mingie Posada. Local big mouth and coalition boss.” Currito laughed. “The nickname goes back to high school, and it ain’t because he’s short. Yeah, the Cubans screwed the pooch this time, you watch. All that chicken blood, feathers, and burning candles at Redeemer’s a lot of bullshit.”
“Chicken blood and feathers?” I checked my forearm. Willy hadn’t told me about that, either.
“I know some of those people. If you push ‘em, they’ll rain fire on your ass, but this ain’t their style.”
Great. Lenny had said much the same about Gutierrez. Did the police know of his calls for retaliation? Could that have anything to do with Exotica’s shattered storefront? Or the bird in my plane? We passed the San Carlos Institute where more posters for the art show hung, all with the same “m.p.” typo.
“Is that Manny’s show?” I asked.
“You know him?”
“Not as well as I need to. You going?”
“Oh, yeah, me and Manny Gutierrez, we’re tight. I gave him all my shit on consignment: Picasso, Renoir, Michael fucking Angelo. He’s a balsero punk who hit it big. Now he’s a chulo, a real playboy. Fancy cars, racing boats, he’s an asshole. With any luck he’ll flip defending his title at the offshore race next weekend.” Currito’s disdain reminded me of when I was on top of the world, thinking I had it all, before it all had me.
“Gutierrez is a piece of shit, stealing paintings from old women and peddling flea market crap in fancy frames. Now he’s blaming the Santeros, which’ll piss off his clients. Everyone else thinks it’s the Cubans.”
“He has guts to be the contrarian.”
“Yeah, if that means asshole.”
We turned right on Petronia, went past Blue Heaven and onto Thomas. The smell of decay intensified the deeper we drove into Bahama Village. Paint-chipped exteriors contrasted with the manicured world beyond Duval. The white steeple of Redeemer caught the sun above the dark foliage. The front door was open, and I could see people inside.
We cruised past, and an urge suddenly hit me. “Stop!”
Currito flinched and hit the brakes. “Damn, cuz, you scared the shit out of me.”
“I’ll get out here.”
“Thought you were headed to the airport?” He took a slug off the Michelob as the door screeched shut.
The sun was casting long shadows onto the street. Willy’s sentiment yesterday was clear, I wasn’t welcome here. But with Betty broken into, there was more than guilt and a need for income driving me now. Especially if that coral head near Fort Jefferson was the Esmeralda. Plus, Currito was the second person surprised by something Willy hadn’t told me. It was time to find out why.
I heard the sound of muted voices inside. When I stuck my head in the door, the conversation stopped. Several faces stared at me.
“You!”
21
“WHAT THE HELL DO you want?” Manny Gutierrez yelled.
A snaggle-toothed kid jumped up and came at me, followed by two others.
“Hey! Enough of that.” Willy shouted from a center pew amidst a group that looked like a gathering of felons.
Manny’s frown slowly turned to a smile. He stood and said something about people to see. As he walked past me he spoke in a voice only I could hear. “You can’t keep your nose out of this, can you, Reilly.”
“You mentioned Santeria before,” I said. “Why would they have anything to do with the missing boat? Or Jo Jo’s death? Could it be Cuba instead?”
I couldn’t tell if he smiled or sneered. He sauntered out without another word. Willy pointed down the hall. A dozen lynch-hungry expressions quickened my pace.
Sunlight filtered through the wood blinds in his office, and shadows of foliage danced on the wall. Willy’s eyes looked hard like black beans. The Ruler, as Lenny had called him.
“You tell the press about Shaniqua being on the boat?”
“Sure, along with all that flattering stuff about me. I came to Key West to forget about my past. Now I’m back to being fodder for the local rag. This keeps up I’ll have to start over somewhere else.”
“So, what do you want here?”
I swung the backpack off my shoulder, removed the lunch box, unzipped the lid, and dumped the dead dove onto his desk. Willy’s eyes narrowed. “You ever seen something like this before?”
He held a steady poker face.
“Somebody left it in my plane. Why didn’t you tell me your mission was opposed by Santeros and Cuban ex-pats?”
“I hired you for flying, not thinking.”
“Believe it or not I can do both.”
“That is till I found out you delivered my daughter to the damn boat.”
“Not that it matters, but how did you know that?”
He picked up the dove, turned it over in his hands, squeezed it, and then parted the feathers on its belly. He held it up for closer inspection.
“I prefer them with bacon and water chestnuts,” I said.
Willy popped something red out of the dove’s chest. It landed on his desk.
“Cowry shell. Some kind of hex, or ritual, maybe.”
“Don’t I feel special.”
I showed him the note, but Willy offered no opinion about its message.
“After Shaniqua didn’t show up or return my calls, I went to her apartment and found a note. She apologized but said some fool had given her the number for Last Resort Charters and she was going to catch the boat.”
“Charters and Salvage.”
“I should have known she’d do something crazy. She was so damn fixated with seeing her mother’s homeland. My wife was Cuban—”
“Did you tell the police that she was missing before it was in the paper?”
“Forget the police. Those boys out in the chapel are my investigators.”
“You should at least tell the Coast Guard.”
“Won’t change how hard they’re gonna search. And now everyone’s blaming each other, hunting for Santero ghou
ls or Cuban provocateurs. I just want my daughter back.” He pressed his lips together. “There, I said it, I just want my—” A tear made it onto the desk. He rubbed his eyes with bunched fists, but there was no other outward sign of emotion. His eyes quickly cleared.
“Why would anyone care about a church mission to Cuba?” I said.
“The area we targeted has a powerful Sancho. Maybe he didn’t like the idea.”
I lifted the dove, examined the cowry shell, and zipped both back in the box.
“Tell me about Santeria.”
“Started in Africa,” Willy said. “Then blossomed in Cuba nearly five hundred years ago because of the slave trade. People were dragged from the wilderness, but they brought their beliefs with them. Exploitation only made ‘em stronger, blending African and Catholic traditions and it’s growing bigger—”
“Catholic?”
“They disguise what they call ‘Orishas’ behind Catholic saints to avoid persecution.”
“What’s that have to do with Redeemer, or this bird?”
“Their Orishas are like Gods, and they number in the hundreds. Each of them has their own sort of specialty. Some of the more notable are Oggun, their god of war, and Chango, their god of thunder and lightning.”
“Chango. Currito Salazar mentioned that name this morning.”
“He’s a warrior god,” Willy said. “Encourages you to go take what you want. That dove’s likely some kind of ebó, or sacrificial offering. They also use hens, roosters, and sometimes goats, but every Orisha has a preferred animal, foods, even colors and numbers used for worship.”
“You take the competition seriously.”
“I’ve got my reasons.”
“So the mission was an attempt to thwart Santeria?”
“Wasn’t really the plan.” He leaned forward over his desk. “We were just trying to keep God’s word alive amidst the paganism in the part of Havana where my wife grew up. Her family fled after the revolution, and well, it was her dream to have our church….” Willy suddenly sat down. He looked as if he hadn’t slept at all.
“So Manny thinks Santeria’s behind the boat’s disappearance, and his rationale is… what, that if they sacrifice animals, why not humans?”
Willy nodded.
“What was behind the picketing at the Carnival’s departure?”
“Manuel Ortega, the old Conch who called from the boat on his cell phone? His brother was one of the Brothers to the Rescue pilots dropping supplies to boat-people several years back. A Cuban MiG shot him down.” Willy didn’t flinch as he threw the curve ball over the plate.
“So?”
“Now the CANC’s involved. Cuban American National Coalition.”
“I know who they are.”
“They got a small, local chapter run by a guy who owns a restaurant.”
“Mingie Posada?”
“Guess you can think and fly. Mingie bitched plenty about the mission, now he’s rallied the heavyweights in Miami for some PR offensive.”
The CANC was a highly effective political organization that had carried a presidential election a few years ago. The new détente had spurred them to action, and this situation would provide a golden opportunity to condemn the Cuban government. My father’s hypothesis that Cuba was vulnerable to a U.S. attack synthesized with the media speculation that the administration was desperate for an easy win to take the public’s mind off their Mideast nation-building blunders just took a big step forward. It was the kind of story the network news fear-pushers delighted in. A real rating’s booster.
“Now everyone’s giving up the search to gear up for a fight.”
“Was Manny behind the attack on Exotica?” I said.
“He’s rallying half the hotheads for a witch hunt, and the CANC’s firing up the rest. Could have been anybody. Our people will be forgotten.” Willy took a deep breath. “To make matters worse, when I got here this morning there was another surprise waiting.” He pressed a button on the telephone.
After a couple of beeps, a deep voice began an eerie whisper. “Continue your mission and the stakes will escalate. Our reach is limitless.”
“What did the police say about that?”
“Didn’t tell ‘em. I want them focused on search and rescue, not whodunit. My boys out there’ll find out. Given enough ammo, both sides will use our people for their own purposes. Truth be told, I don’t give a rat’s ass about any of that. I just want my little girl back.”
We sat quietly. I couldn’t help thinking his daughter was likely dead. Now a vigilante war was breaking out on one front, and a well connected political action committee was stirring the pot on another. Willy’s simple mission to Cuba was in ruins, his people destined to become martyrs, and my world was dumped on its ear.
“We’ve got a memorial service planned for tomorrow afternoon.” Willy said. “Jo Jo’s getting buried at the cemetery. The Citizen covered the boat’s departure. They have pictures of everyone who was on board. We’re having some blown up for the service.”
“What can you tell me about the boat?”
“Came from Miami—”
“Wait a minute, you said it was our boat?”
“It was carrying our people, so it was our boat. Man named Hector Perez was the captain. They were Cuban immigrants who read about our plans in the paper. Before that, we were going to fly commercial through the Bahamas, but with a boat we had a big food and clothing drive. You should’ve seen the mountain of stuff on board.”
The flotsam in the straits.
The stereotype of Cuban expatriates from Miami wanting to help was in contradiction to the demonstration at the boat’s departure. They rarely did anything that might help sustain the regime, indirectly or not.
“Can I use your phone?” I said.
He slid it toward me, and I dialed the airport. Once Ray answered his page, he reported no luck in finding the problem with the port engine. He planned to tear it down tomorrow.
“Ray, listen, this isn’t one of our normal salvage projects. It can’t wait.”
“What about that dead bird?”
“Forget the damn bird,” I said. “I can’t afford a rebuild, just do what you can.”
After I hung up, the silence in Willy’s office was suffocating. From a pencil holder behind his desk, he removed an old wooden ruler and slapped it against his open palm. The ruler’s wooden edges were dented and gnarled. The Ruler.
I told him about my realization of where we found Jo Jo. There had been no evidence of the boat itself, no charred wood, oil slicks, floating cushions, nothing. Optimism surfaced in his face, and he agreed to call the Coast Guard.
“You say the funeral’s tomorrow?”
“Jo Jo’s getting buried next to Reverend J. Van Duzer.” I had no idea who that was but didn’t show my ignorance. “We’re offering a ten-thousand-dollar reward for each of our people recovered, alive,” Willy said. “Sounds like you need money, so…”
“Each?”
“Shaniqua’s still out there.” He slapped the ruler against his palm. Willy had a reputation for fixing people others considered hopeless, but he probably knew that even the force of the Ruler might not be enough to solve this situation.
22
I LEFT THE CHURCH under a gauntlet of nasty stares, but armed with a lot more information then I’d started with. Time to turn the island over to find out why the Carnival was victim to foul play—and whether my finding one of their bodies made me a target.
I considered stopping at Blue Heaven, but seeing the boxing ring might make me nauseous. There was not enough time to prepare for my bout with Bruiser Lewis, and the days were dropping fast. Basketball was my traditional conditioning routine, but my one game a week wouldn’t do me much good. I jogged back to the La Concha.
When I arrived at the parking lot I stopped to catch my breath. While brushing sweat off my forehead, I glanced at my Rover. What the—The back gate was askew.
I remembered throwing my flight bag
in yesterday.
I ran to the passenger door and peered in the window. Then to the driver’s side, then to the back.
My flight bag was gone.
I searched up and down the three rows of cars for any sign of my bag. Nothing. A few tourists next to the moped rental hut stared at me as if I were deranged.
“Zeke, you got a minute?” I said to the proprietor.
“Hey, Buck, hold on—you got to wear a helmet, dude.”
“You seen anybody suspicious here in the lot?”
He glanced back over his shoulder and raised his eyebrows. There was a group of tank-topped, trunk-legged women in line.
“Kidding me, right?”
“Somebody broke into my truck.”
“No shit, here? Hey, honey, no twofers, these scooter’s have weight limits.”
“How about anything strange or even just out of the ordinary this morning?” I waited through a short silence.
“You know, there was a dude earlier, kind of hanging around but behind the bushes, you know? I thought he was jerking off. I told him to beat it. I mean, not literally, but seemed kind of weird.”
“Was he carrying anything?”
“Nah, I don’t think so, but I got busy, so maybe he came back. Dude was wearing a blue … what do you call those shirts the old Cubans wear?”
“Guayabara?”
“Yeah, and it stunk. You know how you get that smoky, boozy stink in bars?”
“You remember anything else? Was he old, young, fat, skinny?”
“Young, Latin-American-looking guy, good shape. That’s it, Buck—sorry, man.” He turned back to his customers. “Lady, listen, no insurance, you wreck it, you buy it.”
Young Latino in a blue guayabara? Could that be the same guy who stole my stash?
I hustled inside the hotel.
“There you are!” Karen’s yell nearly launched me out of my flip-flops. The customer she was helping stared me up and down. I stood, still in shock, while she called for back-up and then led me over to one of the rattan couches in the big lobby.
Please don’t have seen me swat the chicken. I didn’t mean to swat the chicken.
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