The lighthouse marked my entrance into Bahama Village. I parked the Rover in front of the church, and two burly young men stepped up to meet me. I noted bulges wedged into their waistbands. Guns? They patted me down before nodding me onward.
“Hello?” A muffled response to my call came from deep within.
Willy rushed down the hall. “Buck, I’m glad you came.”
I told him about the scene at El Aljibe but didn’t mention the picture of Ortega in Posada’s office. I nodded toward the door.
“New security?”
Willy’s eyes narrowed. “We had an uninvited visitor last night. Tried to burn the church down. Threw a Coke bottle filled with gasoline and a burning rag in the back window. Lucky I was here.”
Why was the intimidation escalating?
“Based on what I saw last night, Gutierrez has a successful gallery,” I said.
“Real raft-to-riches story. Started with a frame shop on White Street, then made some contacts in Miami and became a high-end art broker overnight.”
I remembered admiring his contrarian position, but it now seemed foolish. Why would he buck success by alienating his clientele?
“Anyway, like I said, I’ve got something for you. Lenny?” Willy said.
My surprise must have been obvious, because Willy laughed when Conch Man carried a new green Kayak out from the back hall.
“Sorry about the last one, man.”
“You didn’t have to do that.” It was even more compact then my old one.
“Don’t get all sentimental,” Lenny said. “You needed another one to keep the search going. So Betty’s fixed?”
“Just had a little indigestion, but I can’t—”
“Remember I thought Shaniqua was still alive?” Willy said. “An FBI agent showed up last night to find out why we hadn’t reported her missing. Told him I didn’t know for sure she was on board. Got it?”
“You say so,” I said.
“Thing is, they had some amazing news. Turns out they dialed her cell number, and someone answered.”
“What?”
“I must have tried it a hundred times with no luck, but when they called, a man picked up talking Spanish. They asked for Shaniqua and the guy hung up.”
“Why did the FBI tell you all this?” I said.
“Played me the tape, wanted to see if I recognized the voice.”
“And?”
“Wasn’t any of my people.” Willy said.
“Was there anything else in the recording that might help?”
“Pretty damn sure we heard engines, whistles, a loudspeaker,” Lenny said. “Marina sounds. I’ve called every damn boatyard from Key West to Fort Lauderdale.”
“Could have been picked up by a Cuban patrol, or sunk, but either way her cell phone’s still working. Now we’re at the mercy of the FBI.”
Could that have been an FBI agent in front of El Aljibe? A sudden shiver made me cringe.
“Follow me back here a minute,” Willy said.
Inside Willy’s office he held up a letter. The logo on top caught my attention.
“The hell’s this?” I said.
“A golden opportunity,” Willy said. “I got permission from the government to send four more missionaries to Cuba, and you’re one of them.”
“But I can’t, Willy.”
“Buck, I don’t know why you quit, but I need your help. I don’t know whether the Cubans or Santeros killed Jo Jo, but if I can get my men inside Cuba, with you as ready transportation home, I think maybe we’ll find out. It’s my only hope.”
The blackmailers were specific—‘butt out,’ or my ledger goes to the police, along with an explanation. So not only had I lost my stash and the coordinates where I found the gold, my ass was on the line too, possibly even jail for fraud, just like my former partner Jack Dodson. Why was I so intent on fixing the messes I caused for others before attending to my own? It was all a real noble idea, until it became a royal pain in the ass—like now. I’m no Don Quixote, or a knight errant, I have no white horse, or black mask with pointy ears, I’m just…just…aw hell.
Willy’s eyes were locked onto mine.
“What about you, Lenny?” I said.
“Willy won’t let me go.”
“Lenny’s already on parole. He gets nailed again he can forget about politics.”
“Some people got their house repossessed by the bank,” Lenny said. “Couldn’t make the mortgage. I helped ‘em get some of their stuff out, and the bank that foreclosed on it had me busted. Petty theft bullshit, trust me on that.”
“You need to keep your nose clean, boy, in case your political career catches up to your mouth.” Willy turned to me. “That Sancho in Havana? One that was bitching about our mission? His name is Salvo. I’ve got just the man to talk to him. But only if you take them.”
Could I risk the blackmailers finding out? I needed to find the thieves, but what if I could learn something that would help? Like I have anything left to lose?
I took a deep breath. “Okay.”
Willy pumped a fist in the air.
I was concerned that with today’s demonstrations, we might not get in if we wait, so we agreed to leave at 1:00. Cuba might also provide the opportunity to figure out the code for my missing key, provided my father’s reference to “HIS BOAT” meant Hemingway’s. Last night’s research on the different types of encoding systems had reacquainted me with his word puzzles, and I recalled a pattern to his selecting key words. Hemingway’s home outside Havana, a place I thought I would never see, was now a beacon of hope.
“Is that reward still being offered?” I said.
“Bet your ass. $10,000 for each of our people recovered. Alive, that is.” Willy picked up the framed picture of his daughter. “You’re my only hope, Buck.”
“This has to be on the super down-low, Willy. Nobody can know I’m involved.”
OUTSIDE, LENNY HELPED TIE the kayak to the Rover’s roll bar. “I can’t believe Willy won’t let me go, man, maybe I should stow away.”
“I don’t think so, Mayor Conch Man. Plus, nobody can know I went, so you need to cover for me. Tell people I’m out poaching someone’s salvage project.” Neither of us smiled. “Also, keep tabs on Gutierrez. I want to know if he’s behind the reprisals on the Santeros.”
He wished me luck, and I was back out on the road. My world had turned to two scoops of shit, and even though I was finally going to Cuba, it was under the worst possible circumstances. At least I’d be away from Key West. Things couldn’t get worse if I’m not here.
32
I PACKED LIGHT, NOT sure how long I’d be gone. Havana was a gamble, but three new missionaries / investigators might flush out or learn something about those opposed to Redeemer’s mission, and indirectly help get me information about the blackmailers.
Karen had still not appeared by the time I returned from Bahama Village. Several days in Cuba would put some distance between us, and when I saw her next, the disappointment should have subsided. Just as well, it was time to focus, again.
The roar six floors below hit like a tsunami. From my window I saw a sea of people marching up Duval that extended all the way down to Truman. Signs waved and voices repeated unintelligible chants. The estimate of a thousand seemed way low. Camera teams scurried ahead of the throng, and as the leading edge neared the La Concha, I could see Posada goose-stepping out front. The CANC had pounced on the terrorism paranoia, pounded into the public by political and media pushers who used fear as a drug. Their excitement over the potential aggression against Cuba was palpable on every news channel, as would be their fervor to condemn the very same response.
If the Cuban authorities had attacked the Carnival, then how would they respond to a private American plane coming out of the eye of the storm in Key West? We needed to get there fast, but could we beat the news? Defying the blackmailers made me smile. It was reminiscent of my decision to flee the corporate world. No more 10-K’s, 10-Q’s, kissing ass or fuc
k yous. It was back to adventure and a battle to fight. With Willy’s needs ahead of mine, the adrenalin rush coursing through me was no longer driven by the smell of profit. It was an interesting feeling.
With a duffel and backpack-cum-flight bag in hand, I left my apartment and stopped cold in front of the open elevator. It would deposit me in the back of the lobby, right next to the reception desk. I took my private staircase to The Top and caught the elevator into the front lobby. I didn’t want to bump into Karen.
I cut through Starbucks and outside stood Karen thirty feet away on the corner holding a sign: SAVE KEY WEST’S CHICKENS. She spotted me staring at her with bags in my hands. Her eyebrows lifted and she stepped my way before I could flee.
“Off on another salvage mission?”
“You buy some art last night?”
“I’m not sure, but my head’s killing me.” She rubbed her temples.
“Gutierrez take advantage of you? I mean, since I left you hanging?”
“He’s a closer, all right. I used your suggestion about the offshore races. He said he has a great idea—oh, hey, you were going to be my next stop.” She reached into her knapsack and pulled out a large envelope. “I just got back from seeing my editor friend I told you about. I made you a copy.” She held the envelope to her chest.
“Your book?”
“You said you’d read it, and well, the story’s kind of up your alley.” She squeezed it closer. “But just remember, it’s a work in progress. And even though the protagonist is kind of…” She paused, took a deep breath, and held the package out to me. “You’ll understand, just come see me when you’re done.”
“I’ll be gone a few days, at least.”
She glanced at my bag. “The life of adventure?”
“And a battle to fight.”
Our eyes held, then last night’s memory of Gutierrez steering her the opposite way down Duval ruined what could have been an altogether different goodbye.
I cut through the demonstrators across Duval. I stumbled between old men, stern-faced women, and laughing kids before being squirted out the other side. I looked back toward Karen but she was gone. Seems my lousy track record in romance had been recycled too.
33
MY FIRST STOP WAS the library. I entered the building and saw Walter Wagner, the librarian, talking to an elderly blue-haired woman. He peered over his round glasses and smiled when he saw me. He pointed the lady toward the romance novels.
“Buck, long time no see.”
“I’m in a hurry, Walter. I’ve got a charter—”
“Always in a hurry, rush, rush, rush. When are you going to learn that Key West’s about relaxing and taking time to enjoy life?” A devilish grin bent his thin lips. “And experimenting with alternative lifestyles.”
“Austerity’s my alternative lifestyle. What do you have on Havana and Santeria?”
“Santeria, huh? That’s been a popular subject.”
“Popular?”
“Fads come and go, that’s been my hot topic lately,” he said. “You look like you saw a ghost.”
“You caught me off guard. I’ve been helping Willy Peebles at—”
“He’s one of them.”
“One of what?”
“I suppose it’s not very discreet of me, but hey, I’m a librarian, not a shrink. The Ruler, he’s checked several books out on Santeria, bless his soul. What a shame about his girl, so gorgeous. You’d never guess she was a minister’s daughter.” His giggle was followed by a long sigh.
“What are you talking about?”
“Shaniqua Peebles, silly.”
“I know that, what about her?”
“Oh, she’s read all our books on Santeria.” He scanned the room. “And party? My, my, my that girl could dance, oh Lordy, and what I wouldn’t give for that body—”
“Slow down, Walter. Did Willy know she was interested in Santeria?”
The smile on his face changed to a pedantic scowl. “Either he knew or was curious himself, because he read all the same books. Here’s your list of what’s in.”
I stumbled down the aisles trying to figure out the significance of Walter’s revelation. Shaniqua was interested in Santeria? And Willy too? Why would he keep that to himself? I stopped in my tracks. Could that be why he wanted her presence on the Carnival kept secret?
I found a book on Havana that contained several good maps. Those on Santeria were split between religion and witchcraft. One in particular boasted insight into the religion, the faith, the rites, and the magic.
Walter peered over my shoulder. “I saw the article about you taking Shaniqua to the boat.” He hesitated. “And the one about your past….”
“That reminds me, do you have any books on codes or ciphers?”
“Quite the contrast of subjects, Buck. One might conclude you were up to something.”
He directed me to a fat book on the history of codes and secret writing that contained many examples. Back in the Rover I turned down White and dodged some pedestrians running toward Duval to take part in Posada’s crusade. The news of Shaniqua and Willy gnawed at me. Was he reading the books to study the competition or to see what she was doing? Is that why he hadn’t wanted her to go, or why she did? Lot’s of questions, no answers.
I pulled up to José’s Cantina hoping for some discreet advice on Havana but learned that José was off marching with Poquito. The skeleton crew was taking phone calls and cheering reports from the front. Maybe Posada was right and history was being made. Every news station in the country would be preparing sound bytes to tout the tension. Information alchemy at its best.
José’s wife, who everyone called Abuela, was surprised to learn I was taking a charter to Cuba. I didn’t mention Redeemer. After an awkward pause she said she had a favor to ask, ordered the waitress to make me a Super-Cuban, and disappeared into the back room. I inhaled the sandwich, fried plantains and a Hatuey beer. Abuela returned and explained that even though the United States had ceased restrictions on how much money they could send their relatives, her grandson in Havana was living in poverty. She pulled an envelope out of her apron and asked if I could give it to him. His name was Ivan Machado and he worked at the Ambos Mundos Hotel. I agreed and swore her to secrecy about my going. Her request gave me an idea.
Back in the Rover, I rolled slowly down White Street reading merchants’ signs. Gutierrez had said he thought his show might run late and for me to come by in the afternoon. I’d been too self-absorbed to realize that was because he intended to make a move on Karen.
I drove past a mortuary, a dry cleaner, and at the corner with Truman found a KWPD squad car with its lights flashing in front of MG International. Gutierrez was pointing toward the charred, glassless frame of his front door. On the ground lay a burned carcass of what looked like a cat, covered with broken glass. Had Manny received the same treatment I had? Or had Posada’s rivalry taken on solid form? I realized that both the church and Gutierrez’s gallery had been threatened by phone calls yesterday, then hit within twenty-four hours. At least they got warnings.
Gutierrez was yelling at the cop. As much as I wanted to take him up on the offer to discuss Santeria, it would have to wait until I got back.
I spotted a large painting in the window that was vaguely familiar.
As I pulled away, I noticed a black convertible Mercedes SL 500 roadster in Gutierrez’s driveway. The art business must be thriving.
The philanthropic efforts to help Redeemer’s mission, along with his calls for revenge, had made Gutierrez a target. Seeing his land shark sparked a dull memory, and for the first time in nearly two years, a fleeting homesickness for the fast lane smoldered in my heart. I didn’t pine for long, because Betty and I were headed for Cuba.
Unmet dreams come true in the future, not the past.
34
THE ROAD ENDED AT Atlantic Boulevard, and White Street Pier was dead ahead. Fishermen cast lines, roller-bladers scissored toward the horizon, and a group of teenage
rs sat on bicycles smoking cigarettes or some other combustible substance. Once at the airport I grabbed the forty-pound kayak along with my gear and dropped it all at the fence gate.
I filed my flight plan, checked the weather reports, and verified communication procedures for Havana Center. Out on the tarmac Ray was working on a Cessna 172. He waved to me from behind the raised engine cowling.
“That don’t look like fishing gear,” he said.
“Grab that green kayak on the other side of the gate and lock it to my tree, will you? I’m heading out for a few days.”
He shrugged. “No more than a hundred-hour round trip, I hope.”
“Shouldn’t take but an hour each way. Keep it quiet, but I’m delivering a new load of missionaries to Cuba.”
“You just dropped down to seventy-thirty.”
“Ah, the Balls/Brains Ratio. I’m surprised you pegged me that high.”
“After all that stuff in the paper, maybe you’re right.”
I shrugged.
“So why are you doing this, the gold or the girl?”
“Now you’re giving me shit?”
“If that gold you found was in National Park waters, you’ll go to jail if you take anything.”
Ray’s gaze shifted toward the terminal, and his eyes opened wider. Pastor Willy Peebles was leading three men out toward us. They were rougher around the edges than the pictures of the last group.
“Speak of the devil,” Ray said.
I arrived at Betty ahead of them, wanting to stow my bags and get the pre-flight check started. A candle burned on the ground beneath Betty’s port engine. It stopped me cold. My bags fell to the runway. Did the blackmailers know I was headed to Cuba? Their intrusion into my world had robbed me of more than my frail sense of financial optimism. They had pierced my courage and hurled me back into the ring. This time, to fight against my own demons—the ones that divided me between self and selflessness. Alone stands the boxer, trying to punch out his own shadow. Again.
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