1 Red Right Return

by John H. Cunningham

  Truck must have ignored Booth’s warning. “A grand time was had by all.”

  Lenny’s sympathetic smile helped to mend my wounds, visible and not. He reported that Willy felt horrible at the tongue lashing he’d given me, then filled me in on the national news and the goings-on around Key West.

  Darkness hit like a hammer, as did the Haitian rum. Before I knew it, the need for cash flow had caused me to challenge Bruiser Lewis all over again. The Gargoyles howled their excitement, and pretty much everyone else hooted and hollered at the prospect of bloodshed for entertainment. The ring was reserved for next Saturday night, and Lenny promised to advise Bruiser of the new schedule.

  The storm that had threatened Key West all afternoon finally hit, killing the electricity all over the island. Chango, the Orisha of lightning, had flexed his muscles. The open-air restaurant closed in a hurry, and after refusing several offers for nearby shelter, I foolishly chose to ride my bike instead. My motor skills had run off with my common sense, and the only good news was that my hose-beaten body was numb to its bruises, thanks to the anesthetic properties of rum. I wobbled through blinding rain, dodged lake-sized puddles, and managed to crash only once.

  What’s a bloody kneecap when your whole body looks like a week-old banana?

  I arrived at the Church of the Redeemer. A fool’s errand to confront Willy about his daughter. No longer on his payroll, all I cared about now was finding my waterproof pouch and GPS. If I didn’t head off the blackmailers they’d trash what was left of my reputation, and beat me to the gold.

  The chapel’s front door was ajar.

  I stopped suddenly. What must have been a hundred white candles burned inside. My hands instantly went cold. It looked just like Salvo’s studio only days ago.

  50

  I STARED AT THE panorama of candles inside. Chango’s revenge or another altar to the Orishas? My heart pounded at a rate my alcohol-impaired mind could not keep pace with. I pushed the door open, and the drawn-out squeak of the hinges tore at the silence.

  A dark figure jumped from the middle of the pews into the main aisle. He had a sawed-off shotgun in his hands, pointed straight at my chest.

  “Who the hell’s that?”

  Staring down the shotgun barrels, I was unable to respond.

  “Buck, that you?”

  Willy lowered the twelve-gauge welcoming committee and sniffed me like a dog. “You reek like a backwater still. You know it’s past midnight?”

  A sense of nausea spread over me. I slumped into the nearest pew. “I saw the candles, and figured….”

  “The powers out, Buck.” Willy smiled. “Thought there was foul play, huh?”

  “I need a drink of water.”

  Willy disappeared into the darkness and returned with a pitcher and glasses. “I put some coffee on, too. Listen, I’m sorry about blowing up at the airport, I had no idea what you’d been through.”

  “I wanted to tell you. Booth’ll be pissed at Truck.”

  “You think that pencil-necked suit’s gonna harass Truck Lewis?”

  “Clarence,” I said. “Why are you sleeping in here with a shotgun?”

  “While you were gone we had another delivery of chicken parts and more threatening messages. When I catch those sons-of—”

  “You need to tell me the truth about Shaniqua.”

  He stood up quickly. “The hell’s that supposed to mean?”

  “Start with her interest in Santeria. Was that why you—”

  “Watch your mouth, boy. My daughter’s a good girl.” Willy loomed over me.

  “What about the library books?”

  A long exhale slumped him forward. “The damn mission got her interested. That and wanting to see where her mumma came from. Cayo Hueso, that is.”

  “Did Truck tell you he met Salvo?”

  “He told me you saved his ass. You’ve got guts, son, brains I don’t know.”

  “My B/B ratio’s gone to hell.”

  “Say what?”

  I waved his question off. Willy poured coffee and hung on every detail of the trip, and my interrogation at State Security by the director himself.

  “Tell me about the boat. Was there any sign of Shaniqua, or Manuel?”

  “There were two, maybe three men…” I paused. Why Willy tried to keep Shaniqua’s presence on the boat a secret had still not been answered. Was he just being protective? Had they both studied Santeria to prepare for the mission? During my hesitation, his eyebrows settled from arched to flat.

  He said, “I’ve tried her phone a thousand times. Nobody else has answered.”

  “There was a woman, too.”

  A sudden intake of breath sat him down. “Was it her?”

  “Couldn’t tell, happened too fast.”

  “You tell all that to Booth?” Willy asked.

  “Only about the boat. The fool didn’t give a damn. He said I was interfering with a federal investigation.”

  “Booth couldn’t find his butt with both hands.”

  “He found me—” I slapped my hand over my mouth.

  “Knew a lot about you, didn’t he?”

  I rubbed my eyes, tired of avoiding my past, tired of lying. My emotional dam burst, and I spilled my guts in one long vomit of a confession. Everything. My failed marriage, my success turned to ashes, my partner in jail for fraudulently hiding assets, warning my parents of e-Antiquity’s impending crash, and worst of all, the details of my on-going hell.

  “My parents were our original venture capitalists. They bet their entire life savings. I couldn’t let them get hurt. I didn’t know we were going to get wiped out.”

  Pastor Hard Case stared me in the eye, waiting. I swallowed hard and told him about the Swiss police’s investigation into my parent’s death.

  “You get charged?”

  “They accused me of plotting their deaths and tried to get me to crack. I already had, they just hadn’t realized it. The FBI vowed to keep digging.” I drank some water. “My parents never anticipated I’d go bankrupt, so they left everything to my brother. The Feds couldn’t touch his inheritance, and it drove them nuts.”

  “Pain’s a part of life, Buck, makes you—”

  “Don’t say it, Willy. It’s only gotten worse. My brother doesn’t even believe me any more. He’s been reluctantly lending me money to survive, money I’m supposed to pay back from a joint trust we have in Geneva.”

  “Switzerland? You got one a them numbered accounts?”

  “We don’t know what’s in it, and now my key’s gone, I’m flat broke, and I’ll never be able to repay—”

  “Slow down, boy.”

  “It’s all in my pouch. That and the key, copies of my treasure maps and a ledger that could put my brother in jail too.”

  “The package that was stolen from your plane? Treasure maps?”

  “Copies of ones I bought on behalf of e-Antiquity to auction but kept instead. I gave the originals to my parents. My father’s diplomatic career was ruined. Then they died trying to avoid the shit storm I created.”

  Willy put an arm around my shoulder. I cursed the rum for bringing me here. He gave me a pep talk I would have normally considered idealistic platitudes, but tonight it worked like acupuncture needles in my soul. A deep breath pushed the past away. I stood up, wavered, and reached out to steady myself.

  “Tomorrow I’m going to find the local connection to Cuba,” I said.

  “You’re not going anywhere like this.” He led me back to a tiny room where a day bed was made up.

  Thunder and rain reverberated in the heavens. The sound of water hammered the tin roof and led me into the deepest sleep I’d had in a week.

  51

  FIRST LIGHT WAS LIKE a finger in my eye. In the half-minute between sleep and consciousness, my mind spun like a slot machine with images of my childhood bedroom, Clinton and Bush, the Cuban jail, the La Concha, and Karen in Manny Gutierrez’s car that flickered until I realized I was at the church. My lips were stuck shu
t, and my tongue was dry-sealed to the roof of my mouth. Dressed in yesterday’s clothes, I stank of the bar at Blue Heaven.

  A quiver of dread shook my body. The confluence of the last week’s experiences had melted me to a puddle at Willy’s feet. When I swung my legs off the single bed, pain shot through my thighs. Trying to stand sent it tearing through my back, shoulders and biceps. Was it just yesterday that Sanchez’s goons had pummeled me for a wisecrack? Mono-color bruises covered my limbs like prison tattoos. I ventured cautiously into Redeemer’s sanctuary. Last night’s candles were gone, along with Willy and his shotgun.

  When I tried to climb aboard my bike I lost my balance and almost fell over. I walked it a block, awaiting the return of circulation. I swerved and wobbled my way past Hemingway’s house, which reminded me of the Finca Vigia. The Pilar had not only revealed a potential clue to my Fort Jefferson hunt and contained some hidden clue about my father’s cipher, it had also given me an idea about the Carnival.

  The majority of the town was asleep, but where I was headed they never rested. After being broadcast worldwide as a spy, I couldn’t afford to rest either. The blackmailers certainly wouldn’t.

  Inside the nondescript building that housed the U.S. Customs office, I put my disheveled appearance out of mind and ignored the once-over from the button-cute brunette receptionist. After introducing myself as connected to the Church of the Redeemer, it occurred to me that she may have seen me on CNN too. There was no recognition in her eyes, which fluttered.

  “What can I do for you?”

  “Our missionary boat that left—”

  “Yes, the Carnival. I’m so sorry, it’s just awful.” Her voice sounded like she’d just taken a helium hit.

  “The reason I’m here’s a little embarrassing, but lost with the boat was our documentation about all the donated provisions.”

  Her head cocked sideways. “What does that have—”

  “Everything considered, it sounds petty, but it’s our responsibility to, well, the donors, we need to verify all the cargo for tax purposes. Charitable contributions, you know.”

  “I see.”

  “Tax time comes faster than any of us likes.” I held my breath, while the spontaneous lie floated with the grace of the Hindenburg.

  “Right, well, we have the records, of course—ah, what was your name again?”

  “Reilly, Buck Reilly.”

  “Do you have any church identification?”

  A slow smile tugged at my lips. “We don’t exactly carry business cards, but you can call our pastor, Willy Peebles, if that would help.”

  She hesitated a couple of seconds. “That won’t be necessary, hold on.”

  The woman disappeared down the hall. Good thing I came in early. A crowd might have laughed me out of the place. She returned with a couple of warm sheets of paper.

  “The FBI made a copy of this yesterday. Hopefully they’ll learn something, I mean, who hurts missionaries?”

  The standardized form contained a long list of items brought aboard the Carnival, but it was the information on top that caught me by surprise.

  “The boat was registered in the Bahamas?”

  “Everything okay?” she squeaked.

  “Fine, fine.” I cleared my throat. “Hard to believe how generous people can be.”

  The sunlight outside made me shield my eyes. I read the information again and shook my head. Maybe my B/B ratio was finally on the rise, but I wasn’t sure which B was dominant.

  Back on the scent, I set out to find Currito Salazar, bail bondsman, native Conch, and my connection to the local underworld.

  52

  I HIT A DRY hole at the phone booth. Currito Salazar was not home, so I left a message on his machine. I quit toting a cell phone around when I came to Key West. The fact that I was no longer on anybody’s speed dial was another revelation on the road out of Hermitville.

  I cut behind Sears Town and arrived at the Key West Citizen’s office. It was a well-maintained yellow building shaded with jacaranda trees. The blast of air conditioning made the big open room feel like a walk-in freezer. A woman hurried to the counter. Her tortoise-shell glasses and red Lacoste shirt gave her a dated, preppy air.

  “I’m looking for one of your staff photographers,” I said.

  “We only have three, which one do you want?”

  “Who was at the airport when the first of Redeemer’s missionaries was recovered?”

  Crow’s feet appeared at her temples. “Doug Friedland wrote the story, so Bobby Barrett probably took the pictures. You have something to add?”

  I felt like the hen that crashed the fox den. “I was the pilot—”

  Her eyes bugged out as if she’d won the lottery. “Hey, aren’t you the guy from Cuba?”

  I pointed to my hair. “Do I look like a spy?”

  Her smile faded. “Will you comment on the other stories we’ve run about you?”

  “Sure, and you can quote me, they’re bullshit. As for what happened in Cuba, all I did was fly a charter to and from Havana.”

  Her smile returned. “Sounds like that’s going to be a popular route for the military. Look at this place,” she swung her arms around. “The shit’s hitting the fan.”

  “How so?”

  “The CANC’s getting what they wanted. At least, that’s the word on the wire. We won’t know for sure until the president’s speech.”

  I bit my lip. “When’s he speaking?”

  “Tonight. It was scheduled to cover foreign policy, but the buzz is he’s giving the Cubans an ultimatum. Either admit sinking the boat, or else.”

  Sunk? Booth knows I saw the boat in Havana, so the president should too. Something wasn’t right.

  “A few missionaries merits an ‘or else’?”

  “It’s a fuse. Ambassador Boltnek issued a statement yesterday noting that Cuba has the second largest biotech program in the Americas. Ten thousand researchers and their government have spent three billion dollars developing products since 1986.”

  “Pharmaceuticals, thanks to the embargo.”

  “They have a biochem pact with Iran that the administration’s comparing to their former nuclear relationship with Russia. They could produce more WMDs than Saddam Hussein ever dreamed of.”

  “Biochem pact, is that new?”

  “It’s been around awhile, but with Iran’s growing nuclear program, there’s genuine fear they could work with Cuba on bio-warfare.”

  A fuse was right. The Middle East and Cuba all wrapped into one. The ambassador to the United Nations didn’t release statements like that without it being a coordinated event. Would invading Cuba really be that easy? More shock and awe-shucks?

  Cuba’s director of Secret Police had joked that the American press set foreign policy through exaggerated headlines. Would tonight’s speech prove that correct? What if Cuba’s bio-capabilities really were a major threat? I remembered the wooden crates on the Havana harbor dock. Could they have contained offensive weapons? Sanchez had warned that 9/11 would seem like a stubbed toe if America invaded them.

  “Any idea where I can find Barrett? He was interested in my plane. I want him to take some pictures for me.”

  “Bobby’s a wannabe pilot, it’s all he talks about. He’s in the back, hang on.”

  I counted eleven people shouting on phones and stabbing frenetically at their keyboards. Spring break statistics, fishing summaries, and obituaries had morphed into stories on demonstrations, invasion speculation, and anticipation over a presidential speech. Key West had turned on its ear.

  A man rushed around the corner. His tall, beanpole stature seemed familiar. “I couldn’t believe it when I saw you and your plane on CNN yesterday,” he said.

  The preppyish woman was now tapping her fingers on the counter.

  “Anywhere we could speak in private?” I said.

  He led me into a small conference room.

  “What year’s your Widgeon?”

  The rundown on Betty turn
ed his eyes glassy. I’d seen that expression before. Flying boat lovers get that faraway look when encountering one of the old Grumman fleet: Widgeon, Goose, Mallard or Albatross. With less than two hundred Widgeons still in operation, they’re an increasingly rare sight.

  “You shot the story about Jo Jo, so, how about the missionaries’ departure?”

  “Burned two rolls that morning,” Barrett said.

  “You don’t use digital?”

  “I develop all my own prints, always have. My editor tolerates my passion for celluloid. It’s not like I’ve ever sold anything outside of Key West, at least until now.”

  “You still have the other pictures?”

  “Sure. I have a bunch of the picketers.” “Have there been any breakthroughs not reported yet?”

  “Not as far as I know. The Santeros deny involvement, and Redeemer won’t comment on the reprisals, but the owner of Exotica, Carlos Jiminez, claimed he was being persecuted. Manny Gutierrez is adamant that the Cuban angle is a ruse to throw the police off the real culprits.”

  “Did you say Jiminez?” I said.

  “Yeah, the guy whose store window got smashed in.”

  It was the same last name as the Sancho on Stock Island. “Have the police looked at your pictures from the boat’s departure?”

  “Nope.”

  Willy was right. Booth couldn’t find his ass with both hands.

  “Do you have them here?”

  His freckled forehead wrinkled. “No way, there’s no conditioned storage here. My images are my livelihood. I don’t take care of them, I’ve got nothing for follow up pieces.”

  The whole office felt like conditioned storage to me. Barrett told me he kept his negatives at home but hesitated when I asked to see them.

  “How about a ride in the Widgeon?” he said.

  “When can I see the pictures?”

  “I was going to split and get lunch in a while. Why don’t I make up a set and meet you at the airport?” We agreed upon the Conch Flyer at one o’clock.

  Outside was a sauna compared to the meat locker inside. A head rush hit me when I climbed on the bike. Hangover residue. My discovery at customs had sidetracked my plan to pursue the Stock Island Sancho but had also led me to learn that the owner of Exotica had the same last name. Based on the speculation about the president’s speech, my discoveries in Havana must not have made it to the White House. Unless they were playing possum, which meant I could still leverage the information. Provided I wanted to take on the FBI and the executive branch of the government.