1 Red Right Return

by John H. Cunningham

  “The skull and Siete Rayos, they’re for the spirits of the dead.”

  A lightning bolt crashed inside my head. Leave the spirits of the dead alone. “When my plane was broken into, a package was taken. Know anything about it?”

  Enrique’s eyes didn’t waver. “I already told you, I don’t even know who the hell you are—aside from being CIA, that is.”

  “Right, and you’re the Pope.”

  A sharp laugh. “You’re an asshole, but I like you.” He rubbed his chin. “There was an Abererinkula on the missionary boat.”

  “What the hell’s that?”

  “Uninitiated person, a rookie. Guy had broad scars on his cheeks.”

  A tingle ran up my spine. “I’ve seen his picture.”

  “He came here last week and asked me to perform a rite called Asheogún Otá. It’s a prayer for victory over your enemies. I didn’t know him, and, well, he had a crazy look in his eyes, so I refused.”

  The sound of an airplane sent my heart into overdrive. The bomb. I needed to get out of here, but I sensed Enrique knew more than he was saying.

  “This guy with the scars, you catch his name?”

  Enrique guzzled Dr. Pepper and swiped his mouth with a broad forearm. “Dude had some kind of accent. But isn’t he dead? Killed by pirates, or whatever shit was in the paper?”

  “Cuban?”

  “I’m no expert, Russian for all I know.”

  “No name?”

  Enrique paused and shifted his gaze back to the altar. He reached for a small leather cup, shook it once, and tossed a half-dozen small brownish bones onto the table like they were dice. He touched them tenderly as the scent of decaying marrow reached my nostrils.

  “His name was Jackson Rolle.”

  “Yahtzee.” I said.

  “That’s it. I’ve got things to do.” Enrique looked back toward the television. “First the FBI, now the CIA.”

  “FBI?”

  “Some asshole was here a couple hours ago, asking the same kind of questions.”

  “Guy named Booth?” Enrique’s expression didn’t change. “Did you tell him about Rolle?”

  “He was only interested in my connections to Cuba.” He herded us to the door.

  “One last question,” I said. “Was Shaniqua Peebles into Santeria?”

  Currito took a step back. “You crazy, cuz?”

  Enrique’s smirk said otherwise.

  “One fine honey there.”

  “Any chance she knew Rolle, or could be mixed up in something illegal?”

  “That girl’s always mixed up in something.”

  I waited but all I got was a steady grin.

  “Did she call you from the boat? Tell you anything about me?”

  “Your friend has an ego, Curro.” He sighed. “You want to leave that statue, I’ll see what I can find out.”

  56

  WE HURRIED FROM THE trailer under the scrutiny of Enrique’s machete-wielding bodyguards. Back in the dilapidated Cadillac, we headed toward the airport. Currito lit a Parliament and exhaled a blue lungful toward the windshield.

  “At least you got a name, eh?”

  “Jackson Rolle.” Booth may have been one step ahead of me, but he hadn’t gotten the information that mattered. That was comforting with respect to my own situation.

  “I’m glad that’s over, cuz, Enrique gives me the heebie jeebies.”

  “Does he have a real job, or does being a Sancho pay his bills?”

  “He’s my postman.”

  We drove past the old houseboat row in silence. Picturing Enrique as a postman was too much for my fatigued imagination.

  “Do you think the Cubans sent spies over in the boat lifts?” I asked.

  “Are you kidding, cuz? Castro was the original opportunist.”

  “Is that opinion or fact?”

  “Boy, you never believe shit without questions, do you? Hell, I nearly bonded one out once. Had it all set up before he spilled his guts trying to negotiate asylum.”

  That word caused me to squirm, another reminder of Sanchez. “What happened?”

  “Kid came over from Mariel, started acting funny, got into a fight trying to recruit another balsero. He was supposed to weasel his way into the Cuban American community to keep watch for any crazy plans. Fidel was always worried about another Bay of Pigs, you know?”

  “Sounds more like a mole than a spy.”

  “A fucking rat’s more like it. He fingered a guy in Miami who bankrolled Castro’s network here. It was a big deal. Kid bragged that he was going to be Cuba’s ears in South Florida.”

  “Or a terrorist, maybe?”

  Currito shot me a quick glance. “You’re watching too much CNN.” He grinned. “Sorry.”

  What Sanchez said now made sense. Of course Cuba had planted moles in the million-plus people who had emigrated here. They could easily number in the thousands, which gave some weight to his brash statement that 9/11 would be a stubbed toe compared to what they could do. My cotton mouth returned with a vengeance.

  Cause and effect, action and reaction. 50 years of animosity with Cuba had produced a generation of negative consequences. In my travels to Latin America I had been cornered several times on the failed embargo and the hypocrisy it represented. America sought to punish Cuba for its human rights record by preventing the Cuban people access to food, medicine, modern convenience and trading partners. I’m far from political, but any moron can see that after 10 presidents and five decades of failed policy, it’d be time to change course. Let common sense guide the rudder and you’ll find the rhum line.

  57

  THE SAME NEWS VANS that were at the La Concha were now parked in front of the airport. I hit the ground running but didn’t make it far before being stopped by a Key West police officer. I explained who I was, which ignited the lurking news hounds. They screamed and pushed to get at me, but were restrained by another cop.

  The terminal was packed with grounded travelers, camera crews, and a variety of suits. Ray Floyd was talking to Jess Waters, the airport administrator. Jess and I had never gotten along. He didn’t like amphibious aircraft using his airport, convinced they weren’t safe. I’m sure he was thrilled that mine was now equipped with a bomb.

  “Buck!” Ray said.

  “What’s happening?”

  “Bomb squad’s out there now. Agent Booth’s on his way in. He said for you to wait here.” Ray was still pale.

  Booth came back through security and came toward me with a maniacal glint in his eyes. Through the window I could see two men in space suit-like outfits moving away from Betty in slow motion toward a white Chevy Tahoe with a huge steel vault that looked something like a concrete mixer.

  I suddenly realized where I recognized Booth from. He was the guy in the government car by Posada’s restaurant the day of CANC’s rally.

  “You’ve got a lot of explaining to do, mister,” Booth said.

  “What was it?”

  “Russian grenade, wired with some sort of balloon-rigged trigger mechanism. Pressure related.”

  “We came back from Cuba on the deck, never higher than three thousand feet.” I tried to remember our altitude on the trip to Cuba, maybe a thousand feet higher. Booth’s analysis sank in and my thoughts shifted to my release at José Martí airport and Dumbas’s sudden joviality.

  “You’ve been given priority clearance….” His and Havana Control’s instructions were to fly at 5,500 feet. Would rescuing Truck from Salvo make them want to get rid of me? Or seeing the crates at the warehouse? A vision struck. When Betty’s port engine backfired, Dumbas dove to the ground as if expecting an explosion. Son-of-a bitch.

  “Can these guys tell what altitude it was set to ignite?”

  “What’s your point?”

  “I’m trying to figure out how close I came to being shark bait.”

  “You better start worrying about being jail bait, Reilly. Interfering with this investigation has rekindled your own.”

&nbs
p; “How’s the investigation going so far, Booth? Any big discoveries?”

  “As a matter of fact, a little birdy left me a message about you. Something about some spreadsheets? Said they’d be sending them over. Any idea what that means?”

  The blood drained from my head.

  Booth’s mouth twisted into a nasty grin. “And we’re impounding your plane as evidence, hot shot. They’ll strip it down to—”

  Something snapped, and I leapt at him with a haymaker. Wide-eyed, he ducked impact. Two uniformed police officers grabbed me from behind.

  “That’s your ass, Reilly! I’ll nail you on obstruction, assaulting a law enforcement officer, and—”

  “Touch my plane and I’ll have your ass!”

  “You men are my witnesses, Buck Reilly just threatened me. Bring his sorry butt downtown. I want to know why someone thought him worthy of blowing up.”

  Ray Floyd rushed up. “Hey! What are you guys doing? He wouldn’t blow up his own plane!”

  Booth’s thin lips lifted to reveal his caffeine-yellowed teeth. He leaned in. “Just another satisfied e-Antiquity investor.”

  A kick to the balls wouldn’t have surprised me more. I stood open-mouthed, staring at him as he strutted away. Reporters and cameramen swarmed Booth like flies on dogshit. One broke away from the crowd and walked toward me. It was the lanky, freckled photographer from the Citizen.

  “Guess we can forget about that ride, huh?”

  My eyes were still boring holes into Booth. “Looks that way.”

  He exhaled loudly, then reached into his pocket. “Here are the pictures, anyway. Maybe you’ll get the plane back.”

  The thick envelope snapped me out of the funk. Inside were at least thirty pictures of—they were ripped from my grasp.

  Booth.

  “Let’s go, hot shot.”

  “You’ve got no right to take those!”

  “Shut your yap and march.”

  Led away by two officers, my guess was we were headed to the KWPD offices on Simonton. I was becoming much too familiar with law enforcement facilities.

  The name of the boat’s Santero crewmen and Barrett’s wad of pictures gave me a couple of Get Out of Jail Free cards in case Booth planned on taking Betty away as some sort of crazy revenge for speculating on the stock market, or if the blackmailers sent him my ledger, but first I had to get the pictures back.

  High-powered lights outside the terminal suddenly blinded me. The press pushed in, and I shielded my face. If the mention in the Citizen was enough to run me out of Key West, the national networks could propel my flight to a banana republic. In the past two days I’d gone from accused inside trader and suspected murderer to CIA spy and in the middle of a potential war with Cuba. They were going to have a field day at my expense.

  58

  “YOUR BROTHER PAID A half-million dollars for that junk airplane, and he doesn’t have a pilot’s license. Rough bankruptcy, Reilly.”

  “I don’t even own a house.”

  “I see right through the slight-of-hand bullshit you boys have pulled. I guess that’s why you’re down here under an assumed name.”

  “Buck’s my middle—”

  “One day you’re worth millions, now a once lucky has-been who bailed out to this shit rock. You want to know what real ambition looks like, Reilly?” He pointed to his chin. “And you’re my ticket. Know what else? Your old partner’s getting tired of his jail cell. Dodson’s making hints about a deal.”

  The Key West police officer in the room squinted at me. Sweat broke out on my forehead. My deal with Jack Dodson was detailed in the ledger stolen from Betty. If the blackmailer’s threat was true, then Booth may have all he needs before the day was out.

  Booth bent down, his face inches from mine. “I own you, boy, you got that? You may not have any accounts left for me to freeze, but I’ve got your plane, and hell, I could rip that Middleburg farm out from under your brother’s ass, understand?”

  “I told you what happened in Cuba, why—”

  “Right, the head of State Security tried to kill you. That fits your mammoth ego—”

  “It’s got nothing to do with my ego. It was the whole chain of events around finding—” Booth suddenly shoved his palm over my mouth. I slapped it away.

  He turned to the police officer. “Leave us alone, Klausner.”

  When the door closed, Booth turned back to me. “Open your mouth about that boat, I’ll bury you in a federal safe house. You hear me?”

  How Booth got to be a special agent in the Federal Bureau of Investigation was beyond me. “Why are you sticking your neck out, Reilly? Your charter for Redeemer’s long over. As far as we’re concerned, the case of the missionaries is closed.”

  “What do you mean closed? Based on what?”

  “Your evidence, hot shot.” Booth’s crooked teeth shone dully in the fluorescent light. “When you saw the Carnival at a government installation, that was all we needed.”

  “That’s crazy, there’s no—”

  “Back off, butt out, and keep your mouth shut—”

  “Did you say butt out?”

  “The information’s classified as national security until the president says otherwise. If you were the only one that saw the damn boat I’d put you under a rug, but with those so-called missionaries…You say one word, or leave town, your other problems will seem like jay-walking.”

  “The boat’s being at the warehouse doesn’t prove it was the Cuban government. And I met the Stock Island Sancho, Enrique Jiminez, to discuss calming things down—”

  “Heh! You humiliate your old man, and now you’re the family diplomat? Statesman for the Conch Republic?”

  “Jiminez is a federal employee, just like you.”

  “That whacked-out stamp-licker on Stock Island?” His shrill laugh made me cringe. “I suggest you focus on your own problems.”

  “How do you explain the bomb, then, Booth?”

  “Like you said, the big, bad Cubans wanted to blow you up for finding the warehouse. It’s a fit, congratulations.” I balled my fists at his self-satisfied grin. “And now I get to go to Washington and present the facts to the director.”

  “You’ll start a war if you push this, Booth.”

  “And finally be an assistant director.”

  “Am I under arrest?”

  “Not yet, at least until I see what this mysterious tip is all about. Don’t get any ideas about stepping foot off this god-awful island. Consider your plane grounded as evidence.”

  I had provided the fuel for this opportunist’s obsessive ambition. And worse, my past was just an indictment away, and the hard evidence that would bury me was about to fall into Booth’s lap.

  “Remember, I own your ass.” Booth pulled Barrett’s envelope from his pocket and dropped it at the floor by my feet without looking inside. “Now get out of here.”

  59

  A RAIN SQUALL WAS blowing, so I took off running up the street. I stopped under Key West Island Bookstore’s awning. As I stood there, breathing heavily, I peeled open the envelope. The only way to prevent Betty from being mothballed by crazed government officials was to beat Booth at his own game.

  I fanned through the pictures. All the same faces as the ones from the easel. One of Rodney stopped me. The blue Polo shirt. Then Scar. Even at the small scale, his evil grimace gave me a chill.

  The next picture was of the crowd. People waved to the boat as Scar threw a line toward a piling. Mingie Posada was standing in the back of the crowd, dead pan, with picketers behind him. Next to him was a guy in a blue shirt. I held it closer….

  I took off through the rain across Duval and lit into the La Concha’s lobby with the same speed I’d left only hours ago. The difference was, I’d left full of anticipation and adrenalin, and was returning soaked to the skin, the eyewitness to substantiate Cuban aggression, grounded indefinitely with the scabs freshly picked off my legal woes, and Booth’s new bitch to top it off. The squeak of my flip-flops o
n the terrazzo floor announced my approach.

  Karen was at the reception desk, eyebrows raised.

  “Not looking so good, flyboy.”

  “Really? I feel marvelous.”

  “I’ve been hearing a lot of stories about you lately.”

  “The ruthless treasure salvor, the stuff novels are made of.…”

  “Fiction can’t keep up with your life.”

  A puddle formed under me. “There’s something I’ve been meaning to tell you. Don’t ask why, but I was in Posada’s office at El Aljibe, and I found a glass full of pink and blue ribbons on his shelf, like souvenirs.”

  Her face darkened. “That bastard.”

  Even when she was angry, her green eyes were beautiful—and calculating. She was wearing a tight black T-shirt, shorts, and her hair was down.

  “Where’s the business as usual uniform?”

  “I’m off this afternoon.” She paused, “Listen, I know you’re upset about my book, and yes, the protagonist is a renegade, but I intend to soften his edges by the end.” She smiled faintly. “I appreciate the dirt on Posada, but don’t worry about helping me with Old Island Days any more.”

  She turned her head slightly to check behind me. A horn sounded and her eyes spooked. “Josh?” Karen shouted inside the office door. “I’ll see you tomorrow.”

  The black land shark had pulled into the alley next to the hotel. “Gutierrez, huh? You two’ve become quite the item.” The horn pierced the air again. “Classy guy.”

  “Manny invited me on his boat for the offshore races this weekend. I’ll have an open mike that will broadcast on the radio. It’s a killer event to kick-off the Festival. We’re going to practice now.”/p>

  I felt my shoulders sag. My sixty-something airplane was trumped by a championship-defending thrill ride in a water rocket. Karen’s hunger for festival excitement had paid off. Gutierrez rolled his window down as we approached.

  “Any more assaults on your gallery?” I said.

  “You know what they say about the best defense….”