1 Red Right Return

by John H. Cunningham

  “I met Enrique Jiminez today. I don’t think he has anything to do with the boat’s disappearance.”

  His smile vanished. “Isn’t that how you got Willy’s people extradited? Sticking your nose where it doesn’t belong?”

  It dawned on me that Gutierrez had never been interested in my help. “The Cuban government and the Santeros are connected, don’t ask me how—”

  He shoved his cell phone in my face. “Quick, better call CNN with your hot lead. I’m sure they’re over the embarrassment about you being a spy.”

  I held my fists so tight my fingers went numb. First Booth rips my head off, now Gutierrez shits down my throat. The rain started again. As I stood in the deluge, his anger turned to a smile.

  “All right, boys, take it easy.” Karen bunched her lips for my eyes only.

  “You might as well lay off Enrique until after the president’s speech tonight. Based on Cuba’s relationship with Iran, the government has other ideas.” I wanted to shout that the Carnival was still afloat with a girl that might be Shaniqua on board, that the CANC had trounced him in the accusation department, and that Palo Mayombe made Santeria look like Baptists, but Gutierrez had sunk to last in line of the people I would confide in.

  “Do yourself a favor, Reilly, leave diplomacy and intelligence to the experts.”

  The sound of his revving twelve-cylinder engine annoyed me as I slid into the lobby and nearly busted my ass on the slick terrazzo. Manny had blown past me with Karen while I was off chasing shadows.

  Cuban scenes pressed in on me from both sides down the back hall. I again walked out into the rain. Zeke waved from the moped rental booth.

  “You didn’t get much out of that,” Zeke said.

  “What?”

  “Your fifteen minutes of fame. CIA agent?” He laughed.

  I pulled Barrett’s pictures out. “Do you recognize the guy from the day my Rover was broken into?”

  He shuffled the pictures like a deck of cards. I watched his expression while he worked through them. A lustful grunt for Shaniqua, a cringe at Scar, and then about half-way through he stopped. Without hesitation he stabbed the photo with his finger.

  “That’s the guy. Same shirt and all.”

  “You’re sure?”

  “No doubt, man. I can almost smell him. Like a bar, you know?”

  The photo was from the embarkation. Picketers, Scar tossing the line, Posada stone-faced, and the guy under Zeke’s finger was in a blue guayabara.

  “You calling the cops?”

  I suddenly realized my Rover was missing from its usual spot. A numbness crept up my legs as I tried to recall where I’d left her.

  Whitehead on a meter. Damn.

  A ticket was plastered to the wet windshield. As I searched for the dollar amount of the penalty, a stench smacked me in the face.

  “What the…?”

  I looked all around, and finally peered in the back window. A tribe of Orishas trampled my soul. There was a dead animal splayed out in the Rover’s bed. Its throat was slit, and caked blood had dried into a burgundy collar.

  I swung the gate open and a rush of fetid air doused me. My gag reflex kicked in, and if my stomach weren’t empty I’d have barfed it clean. Black fur mixed with white—it was the remains of a dog. The same dog from the poster at José’s Cantina. So much for Chinese restaurants.

  Enrique said they didn’t sacrifice dogs or cats. But did Paleros? Explanations were secondary to exorcising the rotten carcass from my vehicle. Doves, candles, bombs, blackmailers, hexes, sacrificed canines, Cuban Secret Police, the FBI, pissy art dealers…I was on a roll.

  “Our reach extends further than you think.” Sanchez’s warning again ran through my head. If I called the police, it would only fuel Booth’s agenda. My Rover would be threatened with confiscation just like Betty.

  “What the hell’s that?” Zeke peered over the chest-high croton hedge.

  “Santero trick or treat. Got a trash bag in your hut?”

  Zeke’s eyes cut from me to the dog and back. “I’ll check.”

  He returned with a green plastic bag and reluctantly held it open.

  “Oh, man, that’s disgusting.” Zeke’s sickly look was at odds with his burly physique, long ponytail, and indecipherable blue tattoos.

  I tied the top of the bag into a knot, and lugged the foul load toward the hotel’s dumpster. First my flight bag, now this.

  My plan to confront Posada was shot. The evening would now be spent mucking out my vehicle. A quick wash of my hands with the gardener’s hose, and I was back at the Rover. What’s this on the floorboard? Red wax was melted into a puddle, but also a piece of—I dove forward, hitting my head on the steering wheel.

  It was a copy of the first page of my missing ledger.

  I scraped off the wax. There was a note written below the financial entries my brother had paid out on my behalf. “The original went to Special Agent Booth. The rest will too, along with the key, if you don’t butt out.”

  I stared at the page, breathing fast. I felt no fear, hesitation, or doubt. Anger had replaced all that, combined with a healthy dose of determination. If my growing number of adversaries hadn’t stopped me, dead dogs and blackmailers wouldn’t.

  60

  MINGIE POSADA’S NAME PLAYED in my head like a Santero’s drumbeat, but the hour it took to clean the stench from the Rover helped me to think more analytically. A frontal assault on Posada would be risky. My nature urged me to action, but the result was too often failure. Strategy took time, which I had in abundance, but I was short on patience. That’s why I liked boxing. It’s a kind of physical debate that requires poise, but dooms hesitation. Life, unfortunately, wasn’t so simple.

  Upstairs, the message light was blinking next to my phone. Just what I needed, another threat, more bad news, or someone else looking for help.

  The sense that my life had veered into an uncontrollable vortex had me jumpy. I’d never won a fight clinging to the ropes, but with the bad guys cloaked in fog, I didn’t know where to strike. It was oddly comforting that my stash was being used piecemeal against me. At least I knew it was still here.

  The Vigenère cipher sat on my coffee table.

  The directions spelled out in the book had me write PILAR continuously above the first passage:

  I traced down the Vigenère’s column that began with a P until I came to B. Then back across the row to the left where I found M, the first letter of the cipher. The first three letters spelled MUD. The completed cipher read:

  MUDDHOUSE? What did … another cipher? Crap.

  The second string of encoded letters, HBLIWTWDMGR, produced nonsense when matched with MUDDHOUSE. After another half-hour, so did PILAR and several key word variations. MUDDHOUSE was yet another word puzzle, or clue, like HIS BOAT. An hour of puzzle torture led to another dead end. I was no closer to getting the code needed to replace the key, or to finding the blackmailers.

  An idea hit and I powered up my laptop. I found Ron Zilke’s phone number. Could I really call him? As e-Antiquity's technical director, Ronnie had lost a ton during the crash. But he was a researcher extraordinaire who could find answers a hell of a lot faster than I could. My role in the company had been sales and acquisitions. Jack Dodson and Ronnie were the technical wizards.

  Ronnie had been implicated in the case against Dodson too, and although he was ultimately cleared, the strain of those accusations along with the ones against me fractured our friendship. The question was, had it healed? I took a deep breath and dialed the number.

  “King Charles? I thought you were dead.”

  “I just didn’t bounce back as fast as you did.”

  “Who said I bounced back? I’m in debt up to my ass and working as an MIS schmuck in a fifty-person company. Thanks to you and Jack. Do me a favor, lose my number.” A dial-tone followed.

  So much for healing.

  The ensuing internet searches produced nothing on Jackson Rolle, Mingie Posada, Carnival, or MUDDHOUS
E, but from it another idea emerged.

  This trip was made on foot. My mind was back to orbiting Posada like a satellite. Given the hour, the odds were poor, but I found the door open with Rosalie Peña inside the San Carlos Institute pouring over a stack of bills.

  “Buck!” She pressed her hand to her chest. “My God, you scared me.”

  I held up the picture.

  “Why do you have a picture of Mingie Posada?” she asked.

  “It’s from when the Carnival left.”

  “Ah, yes, the signs,” she said.

  I laid the photo on her desk. “Who’s that with Posada, in the blue shirt?”

  “Him?” She pointed to the man. “I don’t know his name, but—”

  “You recognize him?”

  “Why, sure. He’s one of the waiters at El Aljibe.”

  61

  FROM MY SIXTH-FLOOR WINDOW the morning appeared quiet on Duval Street. After last night’s veiled threats by the real president toward the Cubans about their connections with Iran and their “murderous attack” on helpless missionaries, it felt like the calm before the storm troopers. The stage was set for an escalated response if his demand for a confession, apology, and return of the remaining two bodies wasn’t met within forty-eight hours.

  As usual, for every frenzied media action, there was an equal or greater political reaction. No mention was made of the boat’s being sighted in Havana harbor, but the names of the dead and missing were piled up like face cards in a poker game, and I was their ace in the hole. How far would the bluff go, and what would happen if I busted the flush?

  Sometime during the night it occurred to me that Posada might be a Santero, with Blue Guayabara boy his henchman. Another person suddenly came to mind. A man who had been integral to my former business.

  What the hell.

  After several rings I was about to hang up when a sudden spate of heavy breathing was followed by, “Harry Greenbaum.”

  I hoped he wasn’t still having heart problems. “Harry, it’s Buck Reilly.” A long silence followed. “Harry?”

  “I’m trying to decide what to say.” His New York/British flavored-with-Yiddish accent was as distinctive as ever.

  “How about ‘nice to hear from you’?”

  “How about you owe me twenty million dollars?”

  I winced. “Venture capital’s risky business….”

  “So is fraud, my boy.”

  As our largest venture capitalist, Harry lost more than anyone, but it was all on paper. He’d cashed out a healthy multiple of his investment while e-Antiquity was still riding the crest of financial fantasy.

  “I’m not calling for money, Harry, I just need some information.”

  “Truth be known, Buck, I’m happy to hear from you. I don’t think we’ve spoken since your parent’s funeral.”

  “That’s when I dropped out.”

  “Disappearing made it look worse.”

  We caught up, and he admitted that treasure hunting in Key West sounded more fun then grinding it out in another start-up company.

  “I swore off life’s hamster wheel,” I said.

  “That’s why I own the wheel.” He laughed. “I always liked your swagger, young man, and if some information will help get you back on your feet, perhaps you’ll be in a position to reduce our marker. What is it you need?”

  “Do you still have access to hard-to-find information?”

  “Owning positions in sixty-eight companies does augment one’s resources.”

  I rattled off my list of names.

  “You finally surface from oblivion only to ask for information on an FBI agent?”

  “That one’s just for curiosity. The others are critical. If you get anything on them it may lead to more questions. I’ll save the explanation until then.”

  We hung up, and I felt a high I hadn’t enjoyed in a long time. Harry had been one of the key people in my company’s success, and it was exhilarating to have him once again go to bat for me.

  The random dots needed to be connected before it was too late, because if Booth figured out the significance of my ledger, he could impound more than Betty, and if the president’s threats materialized, the missionaries would be forgotten. Plus, my feeble code breaking skills were a stretch to replace the Swiss bank key. MUDDHOUSE? Could the five-character code be adobe?

  Breakfast beckoned. Not for food, but information. Booth never said not to continue my salvage efforts, so I set out to check the island’s storm signals. No decomposing animals were affixed to my bike, it being the least identifiable thing I owned, so with my backpack strapped to the handlebars I pedaled toward the light of discovery. Breakfast could be my best cover yet. Health-nut tourists were out speed-walking, jogging, standing tall at smoothie stands, and in general giving Key West a false appearance of health-consciousness.

  The sound of cutlery against porcelain rose above the low wood fence that surrounded El Aljibe’s outdoor dining area. Laughter pierced the hum of conversation. I spotted something—no, someone outside the dining patio.

  Karen. She was crouched amidst a small copse of pygmy palm trees. I swallowed a smile. Our motivation might be different, but we both sought the truth. A thought struck me. Chickens. If Posada was serving up island chickens, could he also be using them as offensive weapons?

  Karen saw me. She stepped out from her cover with bunched fists on her hips and stared me down as I entered the patio. Poquito hovered over a petite Latina in a bulging tank top who greeted my entry with a harried smile. It was the same girl who’d caught me in El Aljibe’s office the day of the rally.

  “Just one?” she asked.

  “Mingie?” He turned my way with a forced smile. “Buck Reilly.”

  The fake smile went flat. “Right. Willy Peebles’s pilot. The CNN spy.”

  “Never ate here, so I thought I’d come by.”

  The Latina hostess led me to a table in the rear corner of the crowded patio. Before my rear end hit the seat, a waiter in a blue guayabara popped out of the kitchen. My heart leapt until I saw he had twenty years on the guy from the picture.

  Deep breathing did little to calm my pounding temples. Could this be it? Poquito? His restaurant had been ground zero for the anti-Cuban fanatics, but could it also be a hotbed of Santeria? Or Palo? The chicken launch pad? La Casa Blanca for Bush and Clinton? Could my ledger, maps, GPS and key be buried in his office with Karen’s ribbons?

  I looked at the picture and committed the younger man’s face to memory. Observation, I’m just here for—

  Another man came out of the kitchen wearing a blue guayabara—it was him. He sauntered up to the podium and whispered in the ear of the Latina. She elbowed him and tried to suppress a giggle. Posada flicked his palm and nodded toward the patio.

  Breathe deep, breathe…deeper. Was it my imagination, or did his smile fade as he approached?

  “Decided what you want?” His thick Cuban accent rung familiar.

  His expression morphed from the arrogant boredom of a person too exalted to be taking orders to…what? Recognition? I held onto the seat of my chair with both hands.

  “Any chicken specialties?”

  A croak of air intake preceded his step backwards. Blue Guayabara Boy turned and dashed into the kitchen.

  The restaurant became a blur as I raced after him. The Latina dropped a handful of menus, and Posada’s round face inflated as I shot past. Spanish shouts followed like small arms fire. I flew into the kitchen, where a half-dozen blue guayabaras skidded me to a stop. The room was eerily quiet, with all eyes on me and only the hiss of frying eggs audible above my heavy breathing.

  He wasn’t there. The back door was askew, and I ran toward it. More Spanish erupted, and a cook jumped in my path. I kept running, and knocked him into the pot rack. The resulting cacophony was deafening. I yanked the door open to find an alley ahead. I ran out, surprised to see Karen at the end of the alley.

  She waved her hands at me as I ran past the dumpster.


  I was aware of a flash over my shoulder a split second before pain shot into a supernova. Then everything turned bright white….

  62

  “HE’S AWAKE!” A VOICE shouted.

  A sea of blue shirts hovered over me amidst the smell of garbage. EMT’s? Posada’s face appeared in the middle of them. I tried to coil up, ready to fight back, but my limbs would not respond.

  “The hell you doing?” Poquito said. “Running crazy, chasing Emilio? You attacked my cook. Come on, get up!”

  The blue shirts were guayabaras. “I…he….”

  “Another jealous boyfriend,” one of the guayabaras said. The others giggled.

  “Where is he?” I asked.

  Posada turned to the others and loosed a burst of Spanish that scattered them into retreat. He then redirected his scowl toward Karen.

  “And what’re you doing here?”

  I probed the welt on the side of my head.

  “You ran through here, tripped, and crashed into the dumpster.” Poquito said. He studied my eyes, his own unsure.

  “That’s not what happened,” Karen said. “One of those waiters smashed you over the head with a two-by-four.”

  I turned to Posada. “Was that Chango’s lightning or Siete Rayos’?”

  His eyes widened, he crossed himself and muttered something in Spanish. “Don’t come here again, I don’t care whose friend you are. You come back, I’ll call the police. And you, Ribbon Lady—” He waved his arm toward Karen as if shooing away an animal. “Get off my property!”

  I stood up in a daze. I must have only been out a minute or two. “Where’s the guy you called Emilio? And what’s his last name?”

  “History.” Posada stormed off. So much for observation.

  “What happened?” Karen asked. “Did you find more of my ribbons?”

  “The guy who whacked me stole some stuff from my Rover and left a dead chicken in my flight bag.” He had to be either Clinton or Bush.

  “That sick bastard! Why would he do something so, so disgusting?”