Havana Best Friends

by Jose Latour

  “I’m checking out,” he said, handing over his card key. “Room 321. Could I have the bill, please?”

  “By all means.”

  The clerk busied himself with a computer keyboard for a few moments, then a printer spewed the itemized bill. Sean placed his cane on the counter and examined the page attentively, as though making sure he hadn’t been overcharged, which was the least of his worries at the moment. With a nod of approval, he fished in the back pocket of his pants for his wallet and pulled out two one-hundred-dollar bills and a fifty. His change amounted to seventeen dollars and a few coins. Sean left a five-dollar bill and the coins on the counter.

  “My wife is still asleep, she will join me later. Please wake her up at ten.”

  The clerk assented and jotted the room number and the hour on a notepad. “Bellhop, sir?”

  “No, I’ll manage, thank you,” Sean said, recovering his cane from the counter and seizing the handle of the carry-on.

  “Thank you, sir. Have a nice day.”

  At the parking lot, Sean stored his baggage in the trunk before sliding behind the wheel. An attendant finished cleaning his windshield and Sean gave him a dollar before turning the ignition. He backed into the deserted First Avenue and steered the vehicle eastbound. The headlights illuminated the dark expanses between the widely spaced streetlamps. On the horizon, daybreak was nothing more than a grey promise.

  On the block between 36th and 34th, Sean spotted a dark vehicle starting to pass him. Then, unexpectedly, it remained beside the Hyundai, closing in on him. What the fuck? Frowning, Sean gently applied the brakes and veered slightly to the right to avoid a collision. The other driver also veered to his right and slowed down. Sean realized he was being forced into the curb, but instead of stepping on the gas pedal and pulling away, he braked and pulled over. The Mitsubishi Lancer, its lights off, shuddered to a stop directly in front of him. Sean could have backed up and fled, but he was more intrigued than suspicious. Was this a police cruiser? Had he committed a traffic violation? Kids in a playful mood? Then, the most probable reason flashed through his mind. Marina had woken up, found out he had cut and run, and asked someone from the hotel staff to intercept him. Well, as always, he had a plausible reason ready. The big guy now stepping out from the car, wrapped in shadows, looked vaguely familiar. By the time he realized who it was, the man was a few feet from his passenger door, arm extended, gun pointed at his face.

  “Kill your lights and engine,” was his first command. Sean did as he was told.

  “Get out.”

  “What are you doing here?”

  “GET OUT!”

  Sean resented being ordered around in the harsh tones and simple terms used by soldiers and cops when dealing with suspects. But what made him really angry was to have underestimated Truman so much. He had never considered the insidious bastard a thinker. The notion that he could betray him, plan ahead to steal the loot, never crossed his mind. Now it was too late to re-evaluate the cocksucker. He would try to second-guess him. He grabbed the cane and climbed out.

  “Red Star, 9mm,” he said, playing it cool.

  “Open the trunk.”

  Sean stooped down, extracted the key from the ignition, closed the door, then did as he was told.

  “Get your baggage.”

  Sean carried the bag to the trunk of Truman’s car. Once the lid was closed, the big man frisked him.

  “Get behind the wheel,” Truman ordered, signalling with the gun to his own vehicle.

  Sean obeyed as Truman opened the passenger door and plopped onto the seat. “Buckle up,” he ordered as he clumsily did the same using his left hand only. Before complying, Sean moved the seat forward. Next he was handed the car keys.

  “Let’s get rolling.”

  “Where to?”

  “Just drive around. Take Malecón. We need to talk. And don’t get any funny ideas if you want to live through this. You cry for help, break the speed limit, rear-end a patrol car, it’s the last thing you do. You understand what I’m saying?”

  “I understand,” Sean said, turning the key and shifting into drive.

  “I figured you would. Go ahead.”

  For almost five minutes not a word was exchanged. Sean found his way to Fifth Avenue, drove through the tunnel under the Almendares River, then took Malecón. A sliver of the rising sun silhouetted Morro Castle against reddish clouds. The air conditioner was off and the smell of sea water filled the vehicle.

  Sean was following instructions to the letter, waiting for his break, hoping to outwit the motherfucker because he knew he couldn’t outfight him. He had never imagined himself having this heart-ripping hit man as an enemy, being in this kind of situation. He glanced at Truman. The man held the gun out of view, by his right thigh.

  Sean didn’t want to appear nervous or show he had what the fucker wanted on him. Evidently, at some point Truman had realized that life would never again present him with the chance to become a multimillionaire and had decided to plunder the loot. Simple as that. Sean realized he would survive only as long as he could conceal the diamonds.

  “I can’t figure the cane,” Truman admitted.

  Sean sighed, kept his eyes on the road. “There’s nothing to figure. Sprained ankle, had trouble walking. Doc said I ought to take things easy for a month or so, suggested the cane. I’m much better now.”

  “Is that a fact. Why did you hit the bricks so early?”

  Sean shrugged. “Frustration, I guess. Couldn’t sleep.”

  “Shaking off the broad, maybe?”

  “No.”

  “Why the baggage then?”

  Sean acknowledged the contradiction too, but what could he do? “I’m sick and tired of her. Always bitching, making my life miserable. I was hoping to spend a couple of days by myself at this beach resort, Varadero. Then come back for her and get my ass off this fucking island. I’ll call her later. She’s asleep now.”

  “But you promised the Cuban broad you’d see her this morning.”

  For an instant Sean concentrated on hiding his astonishment. How much did Truman know? He tapped the brakes for the red light at Linea. “You heard me?” he asked, stealing a glance at his captor. Truman nodded twice as he forced a grin.

  “I changed my mind,” Sean said.

  “All of a sudden?”

  “Marina will explain things to her.”

  “Oh, yeah. The broad who doesn’t know you’ve run out on her will explain things to the broad you promised you’d visit this morning. Great. And where are the diamonds? In the carry-on?”

  “There was nothing.”

  Truman chuckled and shook his head. The green light flashed. Sean pressed the gas pedal, admitting to himself he was in very deep shit. The kind of predicament in which the best defence is offence.

  “You spent five hours in that apartment,” Truman said, “you hammered at something for less than twenty minutes. I say you found the diamonds and the rest of the time you guys were celebrating and splitting them between the three of you. I say you’re shaking off the spics and getting out with the whole lot.”

  Sean sighed again and shook his head, as though resigned to being so unjustly misjudged. “You’re wrong, but I can understand your line of reasoning. My buddy was so sure. He said his father’s mental condition was excellent. What gave way was his heart, not his brain. I told you that. ‘Behind the soap dish alongside the bathtub,’ he told his son over and over.”

  “You never said where it was.”

  “Put yourself in my place. Would you have told me? Give me a fucking break.”

  Sean interpreted Truman’s silence as an admission that he wouldn’t have told anyone either. After considering whether to seize the offensive, he finally ended the pause: “Well, there was nothing there.” His tone belied the fear he felt. “Fucking geezer must’ve hated his son to play this kinda joke on him. You feel cheated? How do you think I feel?” Getting himself worked up. “What do you suppose my buddy will think? That I ma
de off with his gems, that’s what he’ll think. You know how much money I’ve invested in this? Close to forty-five Gs. And you accuse me of running off with the boodle? By the way, why the fuck are you here, kidnapping me at gunpoint, you sonofabitch?”

  “Now, wait a minute.”

  “Wait your ass,” Sean blurted out, hitting the wheel with the palm of his hand. His eyes on the tarmac, he was fully immersed in his role, believing each word that came into his mind. “We had a deal. You’re not supposed to be here. You’re here ’cause you were planning to kill me and get the damn diamonds yourself. Well, you know what, Ernie? I’m not doing business with you ever again. You got it? Never again,” Sean finished, slowing down for the red light at Marina Street.

  Truman was observing him, a grin on his lips. “Do I strike you as mentally retarded?” he asked sardonically.

  “You don’t believe me? Okay, let’s make a deal,” Sean said, turning to face his opponent. “I’ll stop wherever you say, you search the carry-on, search me, rip apart my clothes, take apart my shoes, break my fucking cane –”

  Truman’s chuckle froze Sean in mid-sentence. “A deal?” the abductor scoffed. “What I’m going to force you to do at gunpoint is a deal?”

  Sean recovered and went on as if he hadn’t been interrupted. “Then I’ll gladly bend over and you stick your finger up my ass to make sure they ain’t there in a condom. You find one single diamond on me …”

  The car behind tooted its horn. “Green,” Truman said. The Mitsubishi lurched forward.

  “You find a single diamond on me, you shoot me. The deal is: you find nothing, I walk and we never see each other again,” Sean blurted out.

  For the next few blocks Truman mulled things over. Perhaps his partner hadn’t found the gems. But last night, when the treasure hunters had said goodbye to the Cuban woman, their tone had been upbeat, not at all the way disappointed people talk. He had to make damn sure. “Take the right lane,” he said after a while. “Turn right at the next light.”

  Paseo del Prado is the promenade where Havana’s rich and famous used to stroll in the nineteenth and early twentieth centuries. Much more plebeian now, it still preserves some of its original splendour: granite floor, stone benches, cast bronze lions, and huge laurel trees from which thousands of birds, most of them sparrows, flew off to the sunrise as the Mitsubishi took the three-lane southbound avenue flanking the promenade. After a few blocks, Truman instructed Sean to take a right on to Virtudes Street and pull over between Consulado and Industria, in front of an old, rundown, two-storey residence where a small sign in English and Italian advertised rooms for rent to tourists.

  The owner was supposed to register all guests in a book frequently examined by police and tax inspectors, but since most of his clients were hookers and drag queens who had just picked up a tourist in Prado and never stayed more than a couple of hours, he frequently dispensed with the formality. When Truman handed him a twenty and said in lousy Spanish, “Two hours, no passport,” he decided the big bugger and the faggot deserved his best room, the one with the air conditioner. And for twenty bucks they could stay the whole day, should they feel like it.

  The owner led the way along a corridor with rooms to the right, flung a door open, went in, turned the air conditioner on, then a bedside lamp with a sixty-watt bulb, the only light in the bedroom. He opened a door to a bathroom and switched its light on. After shaking his head repeatedly to the suggestions of drinks, cigars, and cigarettes, Truman closed and bolted the door, ordered his prisoner to sit on his heels in a corner of the room, then emptied the carry-on onto the bed. In an amazing display of brute strength, he began taking apart the piece of luggage with his bare hands.

  “Hey!” Sean shouted.

  Truman gave him a look before resuming his task.

  “You do that, where am I supposed to put my things?” he asked, to let his captor know he expected to survive this ordeal.

  There was no answer.

  Twenty minutes later Truman felt reasonably sure that what had been a carry-on didn’t conceal the gems. He inspected the clothing on the bed before he ordered Sean to strip. The prisoner’s sports coat, khakis, shirt, and underwear were checked and felt around the seams. Next Truman examined Sean’s loafers; he could plainly see nobody had recently tampered with the heels. Besides, his prisoner would be stared at if he went around barefoot, so he didn’t rip the shoes apart.

  Sean tensed when his kidnapper seized the walking stick and shook it close to his ear. He would negotiate, grovel, beg, let the motherfucker keep it all; living became his top priority. Truman removed the black rubber tip at its end and tried to pull the cane apart. The lamp gave out too faint a glow for him to discern the ultra-thin line where the separate sections met, just under the handle. It never occurred to him to turn the handle. Sean suppressed a sigh of relief.

  “You satisfied? Persuaded I levelled with you? Or you want me to bend over now?”

  Truman glared at him. “Something tells me you found them.”

  “Oh, for God’s sake, Ernie.”

  “You’re trying to bluff your way out.”

  “Sure, and I swallowed every single stone. Like pills, right?”

  “Maybe.”

  Sean rolled his eyes in fake exasperation. “Okay. Now what? You want me to crap on the floor?” he asked an instant later.

  Truman didn’t answer, remained brooding for almost a minute. “Get dressed. We’ll go to church,” he said at last.

  “What?”

  “We’ll go to church. It’s Sunday, remember?”

  “Now, listen to me, Ernie,” said Sean, trying to sound reasonable, downplaying the whole incident. “Let’s work this out. You are now certain I didn’t find the diamonds. There were none, take my word for it.”

  “Wow. Why didn’t you say that for starters?”

  “Tell you what. I go my way, you go yours.” He dismissed the sarcasm. “I thought of you as a friend, not any more. After this, we can’t team up again. But I won’t lift a finger against you. As they say, let’s piss on the fire and head for the ranch.”

  “We’re going to hear Mass, Lawson. Now, get dressed.” Truman glanced at his watch and fished out the automatic from the pocket of his sports coat. “We’ll leave in an hour. Meanwhile, shut the fuck up and lemme think.”

  Greed flashed in the eyes of the owner when he saw both men leave. They had forgotten the carry-on. Probably full of nice clothes. What a lucky break!

  Captain Félix Trujillo entered the DTI building at 8:15. He had a runny nose, watery eyes, and sneezed frequently. As he was approaching the pigeonhole where his messages were, he overheard a colleague telling the news to another cop. He joined them and learned what little was known about the murdered policeman. Then Trujillo turned on his heels and took the stairs two at a time to Pena’s office. The sombre major didn’t even let him open his mouth.

  “Have you heard?”

  “About the murdered comrade?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Torriente was telling Pichardo downstairs.”

  “Get your ass over to the IML immediately,” Pena barked.

  “Right away. But what am I supposed do there?”

  “Take a look at the body.”

  Trujillo blinked twice, then sneezed. “Fractured neck, right?” he said after blowing his nose.

  “Exactly. Discounting accidents, you have any idea how many people in Havana have had their necks broken in the last ten years?”

  “No.”

  “Two. Pablo Miranda and this comrade. I want you to take a good look at the body, see if anything grabs your attention, some likeness to Pablo maybe. Talk to the pathologist doing the autopsy, find out if there’s something he’s not sure about and doesn’t want to report officially. Then go to the LCC and check what he had on him: wallet, address book, keys, coins, cigarettes, everything. I want you here at noon, not one minute later. Now, move, goddammit, move.”

  “Right away, Comrade Major.”r />
  Trujillo turned, sneezed, then left the cubicle blowing his nose. Pena smiled fleetingly as he followed the captain with his eyes, then shook his head, lifted the phone, and started tapping out a number.

  They were on top of the Empire State Building, and her gaze scanned the horizon. Suddenly Carlos pointed to something and she wondered, How can he see anything? He’s blind! She took hold of his chin and forced him to look at her. Instead of irises he had two beautiful diamonds, his pupils were tiny emeralds. “Yes, I got this implant at the Bascom Palmer; now I can see perfectly well,” he explained. She clapped her hands in delight.

  Marina awoke smiling; funny dream. Her bladder demanded relief. She found it pretty weird to be fully clothed, but hurried to the bathroom with half-closed eyes, unzipped the skirt, pulled down her panties, sat on the toilet bowl. As she peed, everything came back to her. She grinned at the sensation of feeling rich. It was a new experience and she tried to explore it. Brushing her teeth a minute later she realized that, somehow, overnight she had acquired a confidence in the future like never before. From now on she wouldn’t have to save for rainy days, scan the papers for clearance sales, struggle with her old jalopy, lament that she couldn’t spend a short winter vacation in Cancún or Belize. She was a wealthy woman! Dabbing at her cheeks with a towel, she consulted her watch: 8:25. She should change and wake Sean up. Marina replaced the towel on the rack, reached for the door, and flung it open.

  Sean was not in bed. This put her on full alert.

  She ran to the balcony; he wasn’t there either.

  Her eyes scanned the room. The cane was nowhere to be seen and his carry-on had disappeared.

  Marina’s knees buckled under her. Slowly she slumped to the carpet, feeling almost like she had the day, a few years back, when a stranger’s elbow accidentally hit her in the solar plexus as she was boarding the C train at Canal St. Station: breathless, stunned, tears streaming down her cheeks. The iceman had stolen her jewels! The devious slimeball had fled, leaving her holding the bag with a false passport under a false name in a Communist country! He had stolen Carlos’s diamonds too! She sobbed and hiccupped and sniffed, feeling sorry for herself, for almost five minutes. Suddenly she froze. Had the bastard taken her passport and plane ticket?