by Glen Carter
When Jack got back to Gee-man, Malloy had company. “I believe you’ve met,” he said.
Jack climbed aboard under the vacant gaze of Buck Kelly. Aglass was tipped lazily in Jack’s direction. Jack nodded in return and then accepted a cocktail of some kind from Malloy. He smiled his thanks and sat facing Kelly who had a half-empty bottle at his feet.
“Buck wants to know why you media types only report the bad news.”
Original, thought Jack, wanting to inform Kelly that he wasn’t a media type anymore but that would have been both an outright lie and the wrong answer. Instead he decided on honesty. Sort of. “Because bad news gets more viewers,” he responded evenly. “The more viewers, the greater the advertising revenue for the rich guys who run the networks.”
Buck grunted. “Nothing like blood and guts to get ’em watching.”
Jack was pleasantly surprised. Maybe intelligent conversation would be possible. “There has always been a preponderance of human misery as part of the makeup of television news. I’m afraid conflict and drama are the stock and trade of a reporter—the lifeblood of their work.”
Another nod. Kelly quietly sipped, scoping Jack in a way that made him feel uncomfortable. This was a man who had suffered some of the human misery he was talking about, which in Jack’s opinion meant Buck Kelly had the righteous authority to stand there, a wounded soul, and to ask why media types were merchants of misery. He had respect for this man because beneath the layer of grime and jagged edges there was a guy who had put everything on the line for what he believed. Jack had met few people who could say the same.
Kelly poured another tumbler.
“Still early,” Malloy said. “You might wanna go easy.”
Buck ignored him, shifted his bulk so that Gee-man dipped slightly. The sump pump kicked in, a mechanical hum followed by a trickle of water. Buck sucked the liquor through stretched lips, swallowed loudly. “Half my guys were killed.” Unconsciously, he stroked the tattoo on his arm. “Thank Christ I missed the microphones and cameras.”
“Come on, Buck,” Malloy said nervously.
Jack knew Kelly was headed to a bad place. He gave the man an understanding nod. “They were all good soldiers. Twenty one of them are buried at Arlington where I had the honour of covering a memorial service with their families a couple of years back. If you like, I can get a copy of the story for you, Buck.”
Kelly backed off, reminding Jack of an injured animal that has no choice but to accept human touch. “I’d appreciate that. Here’s to the corps.” Tumbler held high in salute. And hopefully surrender, Jack prayed.
For the next hour or so Kelly and Malloy exchanged war stories. Jack listened intently until he got hungry. He went below where he filled three bowls with Malloy’s leftover chowder. While the microwave whirred, Jack checked the Internet and saw the next flight for Miami left in three hours. Lots of time, he decided, taking the three bowls topside.
They wolfed down the food, barely breaking stride as they talked, and then Kelly disappeared to the head. Ten minutes later, he still hadn’t returned. “Marines don’t take that long to piss,” Malloy said. “Chowder might have gotten to him. Maybe it’s time for a rescue mission.”
They both crammed into the tight passageway and spotted Buck ramrod straight at the galley table. Malloy and Jack exchanged confused looks. “Buck...you ok?”
Kelly stood there. Not a word. Aman on sentry duty again.
Jack squeezed past Malloy and put a hand on Kelly’s shoulder. His muscles felt like granite. “Hey, guy,” Jack said, and then looked down to the open folder. Photos of the mystery man were fanned out on the table. Kelly was a zombie.
Malloy came up behind them. “That’s none of your concern, Buck. I’ll take them.” He reached around to collect the pictures.
“Not so fast,” Buck said.
Jack demanded that Buck take a closer look. They turned on every light there was and Malloy even dug out an old magnifying glass he used for tying flies. Kelly told Malloy to stuff it, stabbed the photo, and said once more, “This is the guy and yes I’m goddamn sure. Just older than I remember.”
“How can you be so certain,” Jack said.
“I’m drunk, Doyle, not blind, and speaking of drunk, where’s my bottle?”
Malloy went topside to get the bottle, returned, and poured Kelly two fingers of liquor. “The computer alterations are good, but maybe not a hundred percent. Would you testify if you had to, under oath, that you know this person?”
Buck held up two hands. “Nobody said nothin’ about testifying.”
“There won’t be any court, Buck.” Jack shot Malloy a look, satisfied that Buck Kelly was telling it like he saw it.
“The ear.”
“Excuse me?”
Buck pointed to the ruined ear on the photograph that showed a younger man. “Want me to tell ya how that happened?”
“Yes,” Jack and Malloy said in unison.
Buck slurped loudly, enjoying the fact that both of them were hanging on his every word. He went dramatically quiet, seemed to be sorting the elements of his story. “This guy was a regular in Beirut. I know because I cleared his car at the gate loads of times.”
“Barracks?”
“Yeah. The barracks. Shit was hitting the fan then. The city was coming apart. Everyone was nervous. This guy must have been special because I never got to check his ID. Some higher up was always there as his escort.”
“His handler?”
“Yeah, whatever. Basically he’d tell me to fuck off.”
“So you never got a name,” Jack said. “But you know about the ear.”
“The guy was like a ghost. No name. No ID. No one could figure him out, except he looked like special ops, a bad ass. Then one night a guy in my unit, Fernandez, he’s just back from leave in Berlin and claims he run into the ghost at some hotel bar. The man asks Fernandez if his people are from Cuba, which they are.They hit if off. Fernandez gets brave and brings up the guy’s missing ear. That’s when he told him.”
“And?” It was Malloy. Looking like he was going to blow a vein.
“Bay of Pigs,” Buck replied. “Biggest cluster fuck in the history of cluster fucks.”
Jack listened eagerly. In fact, he could have hugged the man at that moment, ex-marine and all. “Was there anything else,” he said, instead. “Any other details?”
“Fernandez thought there was plenty,” Buck said. “But he wanted to get laid more than he wanted to get drunk and talk. So he took off.”
Jack wanted a name. Buck would be wasted soon. It was time to push. “So they’re sitting there and your guy asks about his ear, but nothing else. Not even a name?”
Kelly’s eyes showed the assault on his honour. His voice tightened. “No name. None offered. You respect a man’s privacy. Maybe you reporters should learn that.”
Jack booked a nine fifteen flight with a stop in Atlanta. The diversion wasn’t a problem. He was looking forward to the down time, which he planned on using to absorb everything he’d learned. He was busily pecking notes onto his laptop when the flight attendant gently placed a cup of coffee on the seat table next to his.
“The flight’s usually much busier,” she said. “Enjoy the extra room.”
He thanked her.
Meticulously he transcribed the information. What happened, when and where, beginning with the discovery of Helena Storozhenko’s Japanese puzzle box. Then there was Malloy and his appearance on Jack’s doorstep. The visit to Dwayne Mesner. Buck Kelly, the ex-marine identified the mystery man as some kind of special-ops guy in Beirut. It took Jack a full thirty minutes to input the information. The real work would start with the interviews. Jack would need to retrace his steps, gathering the elements one at a time. Malloy wouldn’t be a problem, but Jack was sure Kelly would refuse to go on camera.Guys like him always did, out of false modesty or fear or both. Jack knew exactly how to approach him. Kelly would do it for the men lost on his watch in Beirut. He’d have to trav
el to Ukraine, for the dramatic opening shot. The grave of Helena Storozhenko. Surviving family members would fill in some of the blanks. Of course, Helena’s story would make up a huge part of the piece. It was a world exclusive and networks would be stampeding for the rights. Lou Perlman would handle that. There’d be talk shows and how about a book? Jack laughed to himself, wondering who’d play him in the movie.
It was just after midnight when Jack hopped into a cab and went directly to a boutique hotel in Little Havana. It wasn’t far from Maximo Gomez Park where the nightly racket of dominos could give you a headache. It was just five minutes to the Versailles Restaurant where he favoured the chicken with rice and afterwards a good cigar. He handed the desk clerk his credit card and was promptly checked into a room with a spectacular view of the coffee shops, galleries, and cigar-rolling factories that ran the length of Calle Ocho. Jack was too wired to sleep so he dumped the carryon in his room and walked to a café down the street.
Five minutes later, Jack was sipping thick cafe con leche at a table for two when the face of his beautiful wife appeared on a television suspended from the ceiling. He asked the waiter to turn it up.
“Rapprochement, the pet foreign policy initiative of the Denton administration, seems unstoppable now despite months of political posturing in Washington and violent opposition by many Cuban exiles who believe not much has changed since the death of Cuba’s charismatic leader, Fidel Castro. Sources within the State Department have quietly confirmed direct talks with Havana have concluded, and all that remains are presidential signatures to end the decades-old em-bargo.” The local affiliate was running Kaitlin’s piece. It was a good story, but all Jack could think about was how great she looked. He was finding it hard to concentrate on what she was saying. “With Pilious Ortega’s commitment now to free elections, President Denton will travel to Havana for an historic signing ceremony. The White House has confirmed the President will be meeting tomorrow with Congressional House Leaders to provide final details on aid and trade initiatives,which have sweetened considerably an emerging friendship between these two nations. Now, the Cuban promise of democratic elections has silenced even diehard Republicans. Tonight, here in Washington, it appears rapprochement is a fait accompli.
” Good job. Jack’s face beamed. Everyone in the place was watching now and no wonder. The Cuba story was a political powder keg. It had started in Little Havana with the riotous celebrations over Castro’s death and since then the clamour had been building for Washington to reach out to Cuba’s new pragmatic leader. Kaitlin had demanded the Cuba story, knowing its impossible workload. She’d have to work a dozen angles, not the least of which was the foreign policy hissy fit Denton had sparked in Washington, even within his own party. Kaitlin’s life was nowa nightmare of nail-biting deadlines. As Jack watched, he understood the fatigue and the pressure she’d be feeling, but could never show.
Jack considered ordering another coffee but thought better of it. He left the café and headed back to the hotel. He’d call Kaitlin. Tell her great job. Love you. Get here quickly.
Jack meandered past brightly painted shops filled with pottery and Guayabera shirts.Workers were setting up a stage next to his hotel for Viernes Culturales, the dance and music festival raucously celebrated on the last Friday of every month. Too bad Kaitlin was going tomiss it.
He got to his room, pulled out his card key and froze.The door was ajar? Shit. He’d been robbed. Jack gently pushed the door. He bobbed his head around and saw the laptopwasn’t where he left it on the bed. Damn.The computer had everything. Then therewas a sound in the bathroom. God, they were still inside. The bathroom door creaked. Someone stepped out. Quietly approaching. Jack cocked his arm, praying there wouldn’t be a weapon. Suddenly, the door was yanked wide and something hot slashed within inches of his face.
“Jack,” Kaitlin screamed.
They were both laughing so hard they tumbled across the bed, tearing loose the bath towel Kaitlin had wrapped around her.
“Umm,” Jack murmured, “Talk about turn down service.”
Kaitlin cooed. “I could have killed you, dummy.”
“With what…a curling iron?”
She laughed, whipping wet hair across his face. He kissed her softly. “The desk clerk said we just missed you. He gave me a key.”
“We?”
“Seth and Maria are down the hall. The story moved here earlier than we thought. So here we are. Seth can’t wait to see you again.”
As far as Jack was concerned, Seth Pollard was the best shooter in the industry.They were confederates going back many years on many assignments. He hadn’t seen Seth since the Colombia thing more than a year ago. It was going to be great reconnecting with his old friend. That would happen in the morning. Jack was thinking about something else now. “You smell very sexy,” he said, brushing the hair from her face.
Kaitlin kissed him deeply. “Thanks for not smoking one of those awful stogies.”
“Romeo and Juliets,” he said.
“Strange name for smelly cigars,” Kaitlin said, nestling into his neck.
“The rollers had Shakespeare read to them while they worked, so that’s what they called their cigars.”
“You’re such a romantic, Jack Doyle. Even in the brand of cigars you smoke.”
“I’ll show you romantic,” Jack replied, tossing her towel to the floor.
23
The next morning they ordered breakfast in bed and Jack told Kaitlin everything.
“You’re kidding me.”
“Nope.”
“What is it about you and that horseshoe?”
“Funny that you should bring up my anatomy,” he grinned.
“Stop it.”
They showered together, for too long, leaving Kaitlin in a flurry of hair and makeup while Jack watched from the bed, already dressed in feather-light khaki chinos and a white cotton shirt. Kaitlin struggled into her “television” getup, which consisted of a tan faux-suede skirt, and a matching light coloured blouse and jacket. Her long dark hair was wrangled exquisitely clear of her shoulders and neck, which had always been Jack’s weakness.
Kaitlin stole a glance at her watch. “My first interview’s in twenty minutes.”
Jack offered to see if Seth and Maria were ready. He hopped from the bed and was gone. Four doors down he knocked twice and a second later Seth Pollard was standing there. Widely grinning. “Well, well. Look at you. Jobless and no doubt expecting my reference for your next desperate employer.”
He was a sliver of a man with a mop of blond hair, lively blue eyes, and a nose normally found on Roman statues. “Still the loveable sod I’ve grown to adore,” said Jack. “And sensitive as always.”
“You have my condolences, Doyle. You’ve been horribly treated.”
“That’s better.”
Pollard stepped aside, allowing Jack to enter. A sofa and chair were pushed to one side of the room allowing enough space for Seth’s camera equipment. The bed was a mess of candy bar wrappers and pornographic magazines. “You’re going to scare Maria with that stuff.”
“What, the chocolate?”
“Don’t be a wanker.”
“Too late.”
“Great.”
Seth straightened up a little. A moment later, Kaitlin and Maria arrived. Maria Gonzales gave Jack a warm hug. “The network’s a bastard, Jack. They’ll rue the day they killed your show.” She was a beautiful Latino whose take-no-shit attitude was a sucker punch if you were fooled by her petite stature. Maria grabbed a bag full of gear. “The SUV’s out front,” she said. Then she was out the door.
Kaitlin gave Jack a peck and followed her.
Seth grabbed the rest of his stuff and was close on their heels. “Lock up would you, mate?”
Jack had plans of his own. An hour later he was standing on the corner of Calle Ocho and Fifteenth Avenue.
Maximo Gomez Park was a magnificent indulgence to a past time that in Little Havana bordered on obsession.The gam
e of dominos. Jack walked casually into the shade of the players’ pavilion with its red barrel-tiled roof. He strolled among the tables, listening to the click-clack of wooden fichas through muggy morning air. The players were mostly older men in Guayabera shirts. With their grey hair and thick black eyebrows they hunched over their games and smoked their cigars.
Jack stopped a moment to watch, acutely aware of the eyes that were suddenly fixed on him. He’d never played dominos and had no idea of the strategy, but it looked like a game he’d enjoy. Eventually he moved on, taking a seat on a nearby bench.
It was a few moments later when the man approached.
“May I sit?”
He was tall and distinguished looking and, for a silly moment, Jack flashed Ricardo Montalbahn. He wore cuffed dungarees and a jean shirt done to the top button. His eyes magnified twice their size behind large, thick glasses. He placed a finely carved cane against the back of the bench and lowered himself without waiting for a reply.
“I think Ernesto and his dimwitted partner are well behind,” he said, thrusting his chin towards one of the tables. “It won’t be possible for them to come back after losing their first set. Of course, Ernesto could have enticed me to his game, though he shows no respect to a man twenty years his senior. This is not uncommon for someone of my age.” He appraised Jack, benevolently. “It’s a burden you’ll have to wait several more decades to suffer.”
Someone at the tables shouted a curse.
“There,” the old man exclaimed, “the idiots have lost another one.” Once again, he turned to Jack. “Dominos are Cuba’s national game, Mister Doyle, I’m assuming you’re not here to play.”
There was no escaping the television recognition factor. “No. Though I think you’d make a good partner,” Jack replied.
“You humour me, but that is a burden I enjoy.”The man offered his hand. “Roberto Sevier.”
