Cuba blue

by Robert W. Walker

  JZ awoke to the urgency in her voice and her excitement; with her robe open and revealing, the sight of her body slowed his words as his eyes played over her.

  “What are you staring at! Move! Move it, JZ.” Qui colored, only now realizing that her robe had come undone, exhibiting more than appropriate.

  With a grin at her discomfort, he said, “Ahhh…sure…but my trousers are behind you, Qui.” He sat in his black silk boxers on the edge of the bed.

  “OK,” Qui tossed his trousers at his grin. “I’ll just get myself dressed. Five minutes at your car!”

  In a matter of minutes, they were racing toward Havana and the seaport. “Along the way,” Qui said, “we’ll make a stop at Tino’s. This time of morning, he’ll be home.”

  “Why this guy Tino? Think he had something to do with the lock?” asked JZ.

  “Perhaps…he checked it in. Then came back later according to the sign-in sheet. Why return it to the boat?”

  “Couldn’t tell ya… Clueless.”

  “God, I can’t believe he’d be involved in evidence tampering.”

  “From what I hear of your Secret Police, he mayn’t’ve had much choice. Is it true they threaten a man’s family for leverage?” he rhetorically asked.

  “Yeah…just like your FBI and CIA.”

  “Touche.”

  The area through which they now drove had seen better days; the government housing did little to help the blight-and in fact, only added to it. The featureless lines of the government homes and apartments, devoid of artistic sensitivity, or any humanity, looked like military bunkers so far as Qui was concerned. Even the trees here did little to soften the hard lines. Certainly, the architects had exercised little creative imagination in designing these cookie-cutter, boxy homes, lacking any sense of aesthetic.

  She directed him onward to Tino’s place.

  Here in Old Havana, shadows stretched with the rising sun cutting sharp swaths of light through the dark city streets. The old recessed Spanish doorways were a black pearl necklace of shadow and sunlight, each playing counterpoint to the other. Within these indigo entrances, the occasional movement of a door opening, a cigarette being lit, a caress between parting lovers could barely be seen.

  “Your cop friend Hilito lives here?” asked JZ.

  “Government assigned housing. Little choice.”

  Heading toward the building Qui had pointed to, JZ drove on. The flashy T-bird, now the focus of early morning eyes made Qui wish they’d come in her Peugeot. As a neighborhood used to seeing Tino’s car parked here, they’d’ve attracted less attention. JZ pulled in next to it.

  They made their way up the walk to front the door. In the street, several children played stickball, hide-and-seek, dashing about like so many nervous birds chasing one another, laughing, enjoying the early morning air.

  Qui knocked and they awaited an answer that didn’t come. “Strange. It’s so early and no one’s answering. Not his wife, not his son, no one.”

  She tried the door, and it relented at her touch, swinging open. She immediately drew her blue gun from its holster, stepping in ahead of JZ. JZ followed her in, pulling forth his well-hidden gun from a shoulder holster. The two of them, weapons extended, eased from darkened room to darkened room. Each area spoke of hasty departure and abandonment. Closets half empty, drawers pulled out, rifled through, and even the space in a corner set aside as a nursery-the crib emptied of bed clothes, stuffed animals, and play toys. Deserted. Forsaken. Forlorn. U noccupied, Qui thought, except for an alarming odor of blood wafting overall.

  JZ added, “Feels like something outta the Twilight Zone.”

  “Hilito? Tino!” she shouted several times to no avail.

  They located a back room, a curtain torn from a window rod, allowing morning light to filter in, creating an oddly shaped silhouette of an upturned chair and its contents-the remains of Tino Hilito. It appeared he’d shot himself through the mouth with his own service revolver-a Makarov. Tino had encircled his head with the curtain as if concerned he not make too great a mess. The scene screamed of suicide; in fact, it looked patently so. Perhaps too pat.

  “Christ…oh, Tino, no!” she moaned. “What’ve you done?”

  JZ, putting away his weapon, studied the scene with more detachment than she could possibly muster. “Any reason you know of…I mean why he’d kill himself?”

  “Nooo…except for the usual.”

  “The usual?”

  “A pregnant wife and an eight year old in and out of hospitals.”

  What’s wrong with the kid?

  “Hemophilia.”

  He shook his head. “Tough for a kid.”

  “Tougher for a parent.”

  “And expensive, I should think. Free medical care aside, I’m sure there’s gotta be costs that subsidies don’t cover. Lotta stress there.”

  “But Tino lived with that stress for eight years. Why do this awful thing now?”

  “Smells to me, whole thing.”

  “Me too. First Montoya…now Tino? Like dominoes falling.” She burst into tears and threw herself into JZ’s arms and sobbed on his shoulder. All of her pent-up grief surfaced at once.

  “Does seem people around you are having a bad time of it, lately,” he murmured, holding her gently. “Qui…you’ve gotta call this in.”

  She straightened and accepted a handkerchief from him, and with a final heave and sniff, Qui wiped the last tear away. A look of resolve replaced her tears. A call to headquarters and dispatch put her through to Pena.

  “Stay with the body until I get there with a medical examiner.”

  “No way am I staying here, Pena.”

  “You gotta! 'Til it’s cleared, it’s gotta be treated as a homicide. And you’re the first on scene. I gotta question you… again.”

  “Seeing a pattern here, Pena?” she asked sarcastically.

  “You’re being paranoid.”

  “Being paranoid doesn’t mean they’re not after you.”

  “Who’re you referring to?”

  “I intend to find out, right now.”

  “Wait! You can’t leave the scene!”

  “Just watch me.”

  “Hold on! Colonel Gutierrez wants to speak to you!”

  She reckoned that the wily old fox had been listening in all along on a speakerphone. Distrusting both men, she switched on a nearby radio, dialed between stations for static, turned the volume full-blast, and waved her cell phone before it. Screaming static tore at Gutierrez’s ears, as she spoke over it. “I’m…’av…trouble ‘earing you…sir.”

  “Detective Aguilera!”

  “Can you hear me now? Can you hear me now?” she asked repeatedly through the static. “…not hearing you so good, Colonel!”

  JZ smiled to hear Gutierrez’s protests coming over the phone as she cut off communication. “Clearly pissed off.”

  “When is he not?” She gave him a smile. “OK, let’s go before Pena shows up with a list of unanswerable questions.”

  Same time, atop a sugar warehouse along Havana Bay

  An exasperated, frustrated Cavuto Ruiz paced the rooftop, his distinctive Panama hat providing minimal protection against the glare of sunlight and none from the heat. Perspiration ran down his microphone cord, leaving dark splotches on his beige guayabera shirt. He held up both hands, one filled with a smoking cigar, to combat against the bright sunlight reflected off the bay. “Sun is a bitch…and where the fuck is Aguilera?” he muttered, then spoke more loudly for the microphone, “Will you be able to see your targets in this glare?” At the other end were two hand-picked marksmen, veteran secret police officers in fatigues. Loyal men, who knew how to take orders-however unusual or unauthorized. They had taken up carefully selected positions, their high-powered weapons at the ready, simply awaiting two designated targets-Latoya and Aguilera-to join the men of the Sanabela. In unison, the sharpshooters grunted into their throat mics.

  “That old bastard, Estrada, called Aguilera an hour ago.
Where is she?” Cavuto asked, unaware that he was also being heard and watched from an adjacent rooftop.

  Headset firmly in place, Alejandro Valdes wondered what new evil Cavuto Ruiz had in mind this morning. Was he operating on Humberto’s orders? Or, was the sadistic bastard operating independently?

  25

  Grateful to get away from Tino’s body, Quiana and JZ exited the home, now a crime scene, and wended their way down the walk toward the T-Bird, now bathed in full sunlight. Children stood about, admiring the classic car, the same children who’d earlier played about the streets. Qui asked one of the urchins staring at them to approach. “Do you know where the woman who lives here and her children’ve gone?”

  “They left,” the boy replied.

  “When?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Yesterday?”

  “Maybe.”

  “Saturday?”

  “Ahhh…maybe.”

  An older girl, having listened carefully, called out to Qui. “They weren’t home Saturday.”

  Qui asked the boy, “Is that true?”

  “Maybe.” Then he blurted out, “Carlito’s my friend. He said he’d come back.”

  “Then you saw them go away on Saturday?”

  “Maybe.”

  Qui felt a rising exasperation with the boy, so she turned to the girl, “Do you know where they went?”

  “Off to the mountains…a vacation…”

  All but Tino, who lay dead inside, and for how long? And for how long had he feared for his family’s welfare, and now this. Qui thanked the children and joined JZ already behind the wheel.

  The two now rushed for the marina where the Sanabela and the peculiar lock, which refused to stay put, hopefully awaited their arrival. They rode in bleak silence, their somber mood in stark contrast to the bright Cuba blue morning. Spilling from doorways, cafes, and windows along their route came familiar Afro-Cuban rhythms. Even on the docks, music escaped from boats where JZ pulled the T-Bird to a halt.

  As Qui climbed from the passenger side facing the bay, she saw Luis Estrada stepping off the boat and coming toward them, a cloth bag in hand. Anticipation gripped her. “Finally, the lock.”

  JZ had joined her on the pier, the boards beneath them sounding a dull cadence as they started toward Estrada. She’d told JZ about her ‘Uncle Estrada’ during the drive from Miramar to Tino’s. “So this is your Uncle Estrada?” he asked.

  A sudden hail of gunfire exploded behind them. All in an instant, Estrada raced for the boat, clutching the package, while JZ and Qui, guns now extended, wheeled to witness the destruction to the Thunderbird: Windows shattered, chassis riddled with bullets, radiator spewing forth a sulfurous cloud. As Qui pulled him down, JZ screamed out, “Not the car!” With a loud whoosh, a fireball surrounded and consumed the red classic-the only gift of the inferno a rapidly rising black smoke screen affording dubious cover.

  Bullets still sought them out, coming through the smoke, ripping gaping holes. Each exploding bullet coming nearer its mark, Qui screamed and tugged at JZ, who was returning fire, “The boat, JZ! Now! Come on!” JZ relented and the two of them, pursued by hellfire, dashed for the Sanabela and cover, the sound of bullets chewing up the wood near their ankles, urging them to move faster.

  When JZ’d shouted laments over the T-Bird, Estrada’d gained the relative safety of his boat, shouting to his anxious crew, “Shove off!”

  Bullets still buzzing about them like so many angry bees, Qui and JZ leapt onto the trawler as it began pulling away from the dock. An explosion made all heads turn back to the marina. The vehicle parked closest to JZ’s rental had disintegrated, spewing unidentifiable pieces high in the air. Chrome projectiles, melted metal, molded plastic shards, burning fluids-all rained over the charred and misshapen frame. Shinning bits reflected sunlight like so many spinning mirrors, mocking the scene.

  As suddenly as it’d erupted, the gunfire ceased-a deafening silence in the wake of such nerve-shattering events. Qui looked back toward the marina as Estrada’s crew got the Sanabela further and further from the mayhem. Sirens filled the air around the marina as fire trucks and police units rushed in. At a further distance, high on a factory rooftop, she saw a lone man in a Panama hat and the common four-pocket bush shirt, called a guayabera, lift a hand to his face. From his stance and movement, body shape and size, she guessed the figure to be Cavuto Ruiz. Someone she didn’t wish to tangle with, not if rumors circulating about him were true.

  JZ followed her gaze. “Who is he?”

  “A kingpin in the Secret Police, General Cavuto Ruiz. Ever hear of him?”

  “Yes, as a matter of fact, I have heard of him. I’m told he is ruthless at poker and interrogation.”

  “People taken to the Castillo Atares — SP headquarters…never come back.”

  “But why is a man like General Ruiz shooting up my rental car and trying to kill us? Why is he involved? Three foreign doctors get tortured and killed and anyone who knows anything about it gets killed or shot at. Why?”

  “I don’t know, JZ. Why these three doctors? What did they know, what did they have? Why the Secret Police? Too many questions, too few answers.”

  “Ruiz might’ve abducted us at any time, so then why aren’t we simply among the disappeareds?”

  “Ahh, I see you’ve been here long enough to know our euphemisms.”

  “Yes, and long enough to miss my American freedoms, especially the freedom of speech.”

  She gave him a long look, “I can only imagine it…what it must be like to speak freely anywhere…anytime. To make real choices in life.”

  “Different than here, that’s for damn sure.”

  They stood quietly, watching, lost in thought as the Sanabela continued out to sea, too distant now even for the marksmen.

  JZ turned to Qui and asked, “They were using precision military weapons, so why’d they deliberately hit the car and miss us? Why is that?” He ran a hand through his hair before continuing, “Answers, Qui, we need answers. And, the car, how am I going to explain the car?”

  “I’m sorry about your car, but you’re right. If they wanted us dead… The SP’re excellent marksmen,” she commented. “So why were we herded like goats onto the Sanabela?”

  “Maybe a warning,” JZ suggested. “Not quite so final as killing us. But a warning of what?”

  She shook her head. “It seems the path to the truth just became more convoluted than before.” As questions raced pell-mell through her mind, the slight rolling motion of the trawler made Qui long for a place of peace and calm to sort through recent events. “Who really fired on us? Who ordered it? Who can I trust…who do I dare trust? Sergio, my god, I’ve got to warn him,” Qui exclaimed, “he may also be targeted.”

  Knowing it was Sergio Latoya’s day off, Qui immediately dialed his home number. JZ listened to the one-sided conversation, thinking of the call he needed to make and debating how much to say about events.

  “Hello…Sergio? Sorry ‘bout waking, but things are falling apart…shut up! Just listen! Something awful to tell you. Quiet! Listen. Estaban Montoya and Tino Hilito are dead.” She paused to allow him to absorb this news. “Look, in both cases, I suspect murder. Disregard that! You can’t go by official reports. Not now. Both were staged to look like death by accident and by suicide, and it became apparent this morning that we’re all in danger. Yes, that’s why I’m calling you! I think it’s murder!” she repeated. “And now…at the marina, some of us came under automatic weapons gunfire! Yes, this morning, damn it, and I saw Cavuto Ruiz on a rooftop.”

  She listened for a moment. “I’m unhurt, just terrified. Pena’s investigating both deaths. But Gutierrez got on the phone this morning when I called in Tino’s body. Don’t know…can’t say. Maybe he is involved. Who can say? Listen Sergio, I don’t trust him or Pena, so be careful.”

  JZ agreed, “I never trusted that man.”

  Qui continued speaking into the phone, “The less you know about that now
the better; I’m safe here. Sergio, I fear for your life and your family. Get outta Havana now! Don’t delay.” There was another pause.

  “How did you know about the switched lock? He wrote what? Cavuto Ruiz was behind it?”

  JZ listened more attentively.

  “Hold onto that note, it’ll be important later.” Qui nodded vigorously several times. “I’m safe now, quit worrying. Yes. No. Not alone.” She sighed heavily into the phone. “I’m with Julio Zayas from the American Interest Section.” She laughed. “No! Sharp, catches on quick.” She glanced at JZ.

  “Ruiz is a nasty piece of work, Sergio, and should he get hold of you… Sorry, but I can’t tell you where we are… All I know is that those dead doctors and the lock hold the key to something big. Ruiz will stop at nothing to silence people like us… Radio? No I haven’ heard one. Those bastards! It’s a lie!”

  JZ couldn’t stand it any longer; he had to interrupt. “What’s this about?”

  Qui turned to him and explained that the SP had made an announcement saying that the three foreign doctors had lost their lives due to drug trafficking and that an official investigation was underway.

  Sergio caught her attention again, and she said into her phone, “Be careful what you say, not sure but the SP may be able to tap into wireless calls.” Qui shaded her eyes from the wind. “Whatever you do,” she asked, “call my dad at the B amp;B and let him know I’m safe, that I’ll call when I can, and no one is to talk to anyone. Anyone like Pena or the colonel asking, you don’t how where I am-haven’t heard from me-understand?”

  She waited for him to agree. “Oh, papa knows about the lock but nothing about Tino, and please leave out the part about my being used for target practice. Now, go hide your family.” She ended the call, satisfied she’d done everything in her power to warn Sergio and her father.

  JZ took a moment to call his superiors, asking for time to track down leads, and to not believe the news accounts about the missing doctors. Anxious for anything to shake loose that would dispute the smear campaign against two Americans, his AIS boss gave him the go-ahead. Ending the call, JZ turned to Qui and suggested, “Let’s find out what your uncle knows.”