Cuba Straits

by Randy Wayne White

  Figuerito aimed the gun at him. “Bring the lamp,” he said but didn’t wait. When he was close enough, he nudged the Russian’s foot with his sneaker. Then nudged him hard enough that a conscious man would move. But the giant didn’t move.

  Tomlinson arrived, carrying the lamp above his head. “Oh shit. Now what are we going to do?” Then said, “I know, I know—the cliff. Or . . . maybe he’s still alive.” He knelt by the Russian. “Christ . . . you shot him at least three times. See his legs? Help me roll him over. There have to be other wounds.”

  “Shot him, yes, but I didn’t steal his pants. Check under his shirt. I wonder where they went.” Figuerito leaned to see into the shrine, which was busy with Santería offerings, and the crypts of unknown children his abuela had forbidden him to discuss or ever mention to outsiders.

  “Those are the only bullet wounds,” Tomlinson said. “His burns . . . I don’t see anything that bad. But his head—such a weird angle. And at least one arm broken. Gad”—he moved the lantern a little—“a compound fracture. And that hand . . . his fingers aren’t much better.” He turned to Figuerito. “You didn’t kill him.”

  “Are you sure?” He motioned with the machine gun. “I’ll do better now that I know how this works. Don’t you think you should move?”

  The strange gringo tried to yank the gun from his hands, but Figgy was too strong. “Go get your own—but I’m only loaning you the other gun. When you come back, maybe our problems with the Russian will be done. After that, we have work to do, so bring the briefcase. Oh, and the movie film. The film will help the gasoline.”

  “Listen to me!” Tomlinson put his hands on Figuerito’s shoulders. “He’s already dead. You didn’t kill him. That crashing sound we heard? Someone else was here. Someone beat the hell out of this guy, then broke his neck.”

  Figuerito raised the machine gun and turned a slow circle. “Who?”

  “That’s not the point. You didn’t kill the guy, and you didn’t kill that poor bastard out there by the tree. Dude, it’s like freedom. See? We’re not guilty of anything. You’re still a Cuban citizen, and I’ve got a visa, so—”

  Figgy didn’t want to hear any more. “We’ve got to find this violent person. He couldn’t have gotten far.”

  That was true. They both waited, ears alert, but heard nothing. Finally, Tomlinson said, “Let me think for a second. I want to be sure before we do anything crazier.” He squatted by the body. Got on his knees and crawled around, using the lantern to see. He found a pistol but didn’t touch it. “A Glock,” he said. “I didn’t hear any shots.”

  Figgy thought, You were smart to put your fingers in your ears. Bells in his head were still ringing. He left the strange gringo and checked the bathing area, grimaced at what he saw in the commode. Then crossed the hall, stepped over the Russian, and entered his grandmother’s Santería shrine.

  The stainless fillet knife was gone.

  Tomlinson continued his search. In the breast pocket of the Russian’s shirt was a folded piece of paper; the paper was old and resembled the pages in the radio logbook. Tempting, but he didn’t touch that either. Bundled against the wall was a woman’s robe. Nearby, he found a ribbed collar torn from a child’s shirt, or pajamas, the material pink with white checks, the checks spattered with blood.

  “Don’t touch a damn thing,” he said. “This is a crime scene. A setup. Very, very orderly.” Orderly—he mouthed the word again. “Gotta be. That devious bastard. Maybe he didn’t realize we were in here.”

  Peculiar, the gringo’s tone. It was as if he were puzzled but already knew the answer to the puzzle.

  Figuerito stepped into the hall, where Tomlinson was cleaning his hands on his shorts. “I need to check on something outside. Won’t be a minute.”

  “Not without me,” Figgy told him. “Whoever it is took my abuela’s knife from her shrine. The man who could do this”—he indicated the Russian’s contorted arm, his broken neck—“that man is dangerous.”

  “Sure, if you want. The knife—probably seeding more evidence or destroying it. Who knows? There’s always a reason with him.” Tomlinson looked back. “Leave the gun. Mostly, Doc’s a nice guy.”

  • • •

  FIGUERITO WASN’T GOING to part with the beautiful Thompson submachine gun even for his close friend and shipmate, the strange hippie who, once again, was mostly wrong but a little bit right.

  There was no dangerous man waiting outside. There was no dangerous man waiting in the trees near the body of Vernum Quick, the dead Santero. Someone had visited recently, though. The fillet knife lay atop a pile of clothing at Vernum’s feet.

  Tomlinson, holding the lantern, said, “Here they are, the Russian’s pants. You could make a circus tent out of—what?—probably size fifties. And look—”

  In the sand was a pistol, its handle brassy-colored like a cigarette case. Strange in appearance when compared with pistols seen on TV.

  “Planting evidence,” Tomlinson said, “didn’t I tell you? With him, there’s always a reason.” He did a slow circle, his head swiveling as if expecting to see a familiar face.

  It didn’t happen.

  “I have things I must do,” Figuerito said.

  “Go ahead. I want to do another lap.” The hippie stopped. “In the bomb shelter, you mean? We haven’t broken any laws. Remember that. There’s no need to get rid of anything, especially off a cliff. ¿Comprendo?”

  Tell that to the old woman, Figuerito thought.

  Twenty minutes later, he was in the shelter, filling the tires of the red Harley-Davidson, when Tomlinson returned, saying, “We need to talk.”

  Figgy watched him enter. “I’ll loan you the blue motorcycle, but this red one is mine. We can’t both ride tonight anyway. Olena, the chicken woman, will want her chickens back, so one of us has to drive the Buick. I like that Buick, but I was never allowed to drive the motorcycles. Just start them, you know? I’d sit on the seat and twist the handles. Do you know how the gearshift works?”

  Tomlinson squatted so they were face-to-face. “Listen to me. We’ve got a decision to make. If you want to go back to the United States, you’ve got to leave tonight.”

  “Huh?”

  “I found my friend, Doc. Well . . . he found me. I don’t know what hellbroth he’s stirred up, but that’s the deal. You leave now or risk another week while my sailboat’s repaired. I guess I could go, too, and fly back to Havana in a few days.” Before Figuerito could respond, he continued, “I know, I know . . . they’ve got no reason to arrest us. On the other hand, there’s no predicting what Cuban cops will do if they check, and you don’t even have a birth certificate. And the American immigration cops—gad, don’t get me started. It’s up to you . . . brother. He’s waiting for us at the river.”

  Figuerito put the tire pump aside. “Doc? Who is this friend of yours, ‘Doc’? And why is he in the river?”

  Tomlinson sighed, picked up the tire pump, and moved to the blue Harley. “Okay. Let’s go over this one more time.”

  Marion Ford—lights out, engines burbling—waited at the mouth of the river until his electronics showed that both Cuban patrol boats had returned to base in Mariel Harbor.

  It was three forty-five a.m.

  He went over the checklist a last time: radar-absorbent bow shield in place; chaff buoys behind the seat; fuel, water temp, oil pressure okay; items on the bow trimmed, blanketed, and secured; night vision monocular within easy reach. If the worst happened, his P226 semi-auto was beneath the wheel. In an ankle holster, the mini Sig Sauer he’d loaned Marta—and had recovered from the Santero’s body—was loaded, wiped clean of blood, and ready if needed.

  He popped the boat onto plane, exited the river, and hugged the westerly shoreline for two miles, then turned north and punched the throttles.

  Running speed: forty-one knots.

  No trouble until he neared
the twelve-mile limit. An aircraft appeared on radar. Cuban, out of Mariel Harbor. He watched the flashing red icon until he was sure it was a helicopter. He killed all electronics, pulled the inflation cord on a chaff buoy and dumped it.

  Rubber ducks, they were called in naval jargon. His were surplus, not the expensive version, with a battery-powered chip that would seduce incoming radar with a signature resembling a much larger vessel.

  The buoy would buy him an hour before the battery died. Two hours before the buoy sank.

  Top speed, as read through a night vision monocular: fifty-three knots.

  Slower than normal because of a heavy load, most of it under the bow shield.

  • • •

  IN PEARLY LIGHT before sunrise, he passed west of the Dry Tortugas. Loggerhead Key was a single drifting blossom of cumulus cloud. The brick fortress on Garden Key resembled Montana sandstone, a low escarpment on a waterscape of jade.

  A seaplane appeared from the direction of Key West. By satellite phone, Ford had contacted his pilot friend Dan Futch, but it wasn’t Dan’s plane. He turned to Figueroa Casanova, who was munching peanuts beside him. “Get under the cover,” he said.

  The Cuban’s expression showed pain. “Again? It’s quieter out here with you.”

  “You won’t have to stay long,” Ford replied. “Take the peanuts—and don’t forget to share.”

  He put the boat on autopilot, a compass heading of 54.12 degrees, and watched for sea turtles. He spotted three loggerheads, and a hawksbill, its shell an iridescent prism of caramel and green.

  He slowed but did not stop.

  • • •

  SOUTH OF MARCO ISLAND, Florida’s coastline is sixty-five miles of wilderness creeks, mangroves, and shell antiquities interrupted by three dots of habitation: Everglades, Chokoloskee, and, to the north, the mudflat village of Mango.

  Ford had lived there as a child with a crotchety cowboy uncle, Tucker Gatrell, whose sloppy approach to life had cemented Ford’s allegiance to meticulous routine and coherent patterns of thought. It was this bequest that he valued far more than the shack and cattle pasture he’d inherited, property he seldom visited but on which, of course, he paid taxes annually, and always on time.

  At Demijohn Key, he cut east, crossed the flats inside Sandfly Pass, and threaded a backcountry matrix past Panther, Tiger, and White Horse Keys, then burrowed deeper until he exited into a bay northeast of Dismal Key. Ahead in the mangroves, a clearing of low shell mounds, a few trailers, docks, and a house with a tin roof, a pole barn, and pasture. It had been years since cattle had grazed there. Weeds dominated the fence line, but, beside the house, clothing had been hung out to dry on this sunny November morning.

  Ford maintained speed, and found a rivulet of wheel tracks that served as a channel. The water was thin here, constricted by oyster bars and rocks.

  From behind the house, an old woman appeared, carrying a laundry basket. Mariaelana, her name. She had been his uncle’s Cuban mistress and was now Ford’s tenant who paid no rent but took good care of the place. Near shore was a deep-water basin. He backed the throttles until the boat bucked on its own wake, then idled toward the dock while he scanned for a seaplane.

  Figueroa poked his head out from under the bow shield. “My ears, they’re hurting, and I have to pee. Are we there yet?”

  No, they wouldn’t get to Sanibel Island until after sunset. Possibly tomorrow morning, depending on how things went.

  Ford took out his cell phone, dialed, and asked his pilot friend Dan Futch, “What’s your ETA?”

  • • •

  SUNDAY, the Office of Citizenship and Immigration on Colonial Boulevard, Fort Myers, was closed. Ford told Figueroa, “If you’re going to live in the United States, it has to be legally, so do us all a favor and try not to get arrested—for the next twenty-four hours anyway.”

  Figuerito asked, “It’s illegal to play baseball?” He was thinking, The strange hippie is a lot more fun than this man. I hope he arrives soon.

  They were inside Marion Ford’s unusual house. Two small houses, actually, built on posts over the water, which made a nice platform to stand and spit over the railing or pee designs in the water. In glass boxes, the man—who everyone called Doc—owned a lot of fish too small to eat, yet he was protective of them and had many rules regarding their treatment. Already, Figgy had learned to stay out of Doc’s lab.

  “I’m trying to arrange a meeting for tomorrow afternoon,” Ford said. “I’ve called in every favor I have to expedite the process. By Friday, maybe earlier—I’m not sure how much paperwork is involved—you should be free to do whatever you want.”

  “Is true? I like that. Anything, huh? Yes, brother, of course. I’ll do what you say.”

  Ford’s assessment of Figueroa Casanova: a good guy, but a pure spirit unencumbered by the strictures of duality, abstract thought, and other cortex functions, possibly due to injury or deprivation during childhood. Otherwise, very bright, but in the way feral children have a genius for survival. He replied, “I should have put that differently. Wait”—he went to a desk where there was a computer—“I’ll type out a list of what you can and can’t do.”

  “Another one?” Figueroa asked. He had yet to read the list given him last night. “I like Key West. I should be there when the hippie comes in his sailboat. There’s a nice baseball field there, that’s all I meant. So, you know, while I’m waiting, play some ball, but don’t worry about the witches. I already know about them.”

  “Witches?” Ford looked up through his wire-rimmed glasses.

  Figueroa nodded. “How many days before he returns, do you think?”

  Tomlinson, who was unencumbered by sexual morals, combined with the Cuban’s zest for direct action, were a combination so volatile, potentially, that Ford didn’t want to deal with it right now. “I’ll let you know,” he said, and went out the screen door.

  Figueroa waited respectfully for a large, curly brown dog to go, too. He followed them across a boardwalk to the shore, where Doc’s nice blue truck was parked. Three men were there, working in the shade, tools scattered on a blanket. “Caramba,” Figgy said, “can you teach me how you did that so fast? I already know how those machines come apart.”

  Jeth and Alex, two fishing guides, and Mack, who owned the marina, were all smiles even though they didn’t understand questions asked in Spanish. Jeth, stuttering a little, said, “Doc, any cha-cha-chance there are more of these? I’ve always wanted to go to Cuba.” He stepped back, and big Alex Payne did, too. Leaning on its kickstand was a 1957 Harley-Davidson Sportster, candy-apple red, 300 pounds of chrome, steel, and gangster swagger, fully assembled except for the leather seat Mack was sweating over now. On a tarp in the shade, the jet-stream-blue Harley was in pieces, each piece wrapped in a blanket embroidered with Copacabana in gold thread.

  Gold. Ford had forgotten something—something important, in light of the little Cuban’s new infatuation with firearms. He and the dog jogged back to the lab, where he had hidden the Thompson submachine guns in one place and their empty magazines in another.

  When he returned, he spoke to Jeth, Alex, and Mack in English—not giving orders, exactly, but close—then said to Figueroa, “You see that gate?” He pointed to the parking lot. “Don’t go outside that gate. And wear a helmet.”

  • • •

  FORD DROVE toward Captiva while the dog, with his head out the window, let the wind turn his ears into wings. I’ve never liked Sundays, he thought. Mini-holidays without purpose. Government offices not open on the one day people can afford to take off—what a pain in the ass. Fewer boats on the water, at least—the Gulf of Mexico, to his right, proved that. “Thanks to pro football,” he said.

  Ford’s sentence fragments no longer earned the retriever’s attention.

  Another Sunday benefit was that the Mad Hatter Restaurant was closed, but its back parking lot, Gulf
side, was open. He pulled in and switched off the engine under the guise of needing a moment alone to think.

  It was a lie. Beyond sea oats and palms were The Castaways beach cottages, red, yellow, and green. Maggie, the lonely tourist, was putting a suitcase into the trunk of her rental compact, unaware of Ford in his blue truck. Possibly also unaware that, according to the radio, the Midwest was covered in snow.

  “Of course, I’m rationalizing,” he told the dog. “At least I’m aware of my adolescent bullshit devices. I have totally screwed things up. I admit it. That counts for something.”

  He wasn’t referring to his relationship with Maggie—if that was her real name.

  Earlier, after a few hours of sleep, he had made good on his promise to call Hannah Smith. Until then, it had been difficult to think of Hannah, who was rangy, beautiful in her way, and plainspoken, as an ex-anything, particularly his ex-lover.

  The first thing out of her mouth was “I could stand here and pretend I didn’t know your boat was gone for four days. I could also pretend I didn’t pick up clients at Castaways on Tuesday morning and see you sneak out of one of the cottages. That was before sunrise. You have to get up pretty early in the morning to fool a fishing guide, Doc. She’s an attractive lady. I’m surprised you didn’t take her with you.”

  He could have contested the word sneak and tried to parlay that into a counter-accusation—“Now you’re spying on me?”—but his respect for Hannah, and himself, wouldn’t allow it. There were only four options in Marion Ford’s world: deny, deny, deny, or change the subject.

  “I need your advice,” he had said. “It’s probably better to speak hypothetically. You’ll understand when I explain.”

  “Are you in trouble?” The way she had asked the question—worried, eager to help no matter what—still squeezed his heart.

  “Let’s say I brought back a guy from Cuba. No birth certificate, no papers, nothing. I didn’t notify customs before I left, and I certainly didn’t check in on the way back. Now, because it’s Sunday—”