North of Havana df-5 Page 11

  "It's that bad? Eight A?" I said it in Spanish: Ocho A.

  It got me a long look of appraisal before Geis said, "Let's drop the bullshit, Doc. You mind? The way you were looking at it, I could tell it meant something. You're from Florida. A smart guy and educated. Maybe you've got friends in the Cuban community. Maybe they told you one or two things." He held up his palm to silence me. "Don't tell me. I don't want to know. I'm just saying the smart thing to do is ignore shit like that. A place like this, you're being watched even if you don't think you're being watched." He swirled the ice in his glass, began talking in a normal tone of voice. "It's good advice and I hope you take it. No offense, but you don't know how things work down here."

  I waited until the waiter had placed his drink on the table and left us before I said, "Just looking at something carved over a church entrance could get me in trouble?"

  He nodded. "In this country, people have had their dicks bobbed for less than that." I watched him wait for me to reply-a guy who liked to talk, but not sure he should. Finally, he asked, "You really don't know what it means?"

  "No, but I'm getting curious. And what you said about the way Cuba works. Politics? I'd like to hear about it." I gave it an articulate touch: the professorial type eager to learn.

  Geis took a look over both shoulders; lowered his head to look through the palms at the prostitutes. He said, "You want to take a walk?"

  "Ocho A is street language," Geis said, "for a guy who was executed, a Cuban general named Ochoa."

  Arnaldo Ochoa-he'd played second base in the exhibition game with Castro; a man I had met briefly and liked immediately. I'd guessed what the symbol meant, but wanted to hear Geis tell it.

  "People are so afraid to speak, everything down here is in code or sign language. Someone's pissed at Fidel? Even talking to a family member, they scratch their chin-you know, meaning a beard?-to signal who they're talking about. It's because they're afraid to say his name. For his brother Raul, they touch their mouth because he's gay. Hangs out with the beanie-weanie packers a few blocks from here, down Twenty-third at the Casa de las Infusiones. No one comes right out and says anything that can get them into trouble, so they invent these signs and signals. Ocho A. That stands for Ochoa, the dead general."

  I said, "Because they're afraid to write it out."

  Geis said, "Yeah, but it's a lot more complicated than that."

  We had walked south on Twenty-third past the University of Havana campus, then beneath seventeenth-century stone warehouses with wash hanging from the windows, old men and women sitting in doorways.

  Lots of restless, wakeful people in Havana. It was a few minutes after ten P.M.

  Several of the prostitutes had tagged along after us but finally gave up. Looking back at them had given me an opportunity to see if we were being followed. It seemed as if we were on our own. Streets were nearly empty. Even so, Geis kept his voice low.

  "Ochoa was Cuba's most popular military leader. He fought with Fidel against Batista, then led troops in Venezuela, Angola, Ethiopia, you name it. Even the Russians considered him a military genius. Placed their own troops under him, and he was probably Fidel's best friend. But Ochoa really screwed up."

  "Something he did, you mean."

  "Arnaldo Ochoa? No way. He was an absolute straight shooter. Didn't take bribes, followed orders, lived like the rest of these people live; crummy little house in a neighborhood. No, what he did was became too popular with his troops and with the Cuban people. The whole country knew his name. Which is why a few years ago-eighty-nine, maybe?-Raul marched him out in front of a firing squad and had him shot. No more Ochoa, no more threat to Fidel. You know what his last words were? 'I'm no traitor.' That's the kind of man he was."

  I said, "So that's how Cuba works."

  "Abso-fucking-lutely right and don't you forget it. When it comes to Fidel, don't believe a thing you read about him in America. Canadian press? Same bullshit. The American media, man, they've always loved the guy. You see that thing with Barbara Walters? Dan Rather? Closest thing to blow jobs Fidel ever got with his pants zipped." Geis leaned forward, getting into it. "Back in the Batista days, nobody in Cuba even knew who the fucking guy was until the New York Times runs a series about him being a national hero. Some left-wing reporter interviews this pathological liar-Fidel, I'm talking about-and comes out with stories that make Fidel seem like Sir Lancelot. Reports everything Fidel says as the gospel truth.

  "Batista, the idiot, tried to have his people destroy all the copies of the story as they came off the boat, which made every Cuban on the island want to read the fucking thing. Said Castro'd killed a lot of Batista's troops, all bullshit. The only skirmish Fidel was in, he ran off and left his men. But this thing, this story said he was like a God living up there in the mountains, idolized by thousands. So what happens? Everybody who reads it, millions of Cubans, they start to idolize this guy they know absolutely nothing about. It was in the New York Times, so it had to be true, right? The men instantly admired him, every woman on the island wanted to screw him, have his illegitimate child- and, buddy, there are plenty of those floating around. The other revolutionaries, hey! it didn't matter that they thought Fidel was a weirdo, a joke. Called him El Loco, and they meant it. They laughed at him. But Castro had the people on his side. Tliat's all that mattered."

  Geis said, "So when Ochoa, Fidel's most dedicated friend, got too popular, they used AK-47s on him. But see"-Geis touched my arm to emphasize his point- "Ochoa wasn't pure Castilian like Fidel's other top guys. He had some Indio in him. Fidel called him El Negro, like it was a pet name, but I think the man has a thing about race…" Geis hesitated. "You with me so far?"

  I said, "I'm learning a lot, Lenny."

  Listening to him, putting it all together-Geis's background, this right-wing Canadian knowing the whole Castro story-it was true.

  Geis liked compliments. They seemed to make him stand a little taller. I listened to him say, "So… let's say there are certain people in this country who aren't pure Castilian and who think Cuba needs a change of leadership. Like there's this Afro-Cuban group, the Abakua, an all-male secret society-a guy told me they drink blood from human skulls. Not just blacks either; lots of whites have joined up. They are a very violent people, heavy into crime and San-terfa, so Castro deals with them a couple of ways. One, he pays them public respect. Population wise, they're the majority, see? The Santeros, I'm talking about, not the Abakua. But two, he liquidates any Abakua who gets out of line. His Gestapo shows up in the night, and the troublemaker disappears.

  "To the Abakuas-and I'm not saying it's just them- but to those kind of people, Arnaldo Ochoa is a hero. Which is why they use his name in code. Other than that, we are talking about a group so far underground you never hear a thing about them. Just Ocho A, like a reminder they're there."

  I said, "So that's why it made you nervous, my looking at it."

  "Fuckingaye right. Let's face facts: I don't know you from Adam, you don't know me, but in a place like this, us gringos have to hang together. That's why I'm telling you. If I hadn't met up with Tomlinson… Hiked the guy. He says you're friends, so that's why I'm trusting you. Tomlinson, there's no doubt he's exactly what he seems to be. But you… for all I know, you could be one of those holdover Soviet spooks that Fidel keeps on his private staff. His Rojo Seis-that's what they supposedly call themselves. Only six of them, right? Red Six. Sends these Russians out to do his personal dirty work, the intricate stuff, espionage or setting up foreigners. Speak their language, then arrest them or shoot them in the back of the head. Just telling you, I'm taking a risk."

  Castro's elite special operations team of Russian mercenaries, Red Six, had been active in 1980 at the time of the refugee boat lift. Still listening to Geis, I had a fast memory flash of our long-ago escape from the harbor in an IBS-Inflatable Boat, Small. All that Gulf wind and black water. Remembered Armando Azcona leaning against me, bleeding, but conscious enough to say to me, "You think now they'll cha
nge the name to Rojo Cuatro?" Meaning Red Four.

  To Geis, I said, "You're serious about this."

  "Aren't you listening to what I'm saying? Of course I'm serious."

  "About the Russians, I mean."

  "That they'd set me up?" Geis shrugged, palms turned upward. "Havana was built on Indian corpses and Spanish rumors. That's an expression here. I don't know if they'd set me up. Shit, I don't really know if Fidel has Russians on his intelligence staff anymore. It's just one of those things you hear. These spooky guys, experts in just about everything, and Fidel sends them out like falcons. It's a rumor. Like Raul wears dresses, Fidel's got inoperable throat cancer. You know the kind of thing I'm talking about? Fidel and Santeria, there's another one. That he actually believes in that shit-he's the one that got Noriega painting himself with chicken blood, making sacrifices.

  "What else the Cubans got besides rumors? You don't get any news here. The media's a promotional branch of the government. Nobody knows anything. You got about a thousand different little government agencies all out for themselves. Raul runs the military and he hates the Interior Ministry and the Interior Ministry hates Castro's people, and Castro's people don't give a shit 'cause everybody's corrupt and that's okay as long as Fidel keeps his job.

  "The whole fucking country," Geis said, "is like a hockey brawl. No one winning, just some people losing a little faster than others. It's the way the laws are. Everything's illegal, so everyone has to be a criminal to survive. It's the way Fidel wants it. Keep everyone ignorant and guilty, he's in complete control."

  "It's a technique," I said.

  "Fuckingaye," he said. "The Big Lie, just like Hitler."

  "You know him through meetings. Castro."

  "Well… I've been to one. Just because I don't like the guy doesn't mean I can't do business with him."

  Maybe my silence told Geis I thought he was exaggerating because, after a short pause, he added, "Well… actually, the meeting was with him and about ten of his advisors. That's where he gave me the cigars

  … one of his advisors, really, 'cause when Fidel's in the room nobody talks but him. That Trinidad, it's a fine smoke."

  The way he said it, I decided he might be lying about the whole thing. "Sounds like you're doing pretty well, Lenny."

  "Yeah," he said, "but it's just part of my job." Grinned at me-enough of that subject. Said, "Only, I'm off duty now."

  We were at the corner of Twenty-third and G. Off to our left, an alleyway cut between buildings. Across the street was a seedy looking bar, the Casa de las Infusiones. Flickering oil lamps and smoke, dark shapes moving inside. A place that would have ceiling fans and curtains of strung beads. I remembered Geis saying it was the bar where Raul Castro sometimes hung out. I was deciding whether I should ask Geis how he knew so much-why would anyone risk telling him what he'd told me?-when I heard a soft mewing sound, then what seemed to be a child's muffled scream.

  I looked toward the alley to see a boy standing there. He looked about ten, but probably older. Baggy pants, no shirt. He had an index finger pressed to his lips-be quiet-and was motioning to me frantically. Geis was looking by the time I turned and started toward the boy. I felt his hand on my shoulder and heard him say, "Are you nuts? Stay out of it."

  There was another scream, this one louder. Definitely a child back there in some kind of trouble. I took off running toward the boy, hearing Geis call after me, "Hey… HEY! It's not our business!" Heard him yell, "I'll leave you… I mean it, man!"

  11

  I watched the boy turn into the mouth of the alleyway as if to lead me. At a jog, I followed him into the darkness. Black stone walls on each side closing to form a passage not wide enough for a car. Back doorways blocked by garbage, cobblestones wet, glistening with sewage. One of those big city caverns, walls high above, that stank of uric acid… human waste… rodents that ambushed from gutters.

  When I nearly slipped and fell, I slowed to a walk. My eyes wouldn't adjust. I took my glasses off, cleaned them on my shirt.

  Glanced behind me. Narrow rectangle of light at the entrance.

  Geis was gone.

  Peered ahead. The boy had disappeared, too.

  Stopped and listened. Heard a weary call in Spanish- Help me! It seemed to come from some far corner of the alley… a sound that echoed strangely, as if it originated beneath the cobblestones.

  I began to move slowly toward it, fishing in the pocket of my cargo pants for some kind of weapon. I found the hotel key and I wedged it into my left fist, point protruding between my knuckles. I stripped off my leather belt and wrapped it around my right fist, small brass buckle with anchor facing outward. Picked up the pace, running, until I came to the alley's back wall.

  I stopped and turned, feeling my heart pound, breathing heavier than I should have needed to.

  Off to the left and right were narrow walk spaces between buildings, no light at all.

  Which way?

  Stood listening again.

  Somebody… please!

  The sound came from my right, way back in and from below. The subterranean sound again. Could the kid be stuck in a drain? I took several fast steps toward the walk space… which is when I felt big hands grab me from behind.

  Heard: "Be smart, friend. Don't move." The guttural Spanish of a big man.

  It scared the hell out of me… demolished the careful process of thought and self-perception. I was no longer the person who rushed to the aid of children. Instantly, I was a diminished creature… small, panic charged… I was prey. The abrupt adrenal fear squeezed at the anus. It buckled my legs and instigated the process of physical shock

  … which, in the microsecond of its happening, I recognized… so it vanished.

  I turned to free myself… but the man got his hands around my chest, holding me. I tried to ram him into the wall, feeling his breath in my ear, smelling him-tobacco smell and sweat and a sweeter odor like cologne or incense-but he swung me around like a big rag doll.

  A very powerful guy. Stronger than me. He seemed quicker, too. The combination did not rally my confidence. Even more unsettling, he was still talking to me, very calm. "Why make it difficult, friend? It's nothing personal, why take it so personally? Or perhaps it's true"-His fingers found my windpipe, a sudden, numbing pressure-"that you are a man who enjoys the dance."

  Christ, the guy was having fun.

  Heard him say, "Dance with me now?"

  I felt his whole weight on my back, riding me. I stumbled around, fighting to keep my balance. Got my hands under his wrist and pried the thick fingers free long enough to grab a bite of air… then his grip was on my throat again. I had enough thoracic pressure remaining to create gagged words: "Stop… no more…"

  The grip relented. I began to breathe again in his deflated silence. "Ah-h-h-h, you learn too quickly, friend. So you agree? It's nothing personal."

  I nodded, trying to buy myself some time, willing my brain to work; calculate how to deal with it. I said, "Right, of course. Nothing personal…"

  "I can do it quickly, or you can make it difficult for both of us."

  Do what quickly? What the hell was he talking about?

  I said, "You want money? Let me go, I'll give you money. I've got a watch, too. A nice one."

  He was still behind me, his arms keeping me under control. "Yes, the money. I will take the money. With men like us, it is business. But… it's like these whores say: If it's business, why is it so much fun?" Delighted laughter- tee-hee-hee-his heavy chest spasming on my back.

  With men like us…?

  I listened to him say, "As long as you understand."

  Panic time again. This wasn't a robbery. He knew who I was, this guy with the freaky laugh, and now he was asking my approval before he murdered me. His tone, what he was implying was: We're in the same line of work, you and I.

  I stood there trying to lock onto that cold place within me, the bell-hard conduit that was unblemished by emotion. No fear in there, no rage, no peace�
�� just clarity. I had a fleeting picture of Dewey back at the hotel, then back in Florida, wondering why I'd never returned. I saw Tomlinson, those haunted eyes of his, meditating my disappearance away. No… Tomlinson would feel what had happened; he would know.

  At least, he would convince himself that he knew…

  I stopped struggling for a moment, let the man feel me relax. Gave it two or three seconds-both of us breathing heavily-before I twisted and drove my left elbow back into his abdominal triangle, the solar plexus.

  I heard the air woof out of him hot on the back of my neck as I turned and locked his right elbow in the crook of my arm, twisted it abruptly, using my hip as a lever, and drove my fist, shielded by the hard brass buckle, into his throat. I hit him a second time on the bridge of the nose, then three more times in the throat before I released my lock on his elbow.

  I heard a metallic gong on the cobblestones-he'd dropped something-as he fell to his knees, making a gagging noise. It was the sound of a dry pump sucking air. I stutter-stepped and kicked him in the ribs… positioned myself to kick him again, this time in the face, but caught myself. Stood there feeling a rage as strong as nausea move through me, a predatory fever that I knew to be part of me, but that I loathed. I waited, breathing heavily… felt the fever receding, receding, then, finally… it grew smaller and vanished back into its dark hole.

  The man was on the ground in a fetal position, hands over his windpipe. Still making the gagging noise, but he seemed to be getting some air in.

  I searched around on the pavement until I saw a chromium gleam. Stooped and picked up a thin shaft of metal that was spaded on one end, scalpel-sharp. It was something I'd seen before. An embalmer's tool. A trocar? I wasn't sure of the name. Slide it up through the throat and remove the brain.

  He'd dropped it when he fell. I could hear him saying, / can do it quickly, as if he knew exactly what he was doing. Like he was an old hand who'd done it before.