Cuba Straits Page 8

  “Who you think played dead?”

  “Vernum, he don’t play at nothing. Some years ago, he murdered three schoolgirls on their way to school. Used a machete out in a cane field, then blamed me. This was after their bones was found, but before he come to my mu-maw’s house. He wanted to know where certain items were hidden—only he said ‘buried.’ Which tells you how dumb even a Santero can be.”

  “Your mother’s house?”

  “My grandmother who raised me. My abuela. What she should of said was, ‘Vernum, what kind of fool buries three motorcycles under the ground?’ Expensive machines, you know? Harleys, with lots of chrome. At the time, of course, she didn’t know about them dead girls—or that the Guardia, the police, would come for me later. This was three years ago.”

  Ms. Omara was singing “Noche Cubana” now, the sweetest of wistful love songs. Tomlinson adjusted the volume and reminded himself, Don’t press, let the man talk.

  Lunchtime. They ate tomatoes pilfered from a garden on Simonton and canned black beans. For seasoning, a key lime. At one p.m., the wind dropped. Tomlinson used the diesel to put twenty miles behind them before he tired of fumes and noise. A little before three, the wind died, but that was okay. He dumped the dinghy over the side, locked the motor to the transom, and rerigged the towing harness for something to do. At four, No Más wallowed in waves while the halyard clinked. From the southeast, a bank of clouds drifted, seeking the warmer water of the Gulf Stream. They descended as fog—not thick, more like tendrils of steam, but dense enough to drip from the sheeting.

  “Smoke,” Tomlinson smiled. “Don’t the clouds remind you of that?” He broke out a hash pipe, which he seldom used—he associated pipes with white-collar stoners, although a bong was okay. Figgy’s headache improved after a bowl of homegrown Crystal River. He became talkative.

  “It surprised me, seeing that Santero. Especially with a Russian. In Cuba, most people hate Russians, hoped they’d never come back, but they did. I was locked up so can’t say exactly when this trend began. Not so long, though.” He pivoted to look into a misty horizon that had recently cupped the lights of Key West. “Except for them witches and the Russian, I like America. You promise we’ll come back?”

  Tomlinson noted visibility and felt it safe to nod. “Vernum Quick, huh? That sounds Bahamian, not Cuban.”

  “It’s the same. In way-back times, some men was named for their nature. See? Like how fast they move or their love for women. When the Guardia come, they were already convinced a Casanova took those girls.”

  “Not just your name, though, right? It was because this dude Vernum lied. The man should be defrocked, if you didn’t kill . . . Well, if he’s still alive. What did you tell the Cuban cops?”

  “The truth, brother. I always tell the truth. That’s why the Guardia took me straight to jail.”

  Tomlinson had been nudging the conversation toward Gen. Rivera—how had the man learned about the machine guns and hidden Harleys?—but had to back up. “Even though you denied murdering the girls?”

  “That’s not the way it happened. The lieutenant come to my mu-maw’s house and asked why I murdered three innocent people.”

  “Your mu . . . ? Oh, your grandmother.”

  “Yeah. I told him those people weren’t innocent, and I only killed two people, not three—and no way their bodies were found—so why was he bothering us? You see, at the time, I knew nothing about the girls in the cane field.”

  Tomlinson took a minute to collect himself by pretending a need for the sextant. To the north, cumulus clouds that had once marked the Dry Tortugas were now a curtain of gray. All sorts of things—airplanes, ships, the steady flow of refugees on rafts—often disappeared out here in the Straits. He closed the box of polished teak, saying, “I’m sure you had a damn good reason to do whatever you did.”

  “That’s what I explained to the lieutenant.”

  “Explained why you had to kill—”

  “Yeah. Two men come snooping around at night—big fellas like the one back there”—Figgy motioned—“so I used a baseball bat, a bat I’d carved from a madera, which also makes me sad. I packed their bodies on a mule all night and threw that bat off the cliff, too. What choice did I have? If I promise to protect a certain place, man, I protect it. Same with the briefcase . . . but only because I didn’t know what it contains.” The Cuban glowered at the cabin. “General Rivera, next time I see him, I think I’ll beat his head with my other shoe.”

  “You clubbed them with a baseball bat until they were . . .”

  “Of course. Isn’t that what I just told you?”

  Holy Christ. This new shipmate of his was a stone-cold killer. But sitting alone with a felon in the middle of the Gulf Stream was no place to quibble over morality or the outcome of what was, perhaps, one drunken night and a whim.

  Tethered off the stern, the dinghy, with its shiny black motor, urged the need for a plan of escape. Instead, Tomlinson forced himself to think about the briefcase. Intuition told him there was a connection between Castro’s letters and Figgy. No other way to explain the shortstop’s reaction when he saw them. Maybe the letters had been written to a woman in Figgy’s village. Possibly even to a relative. Or even Figgy’s grandmother, but that was a stretch. No matter—Tomlinson felt confident the Cuban would get to it. He offered support by saying, “Typical cops. Even when you tell the truth, they’re pricks.”

  “Exactly what I said—‘Man, I being totally straight, here’—and the lieutenant ask me why didn’t I confess earlier? Confess? What a stupid question. Brother, why would I confess to something I never lied about in the first place?”

  That made so much sense, Tomlinson wanted to write it down.

  The shortstop continued, “I explained to the lieutenant about my vow of honesty. Know what he did? Laughed at me. Laughed right in my face. Said, ‘Boy, you are lying or you are crazy.’ I told him, ‘Cabrón, I never lie.’ For that insult, I knocked him on his puta ass—used my left hand, of course, ’cause, you know, I throw with my right.”

  Listening, Tomlinson exhaled a long breath. “Dude, you’re as sane as the day is long. A ballplayer’s got to protect his throwing hand.”

  “Yeah! But they took me to crazy prison anyway. The one on the road to José Martí, right there by the ball field.”

  Prisión demente is what Figgy called the asylum in Spanish.

  “Can you imagine? Sit in the dark, hearing baseball through the walls. You know that sound a bat makes when you hit it good? Hit a ball, I mean, not like the one I used to kill those fellas. Sometimes I cried and cried. Three years, three months, and three days. Got so them guards really believed I was crazy.”

  A cooler was strapped to the cabin bulkhead. Tomlinson got up. “You know, Figgy—uhh, is it okay if I call you Figgy?”

  “That’s cool. Although ‘Figuerito’ is more proper. Three, you understand now why three’s my lucky number?” The little Cuban accepted a beer and tossed the cap over the side.

  Normally, Tomlinson would have mentioned the handy trash bag but stuck to the thread. “Thing is, Figuerito, on these little cruises of mine strange shit always happens for one reason or another. Nobody’s fault, understand. It’s God’s way of preparing us, I think, for the serious weirdness that awaits if a man outlives his pinga.”

  A nod; a white-toothed smile.

  “We’ve got to stick together, in other words. We’re shipmates, right? After last night, I feel like I can call you my very good friend.”

  “Figgy’s okay, too,” the shortstop replied. He was interested in something portside, straining to see through the mist while his shoulders danced to Ms. Omara crooning “Pensamiento.”

  Sensing a lack of focus, Tomlinson cleared his throat. “Being called a pussy in Russian was my first clue. That’s a new one even in my world. See where this is going? Amigo, I think we need to read those le
tters to understand why all this bizarre bullshit’s going down.” A tangent popped into his head. “Hey . . . how’d you know the Russian word for ‘pussy’? Because your father danced ballet?”

  The shortstop didn’t respond, continued to stare into the mist, eyes widening while he grabbed the boom and pulled himself up. “Wow!” he said. “Is that Havana already?”

  No . . . it was a cruise ship, its bow five stories high and cutting a wake that, if Tomlinson didn’t get the engine started, would crush No Más and drown them.

  Thursday afternoon on Bahamasair, Key West to Nassau, Vernum Quick looked down at a glittering sea and watched a ship—one of those newlywed and nearly dead cruise liners—disappear into a cloudy mist. The entire flight, he hadn’t said a word to his Russian handler, a man so big he’d purchased two seats—same as two days ago when they’d landed in Fort Myers.

  Kostikov was the guy’s name, supposedly. Who knew? In this strange business, lying was a way of life. It was easier to believe he’d been a super heavyweight way, way back in the day. Boxing or wrestling or weight lifting, Vernum hadn’t inquired. The man’s bad Spanish demanded a lot of work, as did his Cossack temper. Better to smile and pretend to understand.

  One thing for certain: Kostikov was a killer. He could kill a man with his hands—snap his neck, crush him to death, or stick a pencil through his eardrum. Vernum had seen him do this in a grainy KGB video, a self-defense instructional that sacrificed three dumbass prisoners—Afghans, they looked like—who had volunteered. The huge Russian, after each demonstration, would grin as they dragged a body away. A man who had aged since those days but still loved his work.

  As a mentor, however, Kostikov was a vicious old socialist. Bitch, bitch, bitch, all the way to the airport, then a final dig about Vernum’s cowardice last night because he’d yelled for help, then played dead to save himself from that crazy little bastard with a knife.

  Well . . . Vernum had believed the shoe to be a knife, and no wonder: his wounds had required an ambulance ride to the ER. Which is why, aboard this cramped little airplane, he sat alone, his face bandaged and swollen. Thirty-three stitches to close those gashes around his eyes and to mend his lower lip; thirty-three, his unlucky number as of now.

  A zombie from Hollywood is what he resembled in the mirror.

  Never volunteer, he reminded himself.

  Vernum was a thinker, not a fighter.

  • • •

  IN NASSAU, he found a seat far from the steel band so gringos wouldn’t gawk at him and opened his new laptop. Did his smiling act when Kostikov made eye contact, then reviewed a file he’d been secretly compiling. They’d told him lies, mostly, but he’d been putting it together on his own by eavesdropping, searching the Internet, or stealing peeks here and there.

  “Vernum Quick is quick, man” was something he liked to brag.

  The puzzle was taking shape.

  A month ago, Cuban Intelligence Service—the DGI—had recovered an aborted listing on eBay that had been removed shortly after it was posted.

  Fidel Castro, Love Letters to a Mistress, 1953–63

  Seeing that magic year, 1963, had been enough. There was no record of the letters, no hint of what they contained, according to the Russian, but why risk linkage to the assassination of JFK?

  Evidence was already out there, of course, but never in Fidel’s own hand.

  The DGI made inquiries. No response from the seller. The DGI went to work on the seller’s passwords. Three weeks ago, for reasons Vernum still didn’t understand, the trail brought two special agents to his doorstep in the village of Plobacho, western Cuba.

  “People say you are respected and feared here, a novice Santero who votes the right way. That you’ve helped police in the past.”

  This was true.

  “You served in air force intelligence until . . . well, an unfortunate incident, but the board’s findings might have been hasty. Care to reopen your case?”

  Definitely not. This was a blackmail visit, the way the system worked. How much did they want? Vernum had posed that question. As a Santería novice, he had a little cash, but not much.

  Both agents smiled. They didn’t want money, but there was a price. They named it by asking, “Do you know the Casanova family?”

  Why . . . yes, he did—if you could call an old woman recluse and her retarded, murdering grandson a “family.”

  The agents had liked that, or pretended to.

  Was he aware that Figueroa Casanova had escaped from Havana Psychiatric?

  Vernum played along. “The one by the airport, José Martí? I’ll help you catch the bastard if it’s true.”

  It couldn’t be true. Criminals didn’t escape from that prison—not without a scar on their forehead or in a coffin. Vernum knew this. He stayed current on rumors about Havana Psychiatric for a reason: the place terrified him. Couldn’t even look at the building from the road. His fears were grounded in his own dark secret: a demon lived within his brain. Sometimes the demon had to be fed.

  Over the years, only two witnesses—Figuerito and a little girl—had survived after learning the truth. This, too, had been a burden, but it was a Santería maxim that finally set him free: Blame not the heart for demons in your head, nor hungers that torment your soul.

  My hunger—that’s the way Vernum thought of the demon now. Instead of an asylum inmate, he’d become a respectable citizen, believed he’d earned pleasure in whatever form it appeared. Like all religions, Santería was quick to forgive, but in a way that was tougher; none of that turn-the-other-cheek bullshit. You want something? Man, go get it. Prayer was okay, but potions and powders and the ancient spells were faster.

  Another aspect of Santería that attracted Vernum was its reliance on blood sacrifice to appease the gods and bring good luck. The ceremony was so strict in procedure that it absolved even a young Santero of guilt. Coconut rind cut in four pieces represented the four corners of the Earth. A papaya freshly sliced resembled the undefiled chasteness of a girl. Turpentine, bluestone, ground cowrie shells. The knife must be clean, specially sharpened. The neck of the victim must be gently shaved before the first sure stroke, then tilted just so to fill a ceremonial gourd. All the while chanting Oggún shoro shoro . . . Oggún shoro shoro . . .

  Say those words with passion, they assumed the rhythm of a beating heart.

  Vernum’s favorite song.

  Entering the priesthood was the smartest move he’d made. True believers were eager to reward even a novice Santero who produced results, which is why he had respect, women, and a little money—but never enough, it seemed to him.

  The Cuban DGI agents didn’t care about Santería. What they cared about was the deal they offered the next day after driving Vernum to Havana.

  “If we close the files on that unfortunate incident, would you be willing to help us?”

  Hell yes, but Vernum didn’t want to appear too eager. He knew they thought he was just a dumb peasant who could be used as a mule or fall guy . . . something that now, sitting in Nassau, he was still ferreting out.

  Kill Figueroa Casanova is what they wanted but didn’t admit. Said they wanted the little man detained and interrogated about a stolen briefcase (no mention of the letters) before he was sent back to Havana Psychiatric. A special drug, they had instructed Vernum, would provide the needed interrogation time.

  That was another key to this puzzle. To store his new laptop, they’d given him a shoulder bag. Inside was a shiny silver Montblanc fountain pen. Use it like a needle, he’d been instructed. Just a scratch is enough and the defector will be cooperative for a week, possibly ten days.

  There had been no demonstration. In fact, the DGI agents had behaved as if even the shoulder bag was dangerous. Nor did they touch the pen, which was oddly heavy as if lined with lead and stored in a metal case.

  It was something a dumb peasant wouldn’
t have noticed.

  Vernum Quick did.

  This was a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity, as he was aware. But success required that he make some behavioral changes. As village Santero, he had affected aloofness. He had spoken in parables and often began sentences by asking the blessings of Oggún, or hinting that a gift to the High Babalawo would impress the saints. Changó, his guardian saint, was a favorite topic.

  But he had dropped all the theatrical bullshit the day he’d met the Russian.

  The Russian . . . The man was now returning from the corridor, where tourists scattered to make way. Vernum closed the laptop, stored it, and decided to have fun with a little experiment. He stood and offered the bag to Kostikov, saying, “You mind holding this while I piss?”

  “No talk now!” the man hissed, and stepped back—a familiar reaction.

  Poison, yes, he’d been right about the fountain pen—a type of poison that required a lead case.

  Vernum had researched that, too.

  After using the men’s room, he ate some jerked pork and ruminated over a new puzzle: the saints had delivered Figuerito into his hands, no doubt. But how could he keep that little psycho alive long enough to get rich—and without getting killed himself?

  • • •

  THEY FINALLY SPOKE on the government flight to Havana, safe now unless this shitty old Tupolev, with two propellers and a broken door, fell from the sky.

  “Comrade, how you like that jerked pork?” Vernum asked. Interested because he’d added a few drops of special oil when he’d added more sauce.

  “Ummm,” Kostikov grunted. “Ummm-huh.” The man chewed with his mouth open, red sauce all over his chin. “I tell you plan now.”

  Vernum had been wondering about this return to Havana but preferred to look out the window while the man explained. Figuerito had escaped from Key West in a sailboat, the Russian told him. They knew the boat’s name: No More.