by Matthew Rief
“Logan,” Ange said quietly.
I stepped back into the saloon. Ange had moved topside, her head sticking down through the small door.
Seeing the serious and somewhat relieved expression on her face, I said, “What is it? Do you see her?”
“Not exactly,” she replied. She motioned for me to follow her, then added, “You gotta see this, though.”
I headed topside and saw her standing on the starboard side, facing the freighter and peering through a small pair of binoculars.
I gazed where she was looking and saw someone walking down the pier toward the shore. Whoever it was, they were far off, but it was clearly a male.
I stepped toward Ange and she handed me the binos. I peered through and put the guy in the crosshairs. A bell went off in my head the moment I looked at him. It was his gait and clothing that gave him away more than anything else. A slight limp, bright colorful tee shirt. Funny hat and sunglasses.
“It’s that punk from Pete’s the other night,” Ange said, taking the words right out of my mouth.
I watched him intently as he strode with awkward confidence to the base of the pier. I could see him clearly in my mind’s eye. Sitting at Pete’s, checking out Scarlett and then groping her as she passed by. Scarlett had taken him down and taught him a lesson, or so I’d thought.
Duke. That was his name. That was what Mia had told me back at the restaurant.
“It sure as hell isn’t a coincidence,” Ange said. “Seeing him at Pete’s, and now seeing him here.”
“No, it isn’t,” I said, still watching the guy like a hawk. “He knows where Scarlett is.”
He was almost to the base of the pier and we didn’t want to lose him. We slid on some shades to better conceal our faces, then dropped down onto the creaky dock. We left our dive gear and sea scooters concealed on the old sailboat, taking only my waterproof backpack and the hard case with our extra firepower.
There were only a few people on the dock. Two old fishermen who looked like they’d been trying their luck at that spot since Castro and his revolutionaries had overthrown Batista. There was also a guy in the water scraping the algae and barnacles off a small fishing boat’s hull, and a guy fixing up an old Balboa sailboat. None of them seemed the least bit concerned by us.
Why would they be?
We probably looked like a couple of lost tourists, or maybe a couple looking to buy and fix up an old boat. They didn’t care.
We kept our eyes glued on Duke, watching his every movement and interaction, and we soon reached the shore. Moments later, the guy disappeared from view between a row of old buildings.
We kept our distance, keeping a solid bead on him as he weaved through a maze of old warehouses. Soon, he headed toward a rundown dive bar and shoved his way through the solid black doors.
There was a guy in an adjacent alley smoking. A few classic American cars lined the quiet street. Graffiti covered most of the visible walls. It was dingy and looked like it had never been repainted. All in all, it looked about as shady as the grass under a sycamore tree.
“This place looks promising,” Ange said.
I smiled. “You mind if I do the honors? I could use a drink.”
She shrugged. “I guess so. I’ll be ready to move in once I hear bottles shattering. Or if this punk does the smart thing and decides to make a run for it.”
I gave her the backpack, strode across the street, and pushed my way through the door.
TWENTY-ONE
Somehow, the place looked even worse on the inside. Even “rustic, neglected dive bar” was too glamorous a description.
It was like in those old western movies when the mysterious out-of-towner steps into the local bar. All eyes gravitated toward me as I quickly scanned the room.
The place reeked of mold and sweaty clothes. An old TV in the corner displayed the static image of a soccer game, while a radio in the opposite corner played Spanish music. There was a pool table that had more craters on its green felt surface than the moon, and a wooden dartboard that looked like it had been pummeled by a shotgun for half an hour. It was dark inside, the few lightbulbs that did work flickering and dying out.
I counted ten people in all, including the old waitress and the fat guy behind the bar. Most of the patrons were seated at tables playing poker in the space between empty beer bottles. None of them were Duke.
There was a door beside the bar, and another one across the room. There was also an old staircase that looked like it didn’t get much traffic.
With no visual on my target, I decided to wait, figuring he’d gone into the head to relieve himself before blowing his black market profits on booze and whatever else this guy spent his money on.
A new hat, maybe.
I chuckled.
More than a few pairs of questioning eyes stared in my direction as I navigated across the room and leaned against the bar.
“I’ll take a rum, neat,” I said when the bartender’s eyes met mine.
He paused a moment. After a brief skeptical look, he shrugged, finished wiping down a glass with a rag, then turned and went to work. The counter was scratched, chipped, and faded to hell. The whole place looked like a relic of a time long gone by.
I glanced around the room again. Not as many people were looking at me, but I caught the occasional side glance over the shoulder or around a hand of cards. I was a stranger. An outsider in their little world. Most of them could’ve been normal ship crew, not even associated with the crime syndicate. But they sure gave off the criminal vibe.
The fat bartender turned around and set my drink in front of me. No napkin first.
Why bother?
He watched intently as I grabbed the glass.
I was sure by his smile that he’d given me his strongest stuff. Well over the typical eighty proof. He was trying to find out what I was made of.
Pressing the glass to my lips, I tilted my head back, then dumped the contents down the hatch in one long pull. The alcohol burned as it flowed down my throat.
Easily over a hundred proof.
I set the glass back on the counter. It wasn’t half bad.
The fat guy paused only long enough to see my reaction, then said, “Another?”
I smiled at his obvious disappointment, then nodded.
“There are fifty bars between here and downtown,” he said as he turned around to fix me up round two. “Why’d you walk into here?”
His voice was raspy, his English good.
“I’m looking for someone,” I said, stopping him in his husky tracks. He turned back, eying me skeptically. “His name’s Duke. Young guy. White. Dresses like a sideshow clown. Ring any bells?”
He stepped toward me, wiped the counter with his dirty rag, then leaned in closer.
“You looking for a girl?” he asked, not bothering to lower his voice.
It didn’t matter. Not in that joint.
“Yeah,” I replied.
He smiled. “You might wanna try the Malecón after ten. Hell, you could try it at any time these days.”
“I’m looking for a particular girl.”
He paused a moment. “Doesn’t work like that here, boss. Not unless you got some real deep pockets.”
I narrowed my gaze. “Do you know where Duke is or not?”
He chuckled. I caught a foul whiff of his breath and nearly gagged. “You know, you’re pretty ballsy for an outsider.” He leaned over, looked me up and down. Sizing me up. “Duke’s not here. Last I heard he was in Haiti. Tough luck, buddy.”
Now it was my turn to lean in closer.
“I know the punk’s here,” I said sternly. “Tell me where he is and you won’t have to visit the emergency room today.”
It wasn’t my best threat, but it was the first one that came to me.
The fat guy chuckled again, then leaned back and stood tall.
“You threaten one of us, outsider,” he bellowed, “and you threaten all of us.”
It was like the rec
ord scratching and going silent in old movies. Chairs kicked back and fell. The guys around the room rose to their feet in unison. Hands clenched into fists. And every pair of eyes in the place bore into my back.
A fight with a bunch of rough-looking criminals in an old and grimy dive bar. Does it get any more clichéd than that?
I didn’t care. Even if they did have one hell of a home court advantage. I’d take them all on right then and there if I needed to.
I eyed the fat guy and began planning out my strategy to engage when I spotted something that caught me off guard. Through the reflection in my glass, I caught a glimpse of something colorful. It was out of place in the grungy, muted bar.
I snapped my head sideways and looked up. It was Duke. He was standing against the second-story railing, peering down at me. It was a quick glance. Just long enough for me to see his face display a powerful blend of fear and surprise.
The guy was still wearing his big-rimmed purple sunglasses. He lowered them, along with his jaw, in perfect synchronization.
Before I could turn the rest of my body around, he was gone. Like a spooked lobster after you tap it with a tickle stick. He turned on his heel and took off out of sight.
I glanced down toward the rest of the guys in the bar. I wanted nothing more than to take them all down like Patrick Swayze in Roadhouse. But Duke was my mission.
Instead of running after him and being inevitably roadblocked by a row of his friends, I kept still and started a mental stopwatch.
One thousand one… one thousand two…
Calmly, I turned around and faced the bar.
“At least let me finish my drink,” I said, eyeing the fat guy.
One thousand five.
I grabbed the glass, leaned toward the bartender, and splashed it into his face. Whirling around, I grabbed hold of the wooden stool beside me and threw it at the two closest guys who were moving in on me.
One thousand seven.
Then I darted to my left and sprinted out the back door to a chorus of cursing and yelling.
One thousand ten.
Ten-second head start for Duke. It wouldn’t be near enough.
Glass bottles shattered against the door behind me as the guys inside ran after me and threw whatever they could get their hands on. The guy smoking in the alley glanced up from his phone and stared at me. I looked skyward, heard footsteps, then spotted Duke sprinting along the rooftop of the dive.
Wanting to get out of there before his intoxicated merry men stormed out, I took off down the alley as fast as I could.
Their yells shook the still afternoon air as they slammed the door open far behind me and stormed out.
I didn’t look back. I pumped my arms, sprinting as fast as I could.
Ange must know something’s up. She’s probably heading down on the other side to cut him off.
I took intermittent glances up as I bolted to the other side of the row of structures. Duke had a nice lead at first, but I cut it in half as he jumped from one rooftop to another, then dropped down out of view.
Just as I rounded a corner, I watched as he slid down the fire escape and jumped into the passenger side of an idling 1950s Impala. The driver hit the gas, causing the tires to scream and spit out smoke as it accelerated away from me.
Unable to catch them on foot, I grabbed my Sig and took aim. I only managed a single shot, shattering the rear window before the driver peeled out of view down a cross street.
I lowered my weapon.
Shit. Ange, where are you? Where the hell are you?
The thought that maybe she’d been hurt or captured entered my mind for a second before I heard the sound of a second engine and screeching tires. A red 1951 Buick convertible flew around the corner and braked to a stop in front of me. I smiled when I realized it was Ange in the driver’s seat.
“Get in,” she said, peering at me through her dark aviator sunglasses.
I slid over the hood and jumped into the passenger seat, not bothering with the door. The moment my rear hit the classic red-and-white leather seat, Ange floored the gas pedal. The classic engine groaned and forced me against the seat back. We accelerated quickly, and she shifted like a pro from gear to gear, then barely slowed as she swung a right turn.
“There they are,” I said, pointing ahead.
The Impala was barreling down the side street, braking only to turn a sharp left onto a busier street.
“I see them,” Ange fired back, shifting into third gear and maintaining our high speed throughout the turn.
The driver of the Impala was good, but Ange was better. She quickly closed the gap to less than fifty feet. Looking ahead, I saw that we were rapidly approaching a busy intersection.
The driver didn’t hesitate. He braked, then turned sharply, weaving right between a flatbed truck and a guy on a moped. The momentum caused the car to ride up on its two left tires, nearly flipping before the driver managed to stabilize it.
Ange followed suit, hitting the corner with better precision and coming into formation right behind the truck.
She stomped on the gas, and I held on as she brought us up over eighty miles per hour.
We needed to close in and make our move soon. They had home field advantage. They’d also probably called in backup already, shortening our window of opportunity. We had one lead in the whole country, and we were going to make the guy talk come hell or high water.
“Looks like we got a jam up ahead,” Ange said over the roaring engine and billowing wind.
Roughly a quarter of a mile ahead of us, the traffic was stopped and backed up a handful of vehicles. I spotted glimpses of bright orange vests, heavy machinery, and handheld traffic signs. Construction.
This was it. There was no turnoff or street between us and the closest stopped car. Our quarry had nowhere to go.
With my Sig still in hand, I prepared to hop out and engage them once we stopped. Just before they reached the line of stopped cars, they cut a hard right, driving right off the road. One of the workers yelled out for them to stop, but it was useless. The driver accelerated, smashing the car through a row of duranta bushes and a short wooden fence.
Ange kept right on them. She turned sharply, the tires skidding along the pavement and onto the dirt shoulder. We drove right through the hole their Impala had made, bouncing over the flattened shrubs and shattered remnants of the fence.
We followed right behind them, chasing them down at over fifty miles per hour through a field of scattered cows. I spotted Duke as he looked out the passenger side window. He peered at us, then extended out an arm that was clasping what looked like a revolver.
This is my cue.
I rose up in my seat and took aim with my Sig. I didn’t want to kill him. I wanted to stop their car.
I put the rear left tire in my sights and fired off two rounds. The tire exploded, causing the car to jerk sideways and skid out of control. We were approaching another fence, this one barbed wire, and what looked like a drop-off beyond.
I fired off another round, this one into the rear window to force Duke to take cover. Once he was back in the car, I blew the other rear tire as well. The car slid wildly back and forth, then shook violently as it slammed into a large boulder.
It performed a fast full-360-degree turn, crashed through the barbed-wire fence, and flew out of sight over the edge. Ange slammed on the brakes, grinding us to a stop less than ten feet away from the drop-off.
I shoved open my door, threw my backpack over my shoulder, grabbed the hard case, and took off with Ange by my side. We sprinted to the edge, then froze when we realized how steep it was. It was a sheer drop of at least thirty feet. The Impala had been smashed to pieces. It was upside down and resting in a small muddy stream below.
We moved along the rim to a more welcoming gradient, then slid down the dirty slope on our butts, knocking a few loose rocks and causing them to tumble down in front of us. When we reached the bottom, we took a look around. There was nothing nearby except a
distant barn and a few curious sheep.
I set my backpack and the hard case aside, then we both splashed into the water and grabbed hold of the frame of what looked more like a smashed-up tin can than a car. If anyone inside had survived the fall, they’d be too messed up to move. Especially in that old vehicle. The thing most likely didn’t even have seat belts, let alone modern safety features like airbags.
There were only two bodies inside. The driver was sprawled out, his left leg twisted awkwardly and his face covered in blood. Duke was also motionless. He lay facedown against the roof. I reached in through the shattered driver’s-side window to feel for a pulse. He was dead.
Shit.
“Well, there goes our lead,” I said.
Ange crawled in on the other side, careful not to cut herself on the shattered glass.
“Maybe,” she said, “maybe not.”
She searched Duke’s pockets. A gold-and-white-striped pack of cigarettes. Two condoms. Some loose pocket change. Useless random trinkets. Then she held up a cellphone.
I smiled. “That’ll work.”
We shimmied out of the battered car and took two steps back across the murky stream before we heard the unmistakable sound of sirens. They weren’t far. Probably less than a mile.
We both looked up at the steep precipice, then turned around.
It’s time to ditch our vehicle.
I glanced down at the cellphone.
And figure out who this guy Duke’s been talking to.
TWENTY-TWO
Ange and I ran across the field, taking cover behind a row of bushes, then around the back side of the old barn. Once out of sight, we continued down a dirt path to the end of the farm. We hailed a cab at the Rotonda de Cojimar, a large roundabout with palm trees in the middle.
The driver hopped out of his classic white Ford Fairlane beside the curb and opened the door for us with a ready smile. When he asked where we were heading, Ange took the lead.
“Take us to Old Town,” she said.
He shut the door behind us, hopped into the driver’s seat, then took off around the Rotonda and onto the Via Blanca toward downtown. The closer we came to the heart of the city, the more the unique and authentic feel of the Cuban culture took over. Our enthusiastic driver pointed out attractions and historical sites as we passed by. He clearly loved his country and spoke of its rich history and world-renowned hospitality.