The Golden Havana Night

by Manuel Ramos

  I gave him five minutes, he took twenty.

  — Chapter 5 —

  LEO HUDGENS

  “I was a good cop,” he began. “But, in the end, that didn’t mean anything.”

  I sat back and listened to the soft-spoken, worn-out man.

  “For six years I did my job, honestly and clean. I didn’t take any payoffs or bribes. I didn’t manhandle suspects, never lost my cool. In the service I was a sniper, and on the force I earned marksman status. I did community work, had friends in the chief’s office and in the neighborhoods I worked. You won’t believe this, but the mayor knew my name.”

  I looked at the clock on the wall. He sped up his narrative.

  “I was on my way up—I’m tellin’ the truth. My life was good. Shit, I had some rough times, especially growing up as one of only a few white kids on my block in Five Points, which, back then, was all-black. Denver’s ghetto some called it. But I thought it was okay. That was all in the past. I had a great job and I was in love and engaged.”

  He finished his bottle of water.

  “Something happened,” I offered.

  He made me nervous. He was down but not quite out. He could say complete sentences and he knew the right words. But his face betrayed a wounded, maybe even desperate man. The face and the words didn’t go together.

  “About six years ago, Lisa and I planned to get married in the spring.” The skin around his eyes wrinkled when he said the woman’s name. “That winter, everything changed.” He paused, coughed. “It started when my partner retired. Gary Obregón was a legend on the force and he taught me well. When he moved on he told me to remember two things. The only thanks cops should expect is in the paycheck.” The words sounded like a prayer. “And the second was that it was easy to cross the line, but almost impossible to cross back. He never told me what he meant by ‘the line.’” He turned the empty plastic bottle in his cut and worn hands. “I learned that on my own.”

  I fished a bottle of water for myself from the cooler and handed him another. He set it on the desk.

  “My new partner had a reputation, not a good one. I’d clashed a couple of times with Dominick Alito over the years, over how he handled suspects or witnesses at crime scenes where we both ended up. But for the most part he lived in his version of cop world and I lived in mine. It didn’t take long for the problems to bust out.”

  “He roughed up somebody?” I asked.

  “It started with that.”

  He chugged water, took a deep breath and looked ready to proceed.

  “Before you go any further I should warn you,” I said. “You’re not my client yet, and I’m not working for your attorney. That means I might have to reveal what you tell me if it ever came to that. Be careful what you say.”

  “You mean like to the police or a district attorney?”

  “Yes, exactly. Think about your words.”

  “I’m at the point where I don’t give a damn. I’m gonna tell you what happened. I have to.”

  “Your decision. Go on then.”

  “We were patrolling the Park Hill neighborhood, about midnight, when we saw a dented car with two black youths back out of a driveway and tear ass down the street. Alito hollered like he’d won the lottery, swung around and we pulled them over. It was easy to spot. The driver’s door was a rusty red, the rest of the car had splotches of gray and black. It looked out of place, especially coming from the driveway of one of those old but well-kept houses in Park Hill. But there wasn’t anything specific the boys had done that gave us cause to stop them. Didn’t matter to Alito.”

  I knew what Hudgens talked about. I’d been in the same situation, except I was one of the dark-skinned boys in a beat-up car in a neighborhood where we didn’t belong, stopped by suspicious cops on a dark street. That night stayed with me for years.

  “We stopped the car near an empty lot and they pulled over where there were no street lights. Bad luck for them. Alito ordered the boys to lay down on the street. He was having a good time. I told him to stop, but he ignored me. He kicked the boys, called them names, generally tried to scare them into admitting that they’d done something illegal back at the house. But the driver, an eighteen-year-old named Delly Thomas, insisted that they had stopped to see a girl who lived in the house, but no one was home. He even gave us the girl’s name, told Alito to check out the owner of the house, said it was the girl’s father and he gave us his name. Alito didn’t even consider doing that. Not for a second.”

  My mouth dried up and I drank water. My throat tightened as I swallowed. The story hit too close to the bone. I’d lived it, seen it. I knew it too well, could see where it was going but couldn’t change it. And all I thought of was punching out Hudgens as he told his story.

  “Alito made Thomas stand up and he escorted him back to the squad car. He told me to watch the other kid. ‘Keep him on ice,’ he said. The second boy, Leon Parker, sixteen, was still on the ground. He’d started to cry when Alito kicked him, but he was quiet when Alito and Thomas disappeared into the darkness. He asked if he could sit up. That’s when we heard the knocks and whacks of Alito beating up Delly Thomas. I thought for sure someone else would hear what Alito was doing and he would have to stop. But no one came, no one stopped him. Parker sat up and looked at me, begging me to do something. He twitched with every blow coming from behind the squad car. He cried again, and spit and snot trickled down his chin.”

  “You didn’t try to stop Alito?” I managed to ask.

  “No, I did not. I knew what I had to do, I’d been a cop for years. A good cop. Not a spot on my record. I knew, I knew, but I didn’t do anything. I just let it play out.”

  “What happened?” I wanted him to finish and leave my office.

  “Alito came out of the dark and headed for us. His hands were bloody and sweat covered his face. The boy I watched, Parker, jumped to his feet. He looked at Alito, then at me. He hesitated, said something like ‘Leave me alone,’ then took off running. Alito hollered for him to stop, but he kept on. I acted on instinct, on my training. I ran after him and tackled him. We both went flying through the night. We crashed to the pavement. Parker’s head bounced on the curb. Blood spurted on my jacket from a crack in his skull.”

  “You killed him?” My throat constricted, and I had to drink more water.

  He nodded.

  I couldn’t respond. Hudgens’ story triggered a vague memory of the boy who’d been killed running from the police. The official version, the accepted version, said that he and his friend had been stopped for a traffic violation. Leon Parker had jumped out of the car when the police approached. Apparently, he panicked because he’d recently been released from the state’s Detention Center for Boys and he didn’t want to go back. He tripped in the darkness and killed himself when his head smashed on the curb. The boys had been drinking. The other boy, Delly Thomas, had to be subdued with force when he saw what happened to his friend. The two officers involved were cleared by the District Attorney after an appropriate investigation. That official version had nothing to do with the truth but that’s how it ended.

  “After that,” Hudgens said, “Alito had me in his pocket. It started slow: a free meal, an envelope of cash, a bag of dope to make our own sale. He dragged me down to his level. We did every bad and wrong thing cops can do, over and over, again and again, until I quit giving a damn and eventually lost everything—Lisa, my job, my self-respect.”

  His eyes were dull, not focused on anything.

  “What about Delly Thomas?”

  “No one believed his version of what happened that night. At least no one who could do anything about it. I kept tabs on him for a while. He drifted from one arrest to another for drugs, petty theft, assault. Last I heard he was in prison for burglary.”

  “And Alito?”

  “He retired, took his pension. Moved out of state, somewhere in California. I lost track of him. That’s why I need to hire you.”

  “I can’t work for you,” I said
. I felt only contempt for Hudgens.

  “Okay, not for me. Maybe for Leon Parker and Delly Thomas? Would you work for them?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I’ve spent the last five years living in shit. I put myself in hell and I knew that’s where I belonged. Now I see that I have to do something. I can’t make it right, but I can tell the truth. It won’t bring back Leon Parker, but it might clear his name.”

  “You can tell the truth, as you put it, without anything from me.”

  “Yeah, I could. And I’ll take whatever consequences happen. There has to be something else. Alito has to know, he has to pay. I want you to find him so I can bring him in when I confess. I want him standing there when I tell the world what really happened to Leon Parker and Delly Thomas.” He said the two names in a rush as though the wind had been knocked out of his lungs. He breathed in deeply. “I want you to track down Dominick Alito.”

  He was a blubbering mess when he finished. His dirty clothes and wasted appearance had polluted my office. The truth of what he’d done contaminated me and I had to stop myself from throwing him through the door.

  I breathed deeply, gagged on his body odor and tried to say something that made sense.

  “I can’t do anything now. I told you that. What’s the rush? You’ve waited five years to come clean. What’s another two weeks?”

  “Only that I may turn back to the coward I’ve been for those five years. The longer I wait, the more likely I’ll change my mind and disappear again. I’ve got to do this now. I don’t have a lot of time.”

  Another coughing fit hit him, and I understood that there was a second reason for Hudgens’ rush to find justice.

  “I can’t do it,” I repeated. “I can’t take on your job now.”

  His eyes closed, his head drooped.

  “But maybe there is something that can be done.”

  “What’s that?”

  “I have a friend. A techie. She owes me a favor. I can ask her to look for Alito on her computer. She knows how to do just about anything on a computer. She can do that while I’m gone. If she finds anything, she can contact you. If there’s more to it, I’ll check it out when I get back.”

  He didn’t do anything that told me he’d heard what I said.

  “You got it? Give me a way to contact you, and I’ll give it to my friend. Her name’s Sofía Santisteven but everyone calls her Soapy.”

  He shrugged.

  “That’s all I can do now.”

  He reached inside his overcoat. He pulled out a pencil and a piece of paper, wrote his name and a number and set it on my desk. He stood up to leave.

  “You want some advice?” I asked.

  He stared at me like I’d said something stupid.

  “Go to the cops and tell them what happened. Don’t wait to find Alito. He may never turn up or your story may bring him out, but you shouldn’t wait. Go to the cops today.”

  He stuck his hands in his coat and hunched his shoulders. He nodded. “I’ll think about it. You’re probably right. Yeah.”

  He walked out of my office. I tried to ignore the smell in the air and the bad taste in my mouth.

  — Chapter 6 —

  TAKING THE OX BY THE HORNS

  LAX overwhelmed me with indistinct noise, conspicuous lights, rushing people and frantic movement. The bright purple suitcase with an orange belt tied around its middle was easy to spot on the baggage carousel. As I grabbed it I tried to convince myself that no one laughed. After all, hundreds of travelers of several colors and nationalities scurried in the baggage claim area, some with luggage that was more laughable than mine; boxes secured with twine, greasy denim sacks, half-opened and ripped plastic suitcases. I acted like I knew what to do and where to go but I had to read Sardo’s written instructions again to take the next step after I reclaimed the bag I’d borrowed from Corrine.

  I had about an hour before my flight to Havana took off.

  I walked around the terminal for several minutes to stretch my legs and clear my head. I hadn’t slept well after finishing my internet binge of Kino and useful Cuban information. The truth is, my brain overloaded, and my eyes cramped from the glare of my cheap laptop. Then, during the night, my feet burned with anxiety, and I couldn’t decide if I was too hot or too cold. Not only did I have to get up at four a.m. to Lyft to the airport, but the sorry image of Leo Hudgens haunted me. His story of the death of Leon Parker planted itself firmly in my head, and I couldn’t shake it. I turned and tossed in frustrating sessions of hazy semi-consciousness, not actual sleep. I’d napped on the plane, but I still felt groggy. My lack of sleep caused an uneasiness in my gut and a sag in my confidence.

  Sardo had given me a card that I scanned to open the door to the Alaska Airlines VIP lounge. The small room was packed, but in the crowd of students, families and elderly tourists, I saw my man almost immediately. Alberto Machaco waited at a small table with two cups of coffee and two Danish. He smiled the instant our eyes met, and I returned the smile like we were old friends.

  He wore charcoal gray slacks, a tan polo shirt and bright blue running shoes. A pair of sunglasses dangled around his neck on a gold chain. He was dark: black hair, eyebrows and eyes, smooth brown skin. He wasn’t as tall as his brother, but his shirt couldn’t hide a muscular Machaco chest and toned biceps.

  He stood and hugged me, and I hugged back. Maybe we were old friends.

  “So happy to meet you, Gus,” he said. His accent was as thick as Kino’s.

  “Yeah,” I answered. “Same for me.”

  I hadn’t known what to expect, but his relaxed attitude helped me chill. He didn’t appear nervous about his upcoming meeting with the infamous Hoochie.

  “Were you on the flight from Denver? I didn’t see you.”

  “No, no,” he said. “I’ve been in L. A. for a few days. Business, for me and Joaquín.” He pointed to the coffee. “It’s not bad. Don’t know how you like it so I picked up sugar and cream. I take mine sin nada, negro. Black.”

  “Yeah, black is fine,” I said. I pulled myself together and focused on Machaco, him and the reasons I was in the Los Angeles airport in the first place. The bitter spirit of Hudgens finally faded away.

  Was this smooth-looking, polished fellow really a gambling addict. A man who had to run back to Cuba to settle his debts, the same man who’d put his brother and sister at risk because he had no self-control when it came to money and odds?

  We sat on the soft chairs and he leaned in close.

  “I’ve heard about you from Joaquín,” he said. “I am to put my trust in you completely when it comes to how we handle Hoochie. And so, I will.” He patted me on the back. “We’re in this together, of course, but I am to follow your lead if we get in any . . . uh, uncomfortable situations, shall we say?”

  He didn’t wink at me but the way he talked gave me that feeling.

  “This is pretty serious, right?” I asked. “We get caught with the money in Cuba, and it will raise questions we don’t want to answer. And then there’s Hoochie. He’s dangerous. He’s threatened to hurt you or your family. We have to be careful. We have to avoid situations, uncomfortable or not.”

  He frowned.

  “I know all that. I’ve had to deal with Almeida for years. There’s nothing you can say about him that I don’t already know.”

  “Well, maybe you can fill me in. Tell me everything you know about him, even if you think I already know it. I don’t want to be surprised by anything while I’m on this job. Start at the beginning.”

  He shrugged, finished his coffee. Then he talked. He worked his way through his family’s roots in Havana, Kino’s natural athletic ability and how his older brother always looked out for him. Then he gave me the familiar boxing story that Kino had told me, and it was close to the same version. He was adamant that his brother hadn’t killed Claudio. “That was that dumb fucker’s own fault,” he said in Spanish. Not that it seemed to matter. Hoochie had tormented him and Kino for years, u
ntil they finally left Cuba.

  “And now you’re going back, to pay off your debt to a man who blames your brother for his brother’s death. You sure that’s a good idea?”

  He started to answer but was interrupted by an intercom announcement that our flight was boarding. I emptied my coffee cup, swallowed my last bit of Danish, and we made our way to the gate. He never answered my question.

  From my seat on the plane, the José Martí International Airport looked like a set for a low-budget action movie. I imagined the plot featured the latest exploits of a Yankee soldier of fortune planning to outwit the natives and bed the beautiful but secretive French female scientist. The main blue and yellow buildings looked tired, and the terminal itself wasn’t in much better shape.

  We walked from the plane towards a doorway in one of the buildings. The tropical smell and humidity hit me immediately. A clear, pure sky surrounded the shimmering sun. Talkative, laughing airport workers unloaded our luggage and piled it on the tarmac. I wondered if the money was in one of those bags. Soldiers carrying automatic rifles signaled for us to speed it up and get inside.

  The place was drab, very industrial. The comfort of travelers was obviously not a priority of the bureaucrats who ran the place. The restrooms were a disaster, so unkept I almost didn’t use one.

  We found the appropriate line and waited.

  When we finally moved, young Cubans in olive green uniforms checked our papers and asked perfunctory questions. The men were serious and abrupt. The women had short skirts or pants but could be just as serious as the men. I followed Alberto and did what he did. We waited for several minutes for our luggage until the carousel noisily started up and we grabbed our bags. Before I knew quite what had happened, we were outside the terminal looking for Lourdes Rivera.

  I’d made it to Cuba.

  Lourdes showed up about fifteen minutes later in a yellow taxi van driven by Carlito, a clean-shaven, pale man wearing black pants and a white shirt. She was dressed in casual clothes but gave the impression that she had several irons in the fire and not much time for her brother and his unlikely companion. The introductions were quick and elementary. She gave Alberto a sisterly hug before they engaged in small talk about the family. She asked about Kino, and Alberto simply said, “Como siempre, he doesn’t change.”