by Manuel Ramos
Eddie huddled with Johnson in a corner of the room. Johnson was particularly animated, but they whispered so I couldn’t hear what they were saying. It sounded like they were speaking Spanish.
Finally, they nodded their heads in agreement.
“Okay, Gus,” Eddie said. “Here’s the deal. We’re going out to the highway. You’re gonna get us the money. You pull anything hinky while we’re out there and Johnson will shoot you. Understand?”
“Of course,” I answered.
She unlocked the handcuffs. Johnson draped a hood over my head, yanked me to my feet and marched me out of the room. I shook my arms and hands to get the blood circulating again.
We turned almost immediately. I waited while they unlocked another door. Then they hustled me down a corridor, I assumed. The temperature cooled dramatically—we had to be underground. Eventually, another door opened and it was obvious we were outside. I could feel a warm breeze and smell the ocean. We’d walked into a pleasant Cuban night.
I heard a van’s sliding door open, then they tossed me in the back seat. Johnson sat down next to me. I smelled rum and cigarettes. Eddie said something from the front. I guessed she was the driver. The van lurched forward and after several minutes it picked up speed. We jerked and bounced over potholes and cracks in the highway, and I knew we were back on the road to the airport. I thought about what I would do when we stopped at the spot where we’d been attacked, where there was no dead palm tree, no money and no truth to my story.
— Chapter 9 —
JUST ANOTHER HOMIE
Other than what flashed past the taxi windows from the airport, I couldn’t say I’d seen much of Cuba. My trip so far consisted of a bloody ambush, a collision with an ox who was in the wrong place at the wrong time and hours of a sloppy interrogation by a weird woman who most certainly was not any kind of Embassy assistant. Not exactly what I expected when I agreed to be a bag man for Kino Machaco.
It wasn’t rational, but the thing that bothered me the most during that ride in Eddie’s van was that, once again, Corrine was right. Jerome, too. There I was, trussed up like a Christmas tamal on my way to an appointment with the Cuban woods—a bullet in the back of my head once the truth came out. My body would disappear, most likely tossed into the sea, and one day soon, Corrine and Max and Jerome would gather in the Blind Bat to send up a toast to the mystery of Gus Corral, the private eye who vanished in Cuba the very first day he was on the island.
“Pathetic,” Jerome would say.
“Hard-headed,” Corrine would add. “Yo le dije.”
Max would finish the toasts with: “I hope he didn’t suffer.”
Eddie stopped the van, and Johnson lifted the hood off my face. At first, I saw nothing except the black Cuban night. I was disoriented and lost. Gradually, my eyes adjusted. Stars dotted the sky and a glow on the horizon must have been Havana. We were parked on the road I’d turned onto in my failed attempt to escape. Moon shadows of a jungle of trees, ferns and low bushes surrounded me. My other senses slowly returned. I smelled damp earth, a hint of briny air and the musk of a fermented tropical darkness. I heard the buzz of promiscuous insects and felt careless bugs fly against my face and neck. I stepped on soft dirt that might have been mud. Branches and shrubs swayed in a gentle breeze.
Eddie and Johnson turned on high-power flashlights that lit up the ground at our feet.
“Okay, Gus,” Eddie whispered. “You’re on, homie. Lead the way.”
“Through here, I think.”
I trudged along the path the van had made on the gravel road. I whispered only because Eddie had whispered.
“Why you call me homie?” I asked. “You’re absolutely not from my hood.”
Eddie giggled, Johnson snorted.
“We’re both Chicanos, Gus. Chicana in my case.” She talked as we walked along the road. “We’re from the United States, ese. You know what a Chicano is, right? Under different circumstances, we could be in the same crew, hanging out, talking shit.”
I almost laughed, but I kept it to myself. I couldn’t tell if she was serious, which made her an idiot, or if she was awkwardly trying to keep up her cover, which made her dangerous in a stupid kind of way. Just another homie, my ass.
I stumbled a few times and changed direction more than once, but we made it to where I’d run into the ox. The carnage from the wreck was obvious: smashed trees and bushes, pieces of fly-covered ox carcass and what looked like the front bumper of the taxi.
“It’s over there,” I said, pointing to a cluster of short palm trees near a rickety wooden fence.
Johnson poked me in the ribs with a pistol I didn’t know he had. We moved towards the trees, wary of the rough ground and the rocks loosened by the crash.
I walked as slowly as I could. Eddie led the way.
About ten yards from the cluster, Eddie stopped.
“Shut up,” she said, although no one was talking. “What’s that? That noise?”
She turned to look over her shoulder, but kept walking. She raised her gun. I stopped. Johnson grunted.
Eddie’s silhouette jerked in the moonlight. She tripped on a broken branch and squealed as she fell to the ground. Johnson tensed, but then he was surrounded in light.
Men shouted in Spanish.
“¡Suelten sus armas!”
Johnson aimed his gun at the light. A shot exploded, and Johnson tipped over. Eddie got to her knees and aimed her weapon but before she could get off a shot, several men surrounded her, their rifles aimed at her head. She dropped her gun.
I didn’t think, didn’t wait for something else to happen. I ran into the night, not looking back, expecting a bullet in my back at any second. I twisted and turned with the hope that I could somehow lose the armed men under the cover of darkness. I ran low to the ground, wheezing, out of breath. Sticky blood dripped from the bandage still wrapped around my forehead.
I came to a small rise in the earth. I dashed over it but had to stop suddenly when I saw that I was on the bank of an irrigation ditch and my next step would’ve landed me in the murky water. I fell backwards and rolled down the hill.
Off to one side, men shouted. Their boots trampled the undergrowth.
I sat up on my knees and waited for the men and their guns.
From somewhere in the Cuban blackness, I heard Lourdes Rivera say, “You are certainly a lot of trouble, Gus Corral. I hope Kino appreciates what I’ve had to do for you. And I hope you do, too.”
I passed out. My body had reached its limit: the plane trip from the States, the ambush, the ox, my encounter with Eduarda Ventura and Johnson, not to mention no food and sleep deprivation—all of it was enough to make me roll my eyes into the back of my head and slam my face onto the rich, fertile earth.
When I came to, the sun blazed against a clear, almost white sky. I lay on a hammock strung across the porch of a sprawling, open house. The bright blue-green Caribbean rolled up on a sandy stretch of beach about a hundred yards away. The excited rush of the laughter of children mixed in with the soft sounds of the sea and the urgent calls and whistles of low-flying birds.
I rubbed my hand across my forehead. A small bandage had replaced the gauze. My headache was gone. My arms and fingers felt normal, though bruises ringed my wrists. My stomach growled. Mangoes, bananas, a plastic cup and a pitcher of water sat on a small glass table next to the hammock. I sat up, slowly, eased off the hammock and helped myself to two of the bananas. I was about to start on a mango when Lourdes walked onto the porch from the house.
“Good,” she said. “You’re awake. You’ve been out for hours. I hope you feel better.”
Her right arm was in a sling.
“What the hell happened?” I asked. “Who killed Carlito? Shot you? That woman and the Marine? Who are they? Where’s Alberto? What’s going on?”
I was still a bit wobbly and a flash of dizziness made me sit in a wicker chair near the table. I helped myself to a glass of water.
“Yes,” she answered
. “It’s all a mess, isn’t it? But maybe I can explain some of it.”
Her English carried none of the heavy accents of her brothers.
She looked rested and at ease, quite an accomplishment considering she’d recently been shot and tossed around the inside of a van wreck. Her eyes and the strong jawline reminded me of her brothers, but her skin was lighter than Kino’s and her hair not as dark as Alberto’s. The little bit I’d dug up on her before I left the States included that she had been a middle manager in the Havana city government, and that she was on friendly terms with many of the most powerful people in Cuba.
She sat down and waited until I finished my water.
First, she talked about Alberto. He injured a leg in the wreck. Nothing broken. He tore a ligament “or something like that,” she said. He was in a hospital where doctors watched him and were trying to get his right leg to work again.
“But he’s alive,” Lourdes said with a hint of relief.
Then she explained that Eduarda Ventura and Johnson were local thugs—“matones de barrio”—who were well-known to the Havana police.
“Eddie’s not from the States?” I asked. “Johnson’s not a Marine?”
“You didn’t really buy into their masquerade, did you?”
“Not completely, but they sure worked hard to fool me.”
“The so-called Eddie is the wayward daughter of a former administrator in the Bureau of Sanitation Services, a party hack who gave up on her years ago. The man you call Johnson is Mario Faustino, a former farm boy who’s nothing but muscle for hire. He’s shot up now, in a hospital . . . not where we have Alberto.”
I nodded. Finally, something made sense.
“I called an old friend,” Lourdes continued. “Inspector Solís of the Havana police. Told him where he could find the two, neatly wrapped and packaged. They’re always wanted for something, and I hinted they knew about the dead ox, that maybe they could explain what happened to the poor animal. They won’t talk or give up anybody—they’ve learned that lesson, but they’re enough of a menace to themselves that they’ll try to outwit the policeman, and so they’ll sit in the Havana jail for a few days while Solís makes them sweat.”
“He doesn’t care that you were involved?”
She sipped her water. “He didn’t ask. Federico and I are old friends, from school and even before. I’ve helped him in the past, and he’s watched out for me. He’ll let me know if there’s something he needs to ask me.”
“Who were they working for? They seemed to know a lot about my trip to Cuba and the money.”
“I’m not sure. Not for Hoochie, that’s certain. He has no reason to steal money destined for him anyway. Maybe they work for themselves. It was a well-known secret among the people that associate with Ventura and Faustino that a large sum of money was coming to the city to be delivered to Hoochie Almeida. Any number of small-time crooks and conmen might try to get to the money before you can give it to Hoochie.”
“They ambushed the taxi, shot Carlito?”
She shook her head. “They weren’t in on the ambush. They couldn’t finance that kind of action, and they don’t have the cojones for it. They might be involved with the same crew, brought in to get you to give up the money when the ambush didn’t give the expected result. They’ve kidnapped people in the past, so they have some experience that might’ve helped them.”
“You seem to know a lot about these people. What did you say you do for the government?”
She smiled. “I didn’t say, but my position is not with internal security or anything like that. I’m a small wheel in a big machine, a lowly bureaucrat. Officially, I’m a supervisor in the Public Information Sector of Havana’s Media and Communications Department. That’s a fancy name for a person who provides public service data and resource connections to other governmental departments, and to those in the public who might need such information, like farmers, fishermen, tobacco growers. It’s not glamorous but I am doing something helpful. At least, I hope so.”
I didn’t want to be rude, but I couldn’t help myself. I slumped in the chair and rubbed my eyes.
“You’re tired, and hungry. I’ll tell you the rest after you eat and rest some more. Come on in the house. We have food for you.”
I followed her into a large room with a massive mahogany table and more wicker chairs. A few plates of fried fish, chicken, black beans, rice and more fruit waited on the table. A bottle of water and a carafe of what I assumed was wine also sat there. The sliding doors that faced the ocean were open. Lourdes must have believed we were safe in the house, even though we’d been ambushed only a day or two before.
A dark older, woman brought warm bread in a basket. Lourdes called her Alma. Lourdes joined me but no one else sat down, although I did hear adult voices and children whispering in the back rooms. A sultry Latin jazz tune played in the background.
I ate more than I should have, and my stomach rumbled like a squall pounding the Malecón. Lourdes took me to a bedroom in the house and said I should sleep, that I probably still had jet lag. I didn’t argue.
— Chapter 10 —
ISLAND OF SECRETS
When I felt like a human being again—it only took ten more hours of sleep and several plates of rice, beans and plantains—Lourdes finished her explanation.
We sat on a patio under a star-spangled sky. A shimmer of light glowed at the horizon and, although it was late, I didn’t think sleep was an option. I drank Havana Club rum mixed with a few drops of Coca-Cola. Lourdes sipped tonic water with a slice of lime. We were alone. The people who’d been in the house when I regained consciousness had left. Lourdes explained they were cousins and the children of cousins.
“Except for Sánchez, the house guard, I live out here alone. He has a small cottage near the beach. He’s always close.”
As if to convince me, a bearded, stocky man appeared for a second at the edge of the patio. He was older than Lourdes’s other men, but he looked as capable as any of them. He slipped into the trees and plants at the back of the house.
“Other men serve as guards at the front gate. Someone’s there twenty-four seven. It’s the only way to get to the house. We’re safe here.”
She relayed the details of what happened to us, and then to me. Men who worked for her had followed the taxi from the airport, as a precaution, she said. These men were loyal, many had worked for her husband, Emilio Rivera, when he was alive. Emilio had managed all sorts of enterprises, all legal and state-approved, she assured me, such as a tobacco farm, an art gallery and a taxi service. He had a reputation as an honest man, and the government often used him as an unofficial ambassador in situations that couldn’t have an official presence.
“Like what?” I asked.
“Like dealing with the black market. Even the government must accommodate the men, and women, who get their hands on fresh fruit and meat from the countryside, or consumer goods, medicine and tools from places like Mexico and Miami. Sometimes deals must be made. That’s the reality of the consequences of the embargo. Emilio was good at that, and he never cheated anyone. Not the black marketers, not the government.”
When the ambush happened, her men shot at and frightened off the phony traffic cops, then they followed my crazy driving through the countryside. When they found the wreck, they rushed Lourdes and Alberto into their car and took them to Lourdes’ doctor. There was no more room in the car and they left me and my suitcase with one of their men, who hid in the foliage when Eddie and Faustino showed up. He watched as they threw me in the trunk of their car.
Lourdes’ man, Virgilio Licona, recognized Eddie and Faustino and guessed they took me to Faustino’s market in Havana. As Lourdes explained, the market was usually empty of any goods or food.
“Faustino’s no businessman,” she said. “And there are the usual shortages of groceries,” she added.
Apparently, the “clinic” was an unused meat locker in the basement of the market. Virgilio kept surveillance on t
he market, and when he saw Eddie, Faustino and I leave, he notified Lourdes. Then she and her men surprised Eddie and Faustino at the accident site.
“But we don’t know who set up the ambush, or who Eddie and Faustino were working for,” I said.
“I’ll find out. This is Cuba. Havana. Everything’s a secret, and yet nothing’s a secret. People not from Cuba don’t understand that. It’s complicated.”
That was the second time a Cuban wanted me to know that Cuba and Cubans were “complicated.”
“But sometime soon,” she continued, “I will learn the truth of what happened, and the names of the people who killed Carlito. In the end, there will be justice for him, and for you, if that’s what you want. If you’re willing to wait for it.”
“Justice is a concept I’m not that familiar with, if you want to know the truth. I was hired for a specific job, and I intend to complete the work. I’m not catching the next flight, but once the money is delivered, and Alberto and Kino are free of this guy Hoochie, I’ll be leaving your beautiful island. You can do whatever you think is appropriate to whoever is responsible for the ambush and for Carlito’s death. If I’m still here when that happens, and there’s any kind of help I can provide, you’ll get it. But first things first.”
She finished her drink. “In that case, Mr. Corral, I’d better get in touch with Hoochie, so you can finish your job. Leave the rest to me. Unlike you, I know what justice means, and I assure you, there will be justice when this is all over.”
The night closed in on us. The breeze gusted and knocked over one of the wicker chairs on the porch. Lourdes stood up and motioned for me to go in the house. We said goodnight.
An hour later I was stretched out on the bed, still awake, still thinking about Lourdes Rivera and her bodyguard and her honest husband who negotiated with the black market. And her promise that justice would be satisfied. I fell asleep as I thought about my upcoming meeting with Hoochie Almeida and the five hundred thousand dollars I was instructed to give him. Somehow that was more comforting than Lourdes’ belief that on an island of secrets, there were no secrets.