The Golden Havana Night

by Manuel Ramos

  “The senior centers I’ve looked at are busy with old people . . . Latino, white, you name it. So, I don’t think that’s it. They’re not necessarily exercising, but they’re involved, know what I mean? What you said about not knowing about the classes, that might be something. My doctor didn’t say nothing about the Parkinson’s Association and its classes when he gave me the diagnosis. Or he might have said something, but I was still too shocked, or in denial, to hear him. I kind of blanked out after he said ‘Parkinson’s.’ Anyhow, I had to dig into the Internet to make that connection. But once I did, it was all there. Class schedules, fees. Todo. Everything I needed to know.”

  “Maybe you should spread the word.”

  “Maybe. I’ll think about that.”

  I knew he would, and if he came up with a plan, I’d help however I could.

  “Enough of that. More on your tropical nightmare.”

  He already knew the broad outline of my time on the island. I’d given that to him on the phone when I called with my new cell. I never found the phone I carried to Cuba. Our face-to-face was meant to fill in the details so he could tell me what he thought about the drama.

  “Kino called earlier from Phoenix, said that the police, meaning Detective Solís, put the blame for everything on the two lowlifes who tried to convince me that they were with the U.S. Embassy. Apparently, they escaped from the Havana jail, where they’d been on ice.”

  “They were in jail?”

  “Yeah. Since the night I took them on a wild goose chase to where I ran into that damn ox and Lourdes’ men surprised us.”

  Jerome laughed.

  “But then they escaped? From a Cuban jail?”

  “That’s the story. Funny how that worked out.”

  We both shook our heads.

  “It is what it is. Lourdes passed the news on to Kino, then he called me. Solís trapped the pair two nights ago in a warehouse by the docks. In the shoot-out—surprise—Eddie and her partner, Mario Faustino, ended up dead. I don’t feel too bad about that outcome. That woman wanted to hurt me.”

  “So, that’s it?” Jerome asked. “Everything tied up neat and sweet, with two fall guys ready-made?” He grinned like one of Corrine’s Day of the Dead sugar skulls.

  “What can I say? Justice was served, apparently. Solís’ theory . . . the one he laid out for Lourdes . . . is that the two knuckleheads heard about this big chunk of change coming from the States. Maybe not much by U.S. criminal standards, but a pretty big deal in Cuba. Eddie and Faustino worked for Hoochie in the past, and Solís thinks someone from Hoochie’s crew tipped them off, probably the guy who shot Hoochie and then was shot himself.”

  “Could be. Nothing like half-a-mil to test one’s loyalty.”

  “There’s more. The genius who called herself Eddie decided she wanted a piece of the money when she learned it was coming. No, that’s not right. She wanted it all. She and Faustino set up the ambush, my kidnapping, the hit on Hoochie, even the torching of Lourdes’ house.”

  “Busy little lowlifes.”

  “For sure. Like they say in Cuba: ‘It’s complicated’. If Eddie and Faustino put it together, they lost control quickly. Nothing worked. The ambush killed our driver and wounded Lourdes and Alberto, but the thieves didn’t touch the money. They grabbed me and did their silly performance, but . . . ”

  “No money.”

  “Correcto. Their last gasps were the attacks on Hoochie and Lourdes’ house.”

  “That part I don’t get,” Jerome said. “Why go after Lourdes’ house? She wasn’t there, and the money was being delivered to Hoochie. They had a hitman in place. What’s the point?”

  “With Eddie and Faustino, no telling, but my guess is they were being extra careful. What if Lourdes didn’t have the money when we met up with Hoochie? Maybe she had to feel him out first. Make sure she could trust him.”

  “Your friends, Eddie and Mario, target her place too, in case she left the money in her house when she was supposed to be paying off Hoochie? Nothing like overkill.”

  “I tell you, they were idiots. But that overkill resulted in Lourdes losing a good man that night. Sánchez was more than just her house guard. She took it hard.”

  “And still no money for the bad guys.”

  His left foot rhythmically tapped the floor. It didn’t look like he was aware of the movement.

  “It’s back in Kino’s bank account?” he asked.

  “He didn’t tell me, except to say that it had been returned. He thanked me for my services and had his agent deliver my paycheck. That’s sitting in my checking account as we speak.”

  “He paid you for this?”

  I assumed he was joking. “You’re still not funny.”

  “Whatever. How’s the ballplayer doing? He still uptight about his brother’s fuck-ups?”

  “Hard to say. He sounded okay, almost. Talked like it was just another telenovela.”

  “He has to be pleased with the way it came down. The bad guy is gone, forever, and the money is back in the States. The heat’s off him, his brother and his sister. All it cost was what he paid you, peanuts in the big picture, considering what was at stake.”

  “People were killed, Jerome.”

  “You think he’s affected by that? I’d bet your paycheck that Kino Machaco didn’t know any of the folks who bought it while you were in Cuba. Collateral damage. I’m not criticizing him, just saying that’s the way it is.”

  “Could be. But he’s having a terrible spring training. Guess there’s speculation that he’s injured somehow, so probably no connection to Cuba. Guy’s not hitting anything.”

  “But he still gets paid. Right?”

  “You know how it works.”

  “Like everything else. People with money make money. People without end up paying.”

  He’d said that before, so I didn’t respond.

  “Tell the truth,” he said, “I’m more concerned about you. You saw a lot of action in Cuba: you were sick, people dying, bloody shootings, your fun time with Eddie and Faustino. You sure you’re okay?”

  “Yeah, why wouldn’t I be? You and I have been through worse.”

  “Maybe. It can add up, though, then hit all at once. You ought to take a vacation, get some down time.”

  “As if. Nah, bro, I’m good.”

  “If you say so.”

  “Right. No worries.”

  He adjusted his posture by straightening his back.

  “Seriously,” I asked, “what do you think of all this?”

  He grabbed his left thigh with both of his hands and the tapping foot stopped.

  “It kind of makes sense, the way the detective is thinking. Eddie and Mario might not have been Bonnie and Clyde, but then, even Bonnie and Clyde ended up in the same place as your friends. Dead from cop bullets. I’m saying it could’ve gone down that way.”

  “But?”

  “But I doubt it. That’s too much drama, too many details to sweat, just for a big payday. Your friends might have been attracted to the bag of money, and they might have seriously thought about jumping in after it. But when they realized they had to actually plan something, and they had to take on this Hoochie guy and his organization, well, I get the impression they most likely weren’t up to it.”

  “I know what you mean.”

  Years before, when Jerome and I were different people, we talked a few times about a “big job,” a heist that would set us up for life. I saw then that he was meticulous, smart, and that if anyone could pull off a so-called big job, it was Jerome. He was the type of man who could’ve taken the money from Lourdes, Hoochie or me, and there wouldn’t have been any dead drivers or house guards, and no shoot-out with cops in a dark and isolated warehouse. Eddie and Faustino were not Jerome.

  He continued. “The police were pressured by the government. They needed to clean up the mess quickly, especially with the looser restrictions on travel to Cuba. Too many tourist dollars and euros that might vanish if Cuba’s seen as
a violent, crime-ridden island.”

  “They used what they had on hand: Eddie and Faustino.”

  “Yup. They got you and Lourdes out of the way, to avoid embarrassing questions or, worse, a dead American or dead pillar of the community. And you know there was more going on than you could see. It’s almost too personal.”

  “Yeah, I got that, too. It wasn’t only about the money. These people had a long history of bumping into each other’s lives since they were kids. Up close and intimate. I think personal had to be a big part of it, whatever it was.”

  “Well, there you go,” he said.

  “There I go where?”

  Jerome stood up and slipped into his red nylon jacket that made him look like Sal Mineo from a 1950s delinquent movie. A grandfatherly Mineo. He did it awkwardly, with some real difficulty. He had to tug on the jacket to straighten it over his torso. But I knew I shouldn’t offer to help.

  “There’s two base reasons for the shit that happens between people, Gus. Well, three, really. I always overlook the addiction to power, mainly because that’s something I’ve never been interested in, at least interested enough to risk another prison stretch.”

  He raised the collar of his jacket to complete the effect.

  “You know this how?”

  “Hard experience. I’m like the insurance guy on TV. I know a thing or two because I’ve seen a thing or two.”

  That made me smile. “And the other two reasons?” I asked, although I thought I knew what he was going to say.

  “First. Follow the money. Who wanted it more than anything?”

  “And?”

  “Love’s a bitch.”

  — Chapter 19 —

  SCORPION WINGS

  That evening, I made my way to Corrine’s house. It was a trip I wasn’t all that eager to take. She’d invited me for dinner and to “talk about something you started.” She didn’t explain, but I accepted the invite. I had to. She was my older sister, the head of the family, my savior—more than once. She had a right to know what her way-cray bro was up to, and to chew my ass out, if that was necessary. I had to believe it was for my own good.

  Besides, she was bigger than me.

  I lived in a stucco house in Wheat Ridge, on the western edge of Denver. It was about twenty minutes from Corrine’s when traffic was decent. Denver proper had gentrified itself out of my price range, and I figured that was Denver’s loss. At my first opportunity I moved to the rather static municipality that mixed with ever-growing Denver like balsamic vinegar on olive oil. The house was small, drafty and creaky. The front yard was about three feet wide, and the backyard didn’t exist because the landlord, Rudy Padilla, affectionately known as “Rude the Crude” to his many tenants, kept a locked storage unit at the rear of the house that extended from the kitchen window to the alley fence. When I moved in six months before, Rudy told me to never mess with his shed. I didn’t intend to, and I let him know, but he growled like he didn’t believe me.

  The house wasn’t much, but it was a giant step for me. I’d been crashing on a cot in Corrine’s cluttered basement since I’d been released from prison. Thankfully, that part of my life was over. My detective business had taken hold and business improved each month. As I said before, most of my work was grunt level, certainly nothing glamorous. It was all good, though. I paid my rent when it was due, I drove a used Ford pickup, a dozen years old but in good shape, and I no longer had to worry about making life less than pleasant for Corrine, who perched upstairs like a wary momma cat guarding her babies. I was on my own.

  Corrine and I talked briefly on the phone when I’d returned from Cuba, and she knew a sanitized version of my adventure, but I guessed that she wanted to get the full story and then rip into me with “told-you-so” and “you-never-learn.”

  I pushed her doorbell button right at six-thirty. She let me in and I smelled roast chicken, fresh frijoles and garlic. She gave me a nod of the head as a greeting and I followed her to the living room, where I encountered the first surprise of the night.

  Sofía Santisteven, otherwise known as Soapy, rested on Corrine’s couch. She held a glass of wine and looked very comfortable. A plastic red portfolio covered with skateboarding stickers rested against the side of her leg.

  Soapy must have been all of twenty-three years old. I’d met her when I sat in on a computer course at the Community College of Denver, shortly after I walked out of the pen. She taught the class even though she was younger than most of her students. It was basic techie stuff, but it was apparent that she and computers had a special relationship. And besides, I needed the basic stuff.

  In class, she was funny and patient. She explained the course content in ways that even I could understand, the guy who had trouble with pocket calculators in my North High algebra class. Like the ancient song says: “Don’t know what a slide rule is for.”

  She laughed in my face when I asked her out. “I don’t date my students,” she said. She turned her back and packed her laptop. “Or ex-cons,” she added.

  Despite her harsh put-down, we gradually became friends when she saw that I was serious about learning what she taught.

  Since then, I’d hired her a few times when my clients required her type of help. She worked with me on cases involving identity theft, computer scams and missing persons. I hadn’t asked her out again.

  “Hey, Soapy,” I said. “Never would’ve guessed that you’d be here. In fact, I’m surprised you even know my sister.”

  “Small world, eh?”

  She moved over on the couch to make room for me.

  “We met a while back, right when you left the country,” Corrine said. “All because of you, Gus.”

  I sat down on the end of the couch and waited for an explanation.

  “Sofía called me,” Corrine said. “She said she was working for you, something you left with her before your trip. A client you didn’t have time for, and you thought she had the skills to help the guy.”

  “Leo Hudgens,” Sofía said. “You remember him?”

  I nodded. I’d put the man behind the name out of my thinking while I was busy in Cuba, but as soon as Sofía mentioned him, his ugly story flooded back with more details than I needed or wanted.

  “The homeless ex-cop,” I said. “He wanted to clear his conscience about the death of a kid that he and his ex-partner were involved in, years ago. He asked me to track down the partner, and . . . bring him in, I guess. Yes, I remember. But what’s that got to do with you, Corrine?”

  Corrine got a worried look on her face. “Just a sec,” she said. She rushed into the kitchen.

  “I checked out Hudgens before I talked with him,” Sofía said. “He had a good record as a cop before he teamed up with Alito, before the death of Leon Parker. He was heavily involved in community affairs.”

  She opened the plastic envelope and pulled out a file folder. She scanned it, then handed it to me.

  “He volunteered for programs with teens, gang members, old folks, schools. He was into a lot of stuff. Good stuff. I felt sorry for the guy when I saw how it turned for him, how he wasted his life.”

  The file folder held several loose pages of notes, copies of documents and email messages. Everything was dated, and most was in chronological order. Soapy’s handwritten entries were neat and precise.

  Corrine reappeared. She dried her hands with a kitchen towel. My sister gave me the second surprise of the night.

  “I’ve known Leo for years,” Corrine said. “He and I worked together on an after-school basketball project for middle-schoolers from Globeville, Swansea and Elyria. He was a good man: honest, devoted to the kids, hard-working. We did some good things together. So much so that I forgot he was a cop. It was irrelevant.”

  That statement threw me. Corrine and police officers did not get along. That was a certainty. And here she was, practically calling him a friend.

  “But he dropped out of everything after the incident with Parker and Delly Thomas. I hadn’t seen hi
m since then. Not until Soapy got us together.”

  “You talked with Hudgens?” I asked.

  “Several times,” Corrine answered. “We’ve been working hard on finding his old partner, Alito. A lot of hours, Gus.”

  “Where are you doing all this work?”

  “I have a key to your office, remember? And sometimes we get together here, in my house.”

  “Really?”

  “Yes. You might want to know that he spent a night or two here, sleeping in your old bed in the basement.”

  “Damn.”

  “Like I said. We have a lot of hours on this. You owe me.”

  “Take that to your old pal, Hudgens. Far as I know, working for him is pro bono. Free.”

  “He’s got money,”

  “I forgot. His stash in the plastic bag. He hasn’t shot it all into his arm?”

  “He’s trying to maintain,” Soapy said. “Corrine’s helping him clean up, in all ways that clean can mean.”

  “Forgive me if I’m not impressed. The guy killed a kid and then covered it up. He might have been a good policeman once, but he ended up being a dirty cop. You realize that if we really help him and he comes clean, as you say, he’s going to prison. Your helping him means his days outside are numbered. And then he’ll be an ex-cop in prison. You know what that means. Does he understand that?”

  “We talked about the consequences,” Corrine said. “He’s reconciled to his fate. He needs this, Gus. The accident ruined his life. I’m going to help him.”

  “Accident? Is that what he calls it?”

  “That’s what I call the death of Leon Parker,” Corrine said.

  That’s when the third surprise hit me, and I grasped what had happened. My world had changed, and I almost missed my cue. Instead of Corrine rapping my knuckles because of my misadventure in Cuba, I was the one who could lay out the negatives of her planned actions. I could warn her, play the role of younger but wiser brother. I almost felt warm and cuddly. I would be the one down the road who would be entitled to say, “I told you so.”

  “You want to help,” I said. “I get it. You’ll do what you can. I turned him over to Soapy, so I must be willing to do something for him. But he’s not sleeping at my place, and he’s paying our expenses, at least. If he doesn’t turn himself in, whether we find Alito or not, I will. He’s going to face up to what he did, one way or the other.”