The Golden Havana Night

by Manuel Ramos

  She handed me a collection of envelopes, large and small, wrapped with a rubber band.

  “That crazy postman left all your mail with the temp they had in here Friday. I didn’t make it in because of the snow. Damn car wouldn’t start. Not sure why he gave us your mail. By chance, did you get any of ours?”

  “I don’t think so, but let me check. Come in.”

  She walked in and looked around the office with an expression I couldn’t decipher. It might have been as innocent as “So this is what a private eye’s office looks like.” But probably not.

  I went through the mail on my desk. No envelopes addressed to the New Age Collection and Debt Management Service.

  “Sorry, nothing for you guys.”

  “Okay. I was hoping you’d say that. Like I said, we’ve already got too much work.”

  She made it as far as the door, then turned around.

  “My name’s Lorraine. Lorraine Winston.”

  “Nice to meet you, Lorraine. I’m Gus…”

  “Gus Corral,” she said. “I know.”

  She strolled down the hallway. She looked back one more time, then entered her office.

  Any other day I might’ve followed her and asked if she wanted to take a break, get some coffee, maybe a beer. But one of the letters in the bunch she gave me grabbed my complete attention. It was covered with unusual stamps and Spanish words. The return address was for Lourdes Rivera of La Habana, Cuba.

  Querido Agustín—Gus,

  This letter must be a surprise. I hope you are doing well, especially after all the trouble we ran into here in Cuba. If you ever return, and I hope you do, I promise I will show you the true heart of Cuba—the music, art and beauty of the people, the things we had no time for when you were here.

  Professor Raúl Suárez of the Language Institute is writing this in English for me, to make sure you can read what I want to say. He is a trusted old friend. Esteban Sánchez was his brother-in-law. I am sure you remember Esteban.

  I write to tell you what has happened since you returned to your home. I think you have a right to know.

  The official version, from the policeman, Federico Solís, is that the two criminals, Eduarda Ventura and Mario Faustino, planned to steal the money that was to be paid to Miguel. You must know by now they were killed by the police, and for Federico and the Havana police, that is the end of the matter. No one else has been arrested, and since the money was never actually stolen, the government officials are agreed that is the end. Havana is once again considered safe for businesses and tourists. The shootings and killings have been labeled as “aberrations” committed by a small terrorist element of anti-revolutionaries that have been eliminated.

  That is supposed to make us feel secure.

  I have started to rebuild the beach house. I stay in an apartment in the city, but I miss the beautiful evenings by the shore and the quiet mornings I once took for granted. It will be several months, however, before my home will be ready. The construction and planning require all my attention, but they help to keep my mind off the terrible things that happened because of Alberto’s money. I can only hope that Alberto has finally learned something, and that he never puts himself or Kino, or me, in such a situation again.

  Perhaps the biggest surprise for you, and you might not believe me, is that Marita and I have drawn closer together. We did have Miguel in common. That may sound strange to you, but I am not ashamed to admit that I loved him at one time, and it is obvious that Marí still does. But her relationship with Miguel was very complicated, and when he was killed, she was planning to leave him. His death caused her much guilt and grief, and only recently has she become more like her old self.

  Marí feels so much better that she is visiting relatives in Miami. She left this morning and plans to be in the United States for a month. From my past experiences with my letters to Joaquín and Alberto, you could receive this letter in Denver three weeks or a month after I mail it. She may be back here by the time you read this.

  I think that is everything. Joaquín informed me that he is eager for the new season to begin, and, as always, all eyes in Cuba will be on him, although we are careful about expressing too much admiration for such a well-known defector. I wish him well. Will you have a chance to watch him play?

  A thousand gratitudes for everything. I am happy I met you. Perhaps we will meet again one day.

  Hugs and affection,

  Lourdes

  I read the letter twice. Lourdes had made me feel better. I had a certain cariño for the woman. She had affected me with her intelligence and honesty.

  Lourdes was an incredibly strong person. I, too, was happy we had met, regardless of the circumstances. She had more going for her than she let on, that was apparent. She was not a simple bureaucrat, as she tried to convince me when I recuperated at her beach house. Her influence, connections and wealth meant she was someone important in the Cuban social order, most likely to the Cuban government. I hoped for her sake that Havana was as safe and secure as the propagandists promised, and that life would return to normal for her, whatever that truly meant on her island of secrets.

  I left the office with the letter in my hands. Lorraine was not at her desk, so I spent the rest of that beautiful Sunday walking and running in the sunshine, breathing the crisp air and letting my body and mind heal in the realization that life was good, or bearable at least for the time being.

  — Chapter 24 —

  STORMY MONDAY

  The weather hopped on a roller coaster fueled by global warming, and Monday landed gray and cold. On again-off again snow mixed with rain as if a solid decision about the season had not been made. One day sunshine, next day sleet, then sunshine. The nine o’clock morning rush-hour drive into SoBo and my office was slow and frustrating. Nothing new.

  I steered around impatient drivers who somehow believed that their rides were ice-proof, transplants who acted as though they’d never seen snow and natives who never learned how to drive as defensively as I had. The Wild West survived on Colorado’s packed freeways and in Denver’s congested rush hours, more so when snow fell. In my pickup, I often felt separate from the craziness. Until someone tapped my rear end and then flipped me off, or went speeding by, spraying slush in a lane that didn’t exist.

  The baseball game on Friday would most likely begin with fans wearing shorts and sunscreen. By the seventh inning we’d be in coats, even a few parkas. April baseball in Colorado could be a challenge, especially for someone like me who could take it or leave it.

  I played with the idea that I’d accept Lourdes’ offer and return to Cuba, maybe in the fall. Kino’s check sat safely in my office account, and I still had a few hundred left of the upfront expense money. I could pay rent for a couple of months, get new tires for the pickup and look for a suit that would enhance my P.I. image but not be too out of place in the dark and grimy halls of the Lewis Building. Something that might impress Lorraine Winston, a nice hat, maybe a fedora. And then a visit to Lourdes and Havana. Would Lorraine want to join me?

  I was way ahead of myself, but it didn’t matter. I’d talked with Lorraine once. We’d made a connection, slim but with potential, and I thought she was interested. I was certainly interested in her. Aloof and serious women held a certain attraction for this Northside homeboy, although I’d rarely cracked the mystery of an intriguing smile or fulfilled the promise of a sweet laugh. If I was going to dream, make it big. Someone said that once, but I didn’t remember who.

  The radio in my pickup was a good one, and I often listened to oldies or country music as I drove. That morning the dial was on the news station. I left it there, in case the flurry turned into a full-frontal storm that the weather crew somehow missed. Hey, it’d happened from time to time.

  Maybe the president would provide more laughs. One thing about that guy, he was great for gallows humor, even though he didn’t know what that meant.

  But the main story was about another shooting on I-25. That morning
, around seven, before the storm hit, the I-25 shooter had killed a motorist in a snarl of traffic at the Briargate Street entrance to the freeway in far north Colorado Springs. The police were concerned that the shooter had escalated his attacks. A high-powered rifle was the killing weapon, rather than a .22 handgun. The motorist was shot as he waited to merge onto the highway, not when he was already on it. This was no drive-by. It appeared the shooter had set up a hidden outpost, more like a hunting blind, on a short rise about a hundred yards from the freeway. The shooter had chosen the perfect spot for his killing nest. It was protected from the back by a noise-deflecting wall and from the front by bushes and boulders. He could pick off drivers at will as they waited in traffic. The police were surprised that only one commuter had been shot.

  “There were dozens of drivers and passengers sitting at that entrance,” the police spokesman said. “He must have been scared away by something after his first shot. It could have been a massacre.”

  One more threat to worry about.

  The news story finished with the usual notice. “Identity of the victim has been withheld pending notification of family and next-of-kin.”

  I blanked out the rest of the news and focused on staying on the street. The tires of the pickup were worn, almost bald, and I had little to no traction on ice. I almost lost control a couple of times. Whatever ambition I’d started the day with had been knocked out of me by the time I finally pulled into my parking space.

  Lorraine sat at her desk when I walked by. I stomped snow and mud off my boots and shook out my coat. She heard me and looked up.

  “You’re late,” she said. She wasn’t particularly happy to see me.

  “I almost wrecked my truck,” I said. “It’s bad out there.”

  “You should take the bus, like me.”

  “That’s a thought,” I answered.

  I was about to ask her about her Sunday night when she blurted out, “There’s a girl waiting for you. She had a key, so I guess it’s okay that she’s there.” Lorraine acted hurt about something, but there was no good reason.

  Jesus, I said to myself. Now what?

  “Uh, thanks,” I mumbled.

  Soapy had made herself at home in my office. She had papers arranged across my desk and on the chairs. Her laptop was plugged in and running a spreadsheet. She stared intently at a piece of paper that she held close to her face.

  “What is all this?” I asked.

  “You asked me to look at the ballplayer’s finances, and the businesses he shares with his brother. You remember that, right?”

  “Sure. But that was before I went to Cuba, for background on what I was getting into. I thought you already gave me what you had. And anyway, that job is finished.”

  “You never said to quit looking, so I’ve been at it. You want me to stop, I will, but there are a few interesting things that you should probably know.”

  The thing about Soapy that I often forgot was that she was still a young person, just a few years past being called a child. Her self-confidence, cockiness really, around computers and all other things techie made her appear older than she was. But occasionally she didn’t have enough experience to understand the big picture. She sometimes faltered without direct, clear and watchful supervision. That was one reason she kept digging into the financial life of Kino long after I needed such information.

  “I don’t know if I can pay for this,” I said. “Damn, how many hours you put in?”

  “I haven’t run totals yet, but don’t sweat it, Sherlock.”

  “You been talking to Jerome?”

  “Your friend? Why do you ask that?”

  “Nevermind. Like I said, what’s this gonna cost me?”

  “You need to know this stuff. I think you’ll like it.”

  “I’ll like it?”

  “Well, at least you’ll be glad you got it.”

  She was right. Well, maybe not “glad” exactly. The information didn’t make me happy, but it went a long way to shedding light on the darker corners of the Cuban trip. I worked out a payment plan with Soapy—it seemed only right—and together we wrote up a report that I would use when I met with Kino in Ben Sardo’s office. As she was leaving, I gave her a big hug. That’s when Lorraine walked out of her office and saw Soapy and me in an embrace. Lorraine hustled down the hallway without a word. Soapy followed her, whistling a nonsensical melody that must’ve made sense to a mind that could create computer games from scratch and uncover encrypted secrets never meant for exposure to light.

  Mondays can be hard in any business. They’re always hard in mine—that’s a sure bet. Shit often happens on weekends. Monday mornings are hell on doctors, teachers, lawyers and private eyes.

  I had to come to grips with the fact that I, and I alone, was totally responsible for the success or failure of my business. If I worked long hours, brought in new business every week and by myself accomplished what three other investigators could do, I might break even at the end of the year, after my big payday from Kino Machaco ran out. It would be close.

  After Soapy left, my phone wouldn’t quit ringing. A trio of rude lawyers wanted to know why I hadn’t filed my proofs of service that they needed for their subpoenas, court complaints and discovery requests. A camera shop wanted to know when I would pick up the black-and-whites they’d developed on a rush basis, which I’d forgotten about. The bill was way past due. One client wanted a refund because she and her husband had reconciled and so it didn’t matter anymore that he’d cheated on her. Another fired me because the lie detector test I’d administered to his ex-business partner was ambiguous about the partner’s honesty, a risk I warned him about the first day he talked to me. And on and on.

  Lorraine didn’t make it any easier. I noticed her occasionally, usually when I walked past the collection agency’s door while she sat at the receptionist’s desk. Most often, all I caught was a glimpse of her profile, but that day it felt like she was everywhere I looked: down the hall, in the conference room, on her way to the restroom, downstairs on break. I tried to start a conversation, but she put me off with weak excuses about her need to get back to work. I hardly knew the woman and she was already giving me the brush-off. I finally decided that the mental wear-and-tear wasn’t worth it. If I’d done something offensive, I would’ve apologized, but I couldn’t come up with anything other than a few impure thoughts I’d had about her. She couldn’t know about those, right? They were only venial sins anyway.

  I finished the day doing leg work. One of my clients owned a grocery store in the Globeville neighborhood. He was about ready to throw in the towel, file bankruptcy and cut his losses. But before he pulled the plug, he wanted to make sure there weren’t any plans to develop the low-income neighborhood where he did business.

  This was a new trend in Denver. The hell-bent gentrification of several areas of the city had changed the character of many neighborhoods. Poor businessmen suddenly owned valuable real estate. If their timing was right, they could cash in by selling to a marijuana company or a condo designer or a restaurant chain. If the timing was off, they’d sell for less than fifty cents on the ultimate dollar. My guy wanted me to check corporate filings, property sales in his community, secretary of state registrations and so on. I might have been able to do what he wanted by computer, but I had to get away from the buzzing phone and Lorraine’s stonewalling. I trooped downtown and pestered clerks and secretaries until the relevant government offices closed and I was told to leave.

  Then I went home, had a Swanson’s Salisbury Steak frozen dinner, watched a rerun of Law & Order and again slept on the recliner in my living room.

  — Chapter 25 —

  RUBY TUESDAY

  Marita Valdés wore a ruby red ski jacket with fur lining. Her lipstick matched her jacket, which matched her western boots. Unlike the last time I’d seen her, she did not have red eyes. She smiled when I answered the knock on my front door. It took me a second, but eventually I smiled back at her. It was six-thirty in the
morning. A weird morning.

  As if she had planned the coordination, the eastern sky glowed with a warm reddish tint. The snow and rain were gone but the air was frigid. When I opened the door, my face felt like it’d been slapped by a cold and icy rag.

  I was dressed in the sweat pants and sweatshirt I’d slept in. The clothes I’d worn on Monday were piled on the kitchen floor. I hadn’t showered or shaved.

  And yet, she didn’t seem disappointed.

  “Agustín!” she said, still smiling.

  She stepped into my house, hugged me and kissed my cheek. Her subtle perfume surrounded me. I remembered the first time I’d seen her, in Cuba, and the same sensation crept up my spine. Her beauty had stopped me in my tracks. Although Lourdes and I were paying off a Cuban sleaze ball, and bullets flew within minutes of meeting Hoochie and Marita, her image stayed with me almost as long as the memories of the dying Hoochie and the hitman’s blood on the restaurant stairs.

  That image of Marita gradually faded away, replaced with the sad and exhausted woman who tried to drown herself in the Bay of Pigs. She’d lost her glimmer and poise. That’s how I saw her when I told my Cuban story to Jerome and my sisters. The woman at my front door on that moody Tuesday morning, though, was not the same person. Beautiful Marita was back.

  “Come in,” I said, resigned to my current state of appearance.

  She surveyed the house and her face didn’t give her away. The living room was furnished with an old couch, torn recliner, a television screen on the wall and not much else. Water stains spotted the ceiling. The kitchen was a disaster. Towels and underwear sat folded on a night stand next to the bathroom door. She must’ve thought that something was seriously wrong with me. How could a North American yanqui live in such conditions?

  I was acutely aware of my bare feet and the sleep in my eyes. I started to stammer small talk, when she shook her head.

  “I am sorry to interrupt,” she said. “I owe you an explanation. On impulse, I caught an overnight flight from Miami. I had planned to see Joaquín and Alberto, but they are out of town. That was always the idea, but I am a few days early. We never set an exact date. I want to see the mountains and your beautiful city. Yesterday, before my flight, I spoke with Joaquín’s agent, el señor Sardo. He’s the one who gave me your address, for your office, too. But I think I made a mistake. You don’t look happy to see me. Perhaps it’s too early? I should have waited to meet you at your office. And of course, I should have called first. I’m sorry. I’ll leave. My driver can take me to the hotel.”