“As does all of Cuba for every one of its citizens. But your defection continues to send a troubling message to your fellow countrymen—that Cuba is not sufficient.”
Prado looked down at the table. “I’m sorry, General. That’s not the message I want to send.” He felt sweat beading up on his forehead. “I want to let the Cuban people know that this is where I want to be. I made a mistake.”
“You most certainly did. But perhaps you can correct it by showing up and making a public apology tomorrow at the Grapefruit Cutters game. The junior team is hosting some American schoolboys and I might let you attend if you promise to renounce your actions.”
Prado nodded and swallowed hard. “I can do that.”
“Good. Now, to the issue at hand. Tell me about the night you had a lapse in judgment and left the island. What did you see?”
“I was on the docks, hiding behind one of the office buildings when I heard two man screaming at one another. The man in the white lab coat tried to shoot the other man, but the other man stepped to the side and wrestled the gun away from him and shot him. Then he pushed him into the water.”
“What happened next?”
“I wasn’t sure if he was dead and I wanted to go help the man out of the water, but the motorboat roared up and I had to leave. I was very conflicted.”
General Machado nodded. “I’m sure you were.”
“I didn’t have enough time to help.”
“Did you happen to recognize the man who shot the man wearing the white lab coat?”
Prado sighed and looked at the floor. “I’ve seen him around before.”
“Do you know his name?”
“No,” Prado lied.
“But you’ve seen him around?”
Prado shifted in his chair. “I’ve seen him at our games and I recognized him in the street.”
“And you don’t know his name?”
“I don’t demand introductions to everyone who recognizes me. I play baseball and that’s part of the job. I sign autographs and smile and wave. But I don’t ask for everyone’s life story.”
“Do you know where he lives?”
“Perhaps he lives near me. I’ve passed him in the streets several times.”
“Can you describe what he looks like?”
“Tall with a beard. Brown eyes. A large nose.”
“Anything else?”
“Not that I can think of. Now can I please see my daughter?”
General Machado folded his arms and leaned back in his chair for a minute before he said anything. “I guess we can make that happen—as long as you read what we give you to say at the game tomorrow.”
“Anything,” Prado said.
“Good,” Machado said as the door behind him opened.
A guard scurried across the room toward Machado and whispered in his ear. His eyes narrowed as he pulled back and glared at the man. “Are you sure?” he said.
The guard nodded.
“If you’ll excuse me, I have some business that I need to attend to,” Machado said.
“Is our deal still on?” Prado asked.
Machado stopped at the door and nodded. “I’ll see you at the Grapefruit Cutters’ game tomorrow. Understand?”
Prado nodded. He’d do whatever it took to see his daughter. He only hoped she hadn’t been shuttled away to an orphanage already.
CHAPTER 28
TORRES THREW BACK HIS BEER BOTTLE and looked at his watch. He couldn’t believe the rollercoaster nature of the last seven days of his life. Already Wednesday, he had no idea what the rest of the day would hold—or tomorrow, for that matter. In a short span, he went from being desperate to being paid huge stacks of money to being debt free to losing everything again. And then losing more than he had.
His boat rocked gently against the Isla de la Juventud docks. The rhythmic thumping served as a stark paradox, reminding him that nothing is that consistent or predictable. Not even when you plan everything out. Something is bound to go awry, especially when you least expect it. He’d thrived on the nature of chaos in the past, but now he wanted something more—he wanted predictability. He wanted to go home at night and not worry about the next henchman who might kick down his door and extract payment in another unpleasant manner. His life felt like it had taken an all-too-common trajectory, one akin to spinning around a toilet until eventually it vanished beneath all the crap.
“How did we get here?” Torres asked aloud.
Ortega snorted and looked toward the mainland of Cuba. If it would’ve made him feel better, he would’ve drawn back and delivered a menacing punch right between Torres’s eyes. But he decided against it and said nothing.
“No, seriously. How did we get here?” Torres asked again.
“Which would make you feel better: Your utter stupidity? Or your supreme stupidity?”
Torres glared at him. “You think this is all my fault?”
“Well, who the hell else did all this? Not me.”
“So, you were just along for the ride.”
“I was along for the redemption story, not the cautionary tale. But it’s too late for that now. I know when I’ve been had.”
Torres stood up. “This isn’t a cautionary tale.” He chunked his beer bottle in the water. “This story hasn’t been finished yet. There’s still time to right the wrongs, still time to redeem something, anything.”
“I wish you’d get on with it then,” Ortega sneered. “How do we even know we’ll get paid?”
“Trust me. We’ll get paid. Nobody will get on this boat without the cash first.”
Torres settled into his seat and watched the fishing boats return to the docks, one by one. Some of them barely had any fish in their nets. Others appeared to have nets that overflowed. But the faces of the fishermen were the same, regardless of the haul. It made no difference to them because success was mitigated by their socialist society. Success was a foreign term, one that didn’t matter. They’d collect their paltry paychecks at the end of each month, net-busting catches or not.
“Let’s go to the field and at least watch some of the game today,” Torres said. “Anything to get our minds off this hell hole of a country.”
Ortega rolled his eyes. “If we lived in this hell hole of a country, we wouldn’t be wondering about how we might get our next meal.”
Torres nodded. “How we get our next meal isn’t nearly as important as how we live our lives, no?”
Ortega took a deep breath and shook his head. “I desire freedom, but I hate living on the edge of hope and despair.”
“That’s the place where most men discover who they really are. If you lived here, you’d never discover it for yourself—you’d be a ward of the state, a slave doing the master’s bidding.”
“But I wouldn’t live in fear.”
“In fear of what? Where your next meal would come from? No, you wouldn’t. But you’d live in fear of where someone might designate you to work or live. Your life would be pliable in the hands of the Cuban government. And good luck with getting anything you want. It’d all be luck of the draw.”
Torres checked his watch again. “Let’s go to the game. This conversation is making me tired.”
“What for? So we can follow the bidding of our masters who live in America? No thanks. I’m just going to sit here and drink.”
Torres stood up. “That’s not the best idea. Suppose someone questions you and decides to arrest you. There won’t be anything I can do about it. Not now, not later.”
“But at least it’d be on my own terms—me sitting here in our boat, drinking a chilled Corona.”
“My boat—and I think the more you drink, the more you lose sight of reality.”
“Maybe so, but I’ll never be somebody’s slave.”
Torres put his hands on his hips. “C’mon, Ortega. Let’s go. Put the bottle down and let’s go to the game. It’s the best place for us to be. If we hang out here all night, someone will undoubtedly get suspicious.”
&
nbsp; Ortega threw his hands in the air. “Whatever, man. I just want to make it out of here alive.”
“I can’t guarantee anything, but I think we’ll have a good time.”
Thirty minutes later, Torres and Ortega were sitting in the stands for the Grapefruit Cutters game, chipping off peach flecks of paint between each pitch by Bartolo Cortéz.
Torres laughed at the team from the United States getting slaughtered after the first inning of play, 7-0.
“Why are they playing this game again?” Ortega asked as soon as the Seattle Prep team secured the final out.
“Good will,” Torres said as a slight grin spread across his face.
“I wish they’d save their good will for something that matters, like a game against a team that’s just as awful as they are.”
“You can’t always get what you want.”
Ortega shot him a look. “Stop right there. Please don’t say, ‘but you get what you need.’ ”
“As long as we get our money, I don’t care what we came for. It’s about following orders and hoping that everything goes as planned.”
“That’s a risky proposition.”
“No riskier than the one we’ve been living. Now, look near home plate. It looks like something is about to happen over there.”
Ortega rubbed his nose and squinted as he peered toward the center of the action. “A speech perhaps?”
“Maybe, but we won’t know for sure until they start talking. But it’s packed.”
“Are you suggesting we should stay?”
“No, I’m suggesting we should be in the best position to catch our enemies doing what they’ve been doing for quite a while now—lying to us and making up falsehoods.” Torres paused. “You wouldn’t know anything about that, would you?”
Ortega rolled his eyes.
“It looks like someone is making an announcement near home plate,” Torres said. “Isn’t that Vicente Prado?”
Ortega turned and looked at him, his eyes wide from excitement. “Please tell me that’s not who we’re smuggling out tomorrow?”
Torres smiled. “I wouldn’t want to spoil the surprise now, would I?”
CHAPTER 29
CAL SHIELDED HIS EYES from the sun as he watched the Seattle Prep team look like the high school team that it was against the Grapefruit Cutters. Even with the rise of travel baseball and its rigorous schedule, the Seattle Prep team appeared to be far behind the Cuban team. With a national baseball program designed to develop high-level stars, any Cuban team would have had its way with even the most talented high school team from the U.S. Cal pondered a slew of good sportswriter words to describe the team from his city—toothless, punchless, overmatched. It didn’t matter. It’s not like he cared who won or lost and likely neither did the vast majority of The Times’ readers. But he felt confident they’d all be interested in the story of Vicente Prado.
He watched Kelly snapping pictures of the game along the first-base side.
Got to keep up appearances.
A picture or two might find its way to into the story he wanted to write, but for now there was work to be done. There was a player who needed his help.
“Hola, amigo,” came a voice from behind Cal, accompanied by a firm slap on the back.
Cal turned around to see Jorge Campos, the official press liaison for Cuban baseball. Campos had corresponded with Cal briefly and welcomed the publicity.
“Buenos días,” Cal said.
“Buenos días, indeed,” Campos said, pointing toward the scoreboard.
Cal pointed at the field. “You know this isn’t fair, right?”
Campos laughed. “A baseball field is the only place in the world where everything is fair for everyone. The ball is round, the field is flat. And everything is the same no matter who you are.”
“Are you suggesting that baseball is a communist sport?” Cal asked with a wink.
A wry grin spread across Campos’ face. “It’s a sport that isn’t a respecter of nations. Anyone can win on a given day.”
“As long as you have good pitching,” Cal interjected.
“Or a lineup that hits the ball.” Campos smiled and nodded at the field.
Cal glanced at the scoreboard. The Grapefruit Cutters’ developmental team led 14-0 in the sixth inning. They had good hitting and pitching.
“So, can we talk?” Cal asked.
Campos nodded. “Sure. What questions do you have for me?”
Cal pulled out his notepad and digital recorder. “Can you describe for me the process by which you develop players here?”
Fifteen minutes—and two more runs—later, Cal got around to the point of his interview.
“So, what happened with Vicente Prado?”
Campos cocked his head to the side. “What do you mean?”
“I mean, why did two men seize him and bring him back to Cuba?”
Campos leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees. “He asked for our help. He wanted to come home.”
“He wanted to come home? Are you serious?” Cal didn’t wait for an answer. “I was with him when two armed men stormed a bus and chased us through the woods until they finally beat up a few FBI guys to take him. I’d hardly consider that just ‘wanting to come home.’ ”
Campos took a deep breath. “Perhaps you can ask him yourself in a few minutes.”
“Prado is here? Today?” Cal asked.
Campos nodded. “And he’s about to make a statement.” He gestured toward home plate, where Prado ambled toward a single microphone stand. “Watch.”
The mic squealed as Prado neared it. He backed away for a moment until the high-pitched sound died off.
“Many things have been said about me recently and I wanted to share with you the truth,” Prado began. His hands shook as he stared at the sheet of paper in front of him.
Cal glanced over at Kelly. He nodded at her, hoping she understood his desire for her to take a few pictures of the former Seafarers’ player. She nodded in return and aimed her lens at Prado.
Prado glanced up and continued reading his statement. “Against all wise counsel, I recently left Cuba to pursue an opportunity to play professional baseball in the United States of America. However, after arriving there, I discovered that it was not what I expected. The Cuban National Series is a far more competitive league—and Cuba is my home. I regret that I even entertained the idea of leaving. I humbly apologize to you, the fans of Isla de la Juventud, and hope that you can forgive me.”
The fans in the park stood up and applauded. Prado kept his head down as he walked back to the dugout, only looking up and waving to acknowledge the crowd.
Once Prado walked down the dugout steps and disappeared from sight, Cal turned to Campos. “Is there any way I can interview him for my story?”
Campos shrugged. “Perhaps I can arrange something before you leave. How long do you intend to stay here?”
“We’ll be on the island through Friday evening. Then we take a ferry back to the mainland.”
“Very well, then. I’ll make arrangements. I have your contact information and I’ll let you know if I can make that happen. We definitely want Prado’s side of the story to get out, not the lies being spread by the American media.”
Cal clenched his fists and kept his mouth shut.
No need to waste my breath arguing with a man who toes the party line.
Campos stood up. “Let me know if you need anything else while you’re here, Mr. Murphy.”
Cal stood up and thanked him before Campos walked away.
After the game ended, Kelly joined Cal in the stands before heading for the exit. He glanced back at the scoreboard. It was a Cuban rout, 22-1.
“At least Seattle Prep scored,” he said.
“On an error in the ninth,” Kelly snapped.
He leaned in close to Kelly. “And those Cuban kids are probably getting torn a new one for giving up that run as we speak.”
As they reached the street, a man came up behind
them. “Don’t turn around. Just keep walking,” he said. “We don’t need to draw any suspicion since you’re being watched.”
Kelly instinctively started to turn before Cal grabbed her arm. “Keep your eyes straight ahead, honey, and don’t look back.”
They joined a mass of other fans at a nearby bus stop. That’s when the man pressed in closer.
Cal glanced at the man out of the corner of his eye. “Who are you?”
The man tugged on his fedora, pulling it lower over his face. “I’m going to follow you to your hotel. We need to talk.”
CHAPTER 30
PRADO STARED AT THE HANDCUFFS hanging from his wrists. Just a day earlier he seemed to be back in good graces with government officials. He read the lies they forced him to say. He played the part of the prodigal son, returned home from his foolish wanderings. He danced when they said dance. But his shackles belied that story on this Thursday morning. The truth was he was a prisoner and wondered if he’d ever really be free again.
He watched the steam rise from the cup of coffee in front of him. He didn’t know who put it there, but he needed it—though he would’ve preferred something much stronger, even if it was only ten o’clock. Before he could pick it up, another hand swooped in and snatched it up. It belonged to General Machado.
“You weren’t going to drink my coffee, were you?” Machado asked. He smiled and winked at Prado before he took a sip.
Prado slumped in his seat and sighed.
Machado sat next to him. “Now, all you need to do is tell the judge everything you told me—along with the murderer’s name—and you can be on your way.”
“But I don’t know his name.”
Machado shook his head. “I think you do.”
Judge Pedro Cabrera waddled to his seat and sifted through several documents on his desk. He took a deep breath and then glanced around the room. Prado had never seen so many Cuban government officials concentrated in one place, other than at televised national events. He recognized several of the generals, including a few who’d risen through the ranks over the years under Castro. It was a who’s who for Cuban government and military.
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