Comrades in Miami

by Jose Latour

  “It’s over,” Victoria said, folding the newspaper and dropping it on the floor. “Let’s take the rest of the day off. Before going to bed tonight, we’ll check the plan for tomorrow. Now let’s forget everything, okay?”

  “Okay,” giving her high fives.

  After purchasing basic beachwear and sunscreen, around three in the afternoon they went to the pool and reclined on loungers under a beach umbrella until ten past four. Then they swam a little, took in the sun again for a while, and sipped iced tea until dusk. Conversation focused on things American: from the fact that, at street level, downtown Miami came across as a Latin American city colonized by Anglos, to the amazing contrast between Bal Harbour and the dingy old city center. After supper they spent an hour and a half going over what had to be done on Saturday and turned in early.

  The next morning the suntanned couple took a taxi to the bus station on Davis Boulevard and at 9:35 departed for Miami. Around 11:30 they entered the Miami Public Library and stayed there the next two hours surfing the Net. They checked Google, AskJeeves, and other search engines for Cuban news. None gave them cause to worry. Lunch consisted of glasses of orange juice and medianoches. When Victoria came out of the ladies’ restroom, Pardo went into the men’s. She then left the cafeteria unaccompanied and covered the two blocks to Burdines, taking in her surroundings and window-shopping. She pushed in the heavy glass door on the First Street entrance at 2:43 P.M. and, looking around curiously, approached the nearest perfume counter.

  Seven minutes later Pardo came in through the same door. He spotted his wife immediately. She smiled fleetingly and looked away. Pardo rode the escalator to the fourth floor. Victoria let two minutes go by to make sure no one had followed her husband, then took the escalator. She entered the luggage department at 2:55 and glanced distractedly right and left before ambling to the men’s fashion department. She positioned herself by a circular rack of shirts from which she could keep an eye on what went on while affecting to glance over the garments.

  After a minute or two, a balding man in his fifties came onto the fourth floor. For a moment Victoria thought herself mistaken. This could not be Bonis. She shot a glance at her watch: 3:00:10. Had to be. Could not be. Many times she had tried to form a mental image of this and other officers and agents whose files lacked photos. She had pictured Bonis as a short, dark-haired, mustachioed, and sort of fat Cuban who possessed a green thumb, cracked jokes at himself, and played dominoes on Sunday afternoons—a guy nobody took seriously, except Papa. What she had before her eyes, however, was a human powerhouse who brought to mind a jaunty, rough-grained, battle-scarred general; or one of those old-style business tycoons who made fortunes out of sheer willpower and balls. A splendid specimen from the rare genus she called “the upstagers,” people whose great charisma draws attention everywhere they go. What a waste, she commiserated.

  He wore an ivory-colored sports coat over a deep blue cotton pullover, black jeans, and heavy-duty shoes. Very much in shape, not an ounce of fat around his torso, a couple of inches shorter than her husband. His green eyes bristled with … hostility? distrust? alertness? on a weather-beaten, deeply lined face. The dark blond thinning hair was the only indication of something in decline. For an instant, as he scanned the floor, their eyes met. He seemingly dismissed her, kept checking out other customers. When he found Pardo, his gaze returned to Victoria for an instant, as if intuition had told him she was Olga Villalobos. She fought off the man’s mesmerizing effect, returning to the shirts. Then Bonis strode past counters, edging up to Pardo while pretending to examine pieces of luggage. It took him a minute to reach the cutout.

  “Excuse me, I can’t make up my mind,” he said in Spanish. “What brand do you prefer, Halliburton or Philco?”

  “Neither. Hartmann is best,” Pardo said, leaving a folded white envelope atop a twenty-six-inch Upright Suiter.

  Bonis reached for the envelope, slipped it into a pocket of his sports jacket, and moved along, his eyes on the merchandise. He spent another minute doing this, then chose a cheap, medium-sized tote bag, paid with cash, and rode the escalator down. Victoria selected a shirt, paid, then descended to the third floor to check the lingerie. Pardo told the Honduran saleswoman at the register that he wanted to look around some more and walked away six minutes after Victoria, ten minutes after Bonis.

  The couple reunited at the corner of Biscayne Boulevard and Third Street at 3:30.

  “Well?” asked Victoria.

  Pardo stared at her. “You want to know what I’m thinking?”

  “Of course.”

  “In certain people, courage and the power of reason are inversely proportional.”

  “Interesting thought. Would you care to elaborate?”

  “That man is a brave man, no doubt about it. But he’s risking life imprisonment to serve communism, a cause that has proven to be the twentieth century’s most shocking political and economic debacle. A cause that has repressed more people than any other in recorded history. He’s not motivated, as are those at the top, by holding on to power, by privileges or perks. Living here, with full access to all sorts of newspapers, magazines, and books, if he fails to perceive that he is serving a lost and unjust cause means he must be intellectually deficient, even if immensely courageous. Fanatics must unavoidably be slow-witted.”

  Victoria took his hand and they started walking toward the bus station. She considered what Pardo had just said for nearly the minute they spent covering one block.

  “Your hypothesis implies that cowards abound among the highly intelligent.”

  Pardo had not studied the corollary of his theory. “Probably. Yes. But exceptions prove the rule.”

  “And that man, couldn’t he be an exception?” tentatively.

  “What do you mean?”

  “Brave and intelligent.”

  “Could be,” he conceded.

  “So, even if your hypothesis is proven true, it seems difficult to determine at a glance who is brave and foolish, or brave and bright, or cowardly and bright, or cowardly and foolish.”

  “I guess so.”

  “Let’s return to Naples, macho.”

  Eight

  The gray 1995 Chevrolet Astro van that entered Maria Scheindlin’s driveway on May 7 was towing an open, black trailer carrying lawn care equipment, and had BONIS LANDSCAPING and a phone number in vinyl on its sides. Across the street, through binoculars, a spotter watched as the driver got out, the gate slid shut, and the widow opened the front door. The second spotter zoomed in the video camera on the van’s plates first, then on the man and Maria as they shook hands and chatted. Eugenio Bonis had on dark blue trousers with a large pocket on each side and kneepads, work boots, a long-sleeved denim shirt, and a Florida Marlins baseball cap. Maria was in a bathrobe and slippers. Within a couple of minutes she went inside and closed the door. The gardener unhurriedly approached the trailer and set about unloading the tools of his trade.

  The FBI spotter with the binoculars reached for a two-way radio and pressed the send button.

  “Base, Team Four,” he said.

  “Go ahead, Four.”

  “A gardener just came in. 0905 hours. Drives a Chevy van that says Bonis Landscaping. B-o-n-i-s.”

  “Same guy was there two weeks ago?”

  “We weren’t here then.”

  A short period of silence followed.

  “Okay. Provide subject’s description and vehicle’s plate.”

  The first thing Bonis did was set the frame of his rotary riding mower at the highest height. A first application of complete fertilizer two weeks earlier had given a very healthy blue-green color to the four-to five-inch-high St. Augustine grass. The gasoline-powered engine coughed into life, and the gardener proceeded to mow the lawn down to three inches, at the front of the house first, the courtyard later. It was 10:25 when he rode the lawn mower back into the trailer. Bonis left the cut grass on the ground, but blew back to the lawn those clippings that had fallen on the slate pat
h at the front, and by the granite path, cemented area, and tiled poolside floor in the courtyard.

  Having restored the blower to the trailer, Bonis asked Maria to turn the irrigation on in the front yard. He pulled on a pair of gloves and began moving young plants grown in four-inch pots from the van to the courtyard. He also took a drain spade, a warren hoe, and a half-full bag of fertilizer, then called for the front yard’s irrigation to be turned off. Flower beds of butterfly bush, coreopsis, lion’s ear, hibiscus, plumbago, and ruelia graced Maria’s garden with shades of blue, lilac, yellow, orange, red, pink, and violet. On his knees, Bonis started replanting the flower beds with young plants. Soon he was drenched in sweat. His nimble hands occasionally plucked weeds out of the ground and dead leaves off shrubs. He slogged it out until half past twelve, when he hollered for the widow to turn the courtyard irrigation on.

  The sprinklers had been scattering water for a few moments when Maria came into the courtyard, a pitcher of cold lemonade and a tall glass on a tray. She had changed into Bermuda shorts, a print blouse, and sandals. Smiling, Bonis pulled his gloves off, stuffed them into the back pocket of his trousers, and reached for the glass. She poured for him. He avidly drank the whole content and returned the glass to Maria, who asked whether he would like more. He said he was fine now and thanked her. She went inside for a moment to leave the tray atop a side table and came back to the courtyard immediately.

  “It’s getting pretty hot for this time of the year,” he said.

  “It sure is.”

  “Excellent weather for those perennials. I incorporated compost in the soil last time I was here, so those young plants will prosper soon.”

  “I’m sure they will. You are an excellent gardener, Mr. Bonis.”

  “Thank you. How’s your daughter?”

  “She’s fine, thank you. Off to a photo shoot in West Palm Beach or some other place. Will be back tonight.”

  “Please tell her I’ve checked on the impatiens. They are not suitable for your garden. Their tolerance to salt is poor and you are too close to the sea.”

  “Oh, I see. I’ll tell her.”

  “Thanks. Do you have the loan ready?”

  “I do.”

  “As I said? Hundreds and fifties in a plastic bag?”

  “Exactly.”

  “Could you bring it now? I’ll put it into this fertilizer bag.”

  “Of course. I’ll write you a check for today’s work. How much is it?”

  “I paid seventy-five for the young plants, so it’s a hundred seventy-five.”

  “Be back in a moment.”

  Maria went indoors. Bonis recovered his tools and the bag of fertilizer, retraced his steps to the back door to wait for her, and dusted his clothes while doing so. After a few minutes the widow reappeared with a plastic shopping bag in her right hand, a check in her left. Bonis seized the plastic bag, opened it, peered into it, nodded, and put it into the fertilizer bag. Then he took out his wallet and placed the check in it.

  “Someday your commitment to the cause will honor you, Mrs. Scheindlin,” he said while pocketing the wallet.

  “I hope so. However, I’d like to remind you of how wary I am about making these loans. As I said …”

  “Don’t worry, ma’am. I’ve been given assurances that we’ll never bother you again with this sort of favor.”

  “I most certainly hope so.”

  “You can be sure of that. Now you should turn the sprinklers off. May I use your bathroom for a minute?”

  “But of course, please come in.”

  Ignoring Maria’s protestations that it was not necessary, Bonis removed his work boots. Of course it was necessary, the gardener insisted. Otherwise he would soil the beautiful hardwood floor. When he entered the house, Maria indicated where the ground-floor visitors’ bathroom was. As he strode past the furniture to it, she noticed that Bonis was wearing white cotton socks; like athletes, she thought. She turned the irrigation off and remained waiting for him by the back door. A little over a minute had gone by when the gardener came out and drew near Maria with just a hint of a smile. She wondered what the strange tool he held in his right hand was. It was a 9mm Beretta 92 Compact automatic, its numbers acid-burned, a silencer attached.

  The gardener was less than three feet from the petrified Maria when he extended his arm and pulled the trigger once. The bullet went in through the victim’s right eye, departed through the back of her neck, and embedded itself into a wall. She crumbled to the floor soundlessly, the final moments of her life a whirling kaleidoscope of memories. Bonis contemplated her with a self-possession that, under the circumstances, most people would have considered scary.

  “That’ll teach you and your buddies not to screw us,” he said in Spanish as he thumbed on the safety lever. His tone lacked rancor; it sounded like a passing comment.

  Bonis spent approximately two minutes searching for the casing and, having found it, dropped it into the empty glass on the side table, then slipped the glass into a side pocket of his pants. Next, he hurried to the front door, spied for a moment the gate’s control panel by the burglar alarm, and pressed the “open” button. Through the peephole he made sure that the gate was opening, then slid the gun into the empty side pocket, stripped off the pair of latex gloves he had pulled on in the bathroom, dropped them into a pocket, and gained the courtyard. He put on and laced up his boots, then seized his tools and the bag of fertilizer before walking to the front of the house.

  After putting everything inside the van, he closed the rear door, climbed behind the wheel, and turned on the ignition. The vehicle took a left on West Broadview Drive, then a right onto Broad Causeway to return to the mainland.

  “What’s she waiting for to close the gate?” asked Spotter One to no one in particular.

  “Maybe she’s going out in a while,” guessed Spotter Two.

  “Yeah, maybe,” reaching for the two-way radio. “Base, Team Four.”

  “Go ahead, Four.”

  “Gardener left at 12:56.”

  “Okay. Out.”

  …

  Victoria argued that Pardo should make that evening’s phone call and that they should record it. Bonis had met him at Burdines; he would identify his accent and voice. The possibility that her husband could misinterpret a place, time, or password should not be ruled out, Victoria reasoned. We are only human, she asserted. Correcting a misunderstanding would delay them. To preclude this, they ought to record the call, she insisted.

  Pardo demurred, arguing that she was underrating him.

  Victoria maintained she would record the call if she were making it. She reminded her husband that, to make sure he did not mix things up, Bonis always recorded incoming calls. Now they would learn from him where the second live drop would take place; they could not afford a mistake. Finally, Pardo yielded.

  At a Collier Avenue electronics store, they paid $184.55, sales tax included, for a clip-on telephone recorder. According to the salesman, the device simply had to be clipped around the telephone cable or the handset cable. It recorded the conversation without the need to cut or bare any wires.

  At a quarter to four, having read the manuals, certain that the gadget worked once Pardo called their room from a cafeteria five blocks away and she recorded his voice, Victoria gave her considered opinion on the politics of the whole thing.

  “I still can’t get used to the idea of stores selling to the public telephone listening devices, tap detectors, wired and wireless hidden cameras. Things that record the number of strokes you type on your keyboard, voice changers, a thousand things. Gives me the creeps. In some states you don’t need a permit to buy a shotgun or a rifle. Not even blank pistols or hunting knives are for sale in Cuba. A Cuban dissident tapes a phone conversation with a State Security officer in which he is threatened, he takes the officer to court, plays the tape, the dissident goes to jail.”

  “Why are you telling me this, Vicky? I know all that.”

  Victoria was taken
aback. “I’m not telling you. I’m reflecting on the differences between both systems.”

  “But we’ve reflected on the excesses of democracy and the shortcomings of communism a hundred times. Are we going to do something about it? No, right? So leave it to the naive dissidents who risk their freedom, maybe even their lives. They haven’t figured out that when communism falls, Cuban-Americans will give them a medal and a pension before rigging the elections and taking charge. Politics sucks, Victoria. Forget it. Let’s focus on the job at hand.”

  Feeling mildly berated made Victoria a little angry. She believed him right, but it was frustrating to have her observations dismissed as well worn. Sighing, she reminded herself that it was Pardo who had sharpened her meditations on the shortcomings of contemporary societies.

  “I’ll scout a little for an enclosed phone booth,” Pardo announced. “Are you coming or do you feel like a nap?”

  “I’m going with you, but hold it a minute, okay? If we play it by the book, we shouldn’t call from Naples. Give me the map.”

  They discussed Estero, to the north, and Copeland, to the southwest. Both appeared to be small towns in which a closed phone booth may not be easy to find. Fort Lauderdale on the East Coast seemed perfect, a bigger city opposite to where they were, but it involved a three-hour round-trip by bus.