She went back down to the porch and sat down in a wicker rocker across from the glider. Something had shifted inside her. She had felt it happen earlier. Some tectonic realignment that was sending tremors up to her flesh. She quivered with excitement for the first time in decades.
Quivering was dangerous at her age. But quiver she did. She had something in her possession that was worth something to the world at large. She sensed it. She knew that the placid young man she had pulled from the bay and nursed with Sawgrass Juice had found a similar canister and was queerly excited by its existence.
She was not sure what it meant. Canisters washing ashore? Perhaps hundreds or even thousands of silver containers drifting along the bottom of the bay. She knew she was onto something. Something of major proportions. A shipwreck out in the Gulf Stream, the canisters just now working their way to shore? Some high-tech note in a bottle thrown out from a passing spaceship? This was something new. Rejuvenating. Something that might just rescue her from the doldrums of old age.
She watched the bay brightening, saw the raspberry clouds out beyond Stiltsville, like streaks of jam across a doughy sky. She stiffened when she heard a car door slam nearby. But then relaxed, for she had recognized it. She looked out at the dawn and sighed to herself. She had made it another day. Another miracle. And now this, a second miracle. A new adventure.
She stood up, stepped to the edge of the porch. Her granddaughter was coming down the long sandy path. A beautiful young woman. Hard to believe she was carrying Marion's blood and marrow, so full of tough energy as she came striding up to the porch and halted. Her young face was seamed with worry.
"I need help, Granny."
"Not even a hello?"
"I'm sorry, I'm sorry. It's just that I'm so... oh, I don't know what I am at the moment. Hello, Granny."
"Hello, Fay. Now what's the matter, dear?"
But Fay was no longer holding Marion's gaze. Her eyes had shifted to the glittering canister and her mouth was working soundlessly, words without breath.
6. HEADING TO HAVANA—Carolina Hospital
Another cigar-smoking Don Johnson look-alike is all I need tonight, thought Mike Weston, as he exited the 1956 Buick nicknamed El Frankenstein by the driver. He wondered how a car could run with so many dead parts and why Cuban government officials were the only ones who didn't know Miami Vice had been canceled ten years ago. It had taken Mike two hours to get from the Jose Marti International Airport to the house in El Vedado. This time, they had insisted the meeting be on the island. He was told it would take place in one of Robert Vesco's mansions, abandoned since he'd fled the country for the safer haven of Libya.
Mike had lived in Miami for a while, so he was prepared for his Cuba visit. Same difference, he said to himself, as he approached the front gate. This house and others in the neighborhood reminded him of those in Coral Gables, with their red tile roofs, quaint iron works, and privileged Cubans.
Robertico Robles walked in a few minutes later. Mike smiled and returned his enthusiastic handshake. Something about Robertico's slick attitude made Mike think this one would not be as easy to convince as the others. He was glad Robertico was amenable to using English. Even though Mike spoke Spanish rather fluently—one of the reasons he had been chosen for the job—he always preferred to negotiate in English. He thought it gave him the edge. They sat down in what must have been a library in the back of the house. Because of the empty shelves, their voices echoed throughout the room.
"So, Mike," began Robertico, without wasting time—something Mike found unusual in a Cuban—"what has happened to the canisters? The surgeon hasn't received them."
"I know," said Mike.
"We used your people," continued Robertico, still maintaining an almost offhand tone, "and now the goods are gone."
"I know, I know, let me explain," said Mike.
"Fidel is getting anxious. I'm not sure how much longer he'll wait before calling off the deal," Robertico said, his voice rising for the first time.
"We had an unexpected accident along the way, with a manatee—"
"A what?" interrupted Robertico.
"A manatee, you know, a sea cow," said Mike. "Anyway, we have it under control. We know where the canisters are. We just need a little more time to recover them without anyone else finding out."
"I don't know anything about sea cows, or land cows," said Robertico. "All I know is a deal is a deal and this is the second time you guys have messed up."
"Yes," agreed Mike.
Robertico was getting agitated, fidgeting with a button on his white double-breasted jacket. Mike couldn't help but notice the canary-yellow T-shirt underneath.
"When we met last month with El Maniz, he assured us this would be an easy operation," said Robertico.
It took Mike a few seconds to realize who Robertico meant by the Peanut Man: the former president who doesn't quit. The one who keeps on going and going...
Robertico continued, his face flushing red. "Without the head, there is no proof that he is dead. And without proof, the deal is off. Fidel will stay put. As long as his enemies know he lives, power is his only protection."
"Yes, I know," Mike interrupted. He felt the sweat flowing from his armpits. "But this is only a small detour. Most of the work is done."
"Of course," said Robertico, "especially since we supplied you with the head to begin with."
"You didn't expect us to do that?" Mike said, seeing an opportunity to regain the momentum. "After all, we just don't do that sort of thing in the States. Now you, on the other hand... "
"Sure, sure," said Robertico, waving his hand dismissively. "But let's stick to the point."
"Well, we never anticipated Castro would reject the head after we altered it."
"Of course he rejected it. There was something missing," said Robertico, lifting his cigar high in the air.
"Yes," said Mike. "But it was such a small detail. We didn't think it was important."
"Not important! Anyone close to him would have noticed," said Robertico. "The head has to be perfect."
"It will be perfect," said Mike, nodding.
"But now you have lost it."
"We'll get it back, I assure you. Give us another week," insisted Mike.
"Forty-eight hours. That's all he'll agree to. If Fidel doesn't have the head fixed and in his hands in forty-eight hours, the deal is off!" With that Robertico took a deep puff from his cigar, as if in slow motion, and walked out.
This was one tough bird, Mike mumbled to himself.
Fay rushed the words out, her eyes fixed on the silver canister on the glider.
"Granny, where did you find that canister?"
The glittering object was pulling at Fay; she had seen it before.
"Booger found it in the water and I lugged it up from the beach, just now."
"You went swimming by yourself again?" said Fay, turning her attention back to Marion, who was sitting on the wicker rocker.
"You don't expect me to wait until one of you shows up, do you, dear?"
"Oh, I know, Granny, I'm sorry," said Fay, as she reached down to give Marion a kiss. "Since I opened up the dive shop, I haven't had a chance to come."
"Don't worry, dear," said Marion. "But tell me what's the matter. You look troubled."
"I need your help, Granny. But I want to know about the canister. Have you opened it yet?" asked Fay, unable to contain her curiosity. She yanked the strands of her blond hair tighter in the ponytail as she looked back at the canister.
"No. To tell you the truth," said Marion, "I was too excited to open it. But that can wait, Fay. Tell me what's wrong."
"Oh, it's Phil again," said Fay. She didn't look so tough as she rested her body against the weathered siding on the porch. The dawn's salmon hues colored everything, including Fay, with a delicate touch.
"Phil? I thought you weren't even talking to him."
"I'm not," said Fay. "It's very complicated, Granny. The bottom line is, he's gotten himself
mixed up in some shady business with Cubans—he lost some merchandise he was being paid to deliver. I promised to help him, and he let me go. I know, I shouldn't have, and it's all over between us, but I think he's really afraid of these Cubans coming after him."
"Let you go?"
"It's a long story, Granny, and I'd rather not get into it."
Marion was not surprised. This would not be the first time Fay had bailed Phil out of a jam. She remembered another time Phil had gotten involved with shady business. It had had something to do with a crooked Miami commissioner accused of accepting kickbacks from the Society for the Salvation of Sea Rigs. Phil had been one of the people caught breaking into his office attempting to gather proof. The commissioner had gotten reelected and Fay had called her to post bail for Phil. Marion remembered she had made the promise then never to get involved in her granddaughter's private affairs again.
"What merchandise?" Marion asked Fay.
"He doesn't know, but I think it might have something to do with this canister you found," said Fay, pointing to the glider.
"This canister? How can it be?" said Marion.
"I can't explain it, Granny. I just know."
"Well then, let's open it, dear."
"Yes," said Fay, as she approached the shimmering object swaying hypnotically on the glider.
Marion knew something thrilling was awaiting her. The young man had disposed of the first canister without even knowing what was inside. Now here was a second, slightly different from the first in the tint of the metal, but definitely similar. What could it be this time? She was about to find out.
Fay, too, knew this canister matched the one she had hauled out of the bay for Jake. Now she wished she had never gotten involved. But it was too late. She held her breath as she pulled the wheel lock on the top. After a few seconds, it snapped open. There was just enough morning light to make out what was inside.
"Another one," said Marion, almost disappointed-sounding. Fay, struck by a wave of nausea, found herself unable to breathe, much less speak. The air took on a red tint and she reached to her grandmother's frail shoulder for support.
"Oh dear," Marion said, struggling to steady her. "I should have warned you."
Now Fay found her voice, though she still felt ill. "What do you mean another one, Granny?"
"Another head. The first canister had a head in it too."
"The first canister?" asked Fay in amazement.
"The one that floated up with the young man."
"What young man, Granny? You aren't making any sense."
"The other day, I rescued a young man out of the water and he had a canister just like this one."
"But who was he? What was he doing in the water?"
"I don't know, dear. Just a nice young man who floated up on the bay. And if I'm not mistaken," said Marion, leaning over to get a better look, "his canister had the head of this same fellow."
"What do you mean the same fellow? There can't be two heads of the same fellow.''
"I tell you it's the same man. I'm sure of it," Marion said. Her head was beginning to hurt, and she was feeling that vertigo she felt when she stood up too long.
"Granny," Fay said in a whisper. "Don't you know who this is?"
"No, dear, who?"
Fay told her.
"Oh my," Marion said. "I thought he looked familiar."
Marion felt the porch spin lazily around her; she was about to lose her balance. She grabbed the arms of the rocker and slowly, very slowly, put her 102-year-old body to rest. Perhaps, she thought, this was more excitement than she had bargained for.
Back in the office, Britt Montero, an emotional wreck, collapsed at her desk. She had not rested since Jake Lassiter's call. Her mind was screaming. She tried to gather her thoughts as she took a sip from her Daffy Duck Christmas mug. Coffee was the only thing she knew could calm her. She had already drunk two espressos and one cafe con leche at the Beach, but she needed more. Britt had served herself a mug of freshly brewed Colombian supreme blend from Publix. As she breathed in the aroma, feeling it filtering her thoughts, she wondered: Of all the reporters in town, why had Jake Lassiter called her? She wasn't the only one who could have identified that head, the head.
But she didn't dwell on that point. She wanted the story. She was dying for the story. Castro dead! It could lead to riots. Too much was at stake; she had to be sure.
As she refilled her Daffy Duck mug, Britt considered the loose threads, mulling over all the questions. Was this really Fidel's head? For that matter, was it anybody's head? The thing she'd seen in Jake's canister looked human to her, but maybe she hadn't looked at it closely enough. And how about the stale aroma of cigar smoke that had wafted up from the canister after Jake had opened it? Hadn't she read somewhere that Fidel had quit smoking? It was all so confusing. She needed more coffee.
Britt tossed back her wavy hair, away from her forehead; she needed to lay out a plan. The caffeine finally kicked in, and the hive on her left arm began to itch. It always itched when she was deep into a good story.
Suddenly, she decided what to do. She picked up the phone and dialed the number—a number everyone wanted and only she possessed. Just like the man whose number it was: Big Joey G., pudgy and bald, yet unassailable. Last seen coming out of the house of his private masseuse off Biscayne Boulevard. If this was as big as she thought it was, he would know something, she thought. And he owed her one.
It only took three international calls and two beeper pages for him to answer her on his cellular. He wouldn't divulge much, yet she was sure he knew more than he let on. But he did say something that jolted her. There wasn't one canister, he'd heard, there were two. And Big People were after them. He wouldn't explain any more, but he warned her to be careful.
Britt thought it was just like Big Joey G., always saying just enough, never completing the picture. That was his modus operandi: leave them curious.
After hanging up, Britt immediately called Jake.
"Lassiter, this is Britt. I need to see you and Deal ASAP."
"Deal is out," answered Lassiter.
"What do you mean?"
"I mean he's out. We won! The city was afraid of a big loss, and settled his suit for nine point two million. Deal took the deal."
"Did you say nine million?"
"That's what I said. Anyway, he decided this other thing was a bad omen—he doesn't want anything to do with it. He left it with me and wouldn't even tell me where he was going."
"Incredible. Where was his sense of civic duty?" said Britt. "In any case, I have news for you. Can you come down to the office?"
"No, I'm too far. Give me thirty minutes and I'll meet you at the Fishbone Grill, in the Grove," said Lassiter.
"I'll give you forty-five."
Britt hung up the phone, distraught and exhilarated at the same time.
Forty-five minutes gave her just enough time to stop at the city morgue first. She had an idea. But as she grabbed her purse, the phone rang.
"Montero, Miami News."
"Is this Miss Britt Montero?"
"Yes, can I help you?" answered Britt impatiently.
"Miss Montero, this is Fay Leonard. You don't know me well, but I have something to tell you. It's about—a head."
This was getting to be a busy night, Britt thought. She sat down to listen.
7. THE LOCK & KEY—Evelyn Mayerson
Britt found Fay Leonard in the back of the Fishbone Grill beside a chalkboard that announced Chilean salmon as the catch of the day. Except for a few grizzled men with creased and sunburnt necks speculating on the depths to which Pat Riley would ream out the Heat, the restaurant was empty.
Fay rapped her rugged nails on a polyurethane table. She and Britt knew each other slightly through their pioneer families. The difference between them was one of strata. While Fay's mother and father were able to trace their Miami roots respectively to a wrecker who had created his own wrecks by placing decoy lights and to a carpenter who had fash
ioned driftwood coffins, Britt's claim to founder status was only matrilineal.
"I thought it would be better," said Fay, "if we did this before Jake got here. He complicates things, if you know what I mean. It's all that busted cartilage. Whenever he moves, he clicks. It's distracting when you're trying to have a conversation."
Britt slung the wooden chair away from the table and sat astride it. "You sounded pretty frantic, Fay. What is it you want to tell me?" And weren't you supposed to be kidnapped? she thought to herself.
Carl Hiaasen - Naked Came The Manatee Page 5