by Ted Bell
“Lower your weapons!” a defiant Fidel Castro shrieked at the soldiers. “I said lower your fucking weapons!”
Without a word, and only out of respect, every soldier lowered his gun.
“El jefe needs immediate medical attention,” Manso said to his brother Juanito, who had come forward to embrace him. “He has lost a lot of blood.”
“Sí, mi hermano,” Juanito de Herreras said. “The emergency medics are on the way. Welcome and well done.”
Juanito called to Castro. “There is someone most anxious to speak to you, Comandante,” he said. “Here he comes now.”
The formation of soldiers parted and allowed a man onto the pad. He strode toward Manso, Juanito, and Castro, smiling. He was young and handsome, and bore a striking resemblance to someone Castro had not seen in over thirty years.
“Comandante,” Manso said to Castro, “may I present the new presidente of Cuba?”
“Bienvenidos,” Fulgencio Batista said.
It was the grandson of the man Castro had overthrown more than thirty years earlier. The new presidente was to be Fulgencio Batista’s grandson!
Fidel Castro shot Manso a look of palpable hatred.
This was simply more irony than he could stand.
28
Gomez ducked inside the cool gloom of St. Mary’s Cathedral. It was the Naval Air Station’s oldest and most beautiful church.
It was four o’clock in the afternoon, hot as hell out in the sun, and he was supposed to be at the pistol range. He’d slept in all morning, then had a long liquid lunch and decided to blow off target practice. Brewskis and bullets don’t mix, he knew that much. Hell, he had a couple of missing toes to prove it.
He’d been blowing off a lot of stuff lately. He’d even spent another few nights in the brig after a stupid fight he got into with a noncom who’d called him a dumb spic in the mess hall. He couldn’t remember who’d started it, but he’d finished it. Look at it this way. He went to the brig. The noncom went to the infirmary. So, you gotta ask yourself. Who won?
Gomez walked quickly up the left side of the nave and entered the confessional booth. As soon as he was seated, the small partition opened and he could see the silhouette of Father Menendez through the screen.
“Father, forgive me, for I have sinned,” Gomez said. “It has been six months since my last confession.”
Gomez took a deep breath and tried to get his act together. He realized that he was literally shaking. He shook out a few Tic Tacs and popped them into his mouth. He probably smelled like a goddamn brewery. His mouth was dry as dust, too. He’d woken up feeling like a lizard lying on a hot rock.
“Have you had sex outside of your marriage?” the priest asked.
Sex?
Sex had been one of the last things on his mind for nearly a month. But this Menendez, he always wanted to hear about sex. He steered every confession that way. He always asked if you had “spilled your seed.”
Gomer was worried about much more important things than screwing some chiquita and spilling any goddamn seed. Rita had sent him to church to talk about his drinking. His “violence.” What lovely Rita peter maid didn’t know was that his drinking was the result of a few underlying problems.
Problem, name it. Solution, beer. Secret of a happy and successful life.
The nuns at the Catholic schools he’d gone to in Miami always said you should treat your body like a temple. In the last few months, Gomez had been treating his more like an amusement park. And, lately, the combination of beer, Cuban rum, and tranks he’d been on was starting to get to him in some fairly scary ways.
He put his hands together as if in prayer and squeezed them between his knees to stop the shaking.
He began his confession.
“Father, I—” He stopped. “Father, give me a second—please. I’m praying.”
And the truth of it was that he was praying.
At six o’clock on that very morning, Gomez had been sitting in his small kitchen with a gun in his mouth. He was staring out the window at the sunrise. He’d been up all night. There was an empty rum bottle on the kitchen table. A lamp cast its yellow glow on an unfinished letter to Rita and a picture of him and his family.
The barrel of the gun in his mouth tasted like the Hoppe’s gun oil he remembered as smelling pretty good when he was a kid. Didn’t taste all that great, however. Felt like his teeth were coated with it. Pretty goddamn ironic. This was the exact same revolver his grandfather carried at the stupid Bay of Pigs. Grandpa gave the gun to Gomez upon his graduation from St. Ignatius High School. The pistol held six bullets. Gomez had loaded one bullet into the cylinder and spun it a few times.
He had already pulled the trigger four times unsuccessfully.
Click. He pulled it again.
Nada.
How lucky can one guy get? Five pulls, five misses? Five out of five? Nada? Come on. Nobody got that lucky. Maybe somebody up there was trying to tell him something, he told himself. The hell you going to do when you get a message like this, he’d like to know. He took the gun out of his mouth and put it down on the kitchen countertop. He reached over to the little TV and snapped off CNN, which he’d only been sort of half listening to, anyway. Something about Cuba.
The sun was up now.
Everybody in the house was still asleep. He could use a couple of winks himself, couldn’t he? Maybe feel better when he woke up. Unless he dreamed about that damned teddy bear again. The big white one standing in the corner in the little pink room with the white lace curtains.
Goddamn teddy bear was driving him crazy. Ever since the birthday party. He’d imagined it would be easy, handing the bear to the little girl. Walking away. It wasn’t like that. Oh, no. She didn’t let him just walk away.
Little Cindy had laughed when he tore the paper off and showed it to her. Her eyes were wide open, just looking at that bear like it was her favorite present of her whole life or something. She’d stood up on her tippy-toes and given Gomer a big smacker. She hugged that bear to her chest and never let go of it all afternoon. Even though it was almost as big as she was.
Then, when it was finally time to go, Ginny Nettles, who was Fightin’ Joe’s wife and the kid’s mother, had come up to him. Thanked him for his generosity. Said what a wonderful present it was, how it was just what Cindy wanted. Told him she’d like to have Amber and Tiffany spend the night at their house with little Cindy. His own daughters. Right there in the Nettles kid’s room.
Sleeping right there in the same room with the big white teddy bear.
And the bad thing, the really bad thing, was he’d said to her, “Sure, why not?”
Nothing had happened, of course. That’s not how it was going to work. That was definitely not the Big Plan. Still, he never felt right about himself after that night. He would lie there next to Rita, wide-awake, thinking about how he’d let his two kids sleep in that kid’s room with the bear. He tried to get his mind off of it. Think about his million dollars waiting for him in Switzerland. Growing like mushrooms in the dark. A dark vault. With a big white bear in the corner, its eyes glowing bright red.
Rita had finally thrown him out of the house three days prior to this little visit with the padre.
He’d come home pretty messed up that night and she’d gotten more pissed than he’d ever seen her. Gave him living hell. So he’d smacked her a couple of times to shut her up. Nothing serious. No stitches, for chrissakes. No broken anything. Nothing to get your panties in an uproar and kicked out of your own friggin’ house over.
She’d be sorry. Wait till she found out how rich her soon-to-be ex-husband was. That would be something. He could see himself driving up in a brand new Corvette Z06, telling her about the bank in Switzerland, the money. But, hey, just stopped by to say good-bye. See ya.
Hey, way cool plate for his new ’Vette.
SEE YA
He was now living on a pullout sofa. In the upstairs apartment of his buddy Sparky Rollins, one of the guards up o
n the tower. It wasn’t so bad. He could watch dirty movies on TV. Drink all the beer he wanted. Eat stuff with his hands. Burp, fart, leave the toilet seat up. Hang at the USO until closing time. Nobody ragging his ass all day and night, right? Not a bad life.
Want to hear something funny? Kind of life he was living? He woke up one morning, went into the head to pee, and noticed his pecker had turned orange. Talk about freaked out! He was dialing 911 when he remembered. He’d fallen asleep watching Debbie Does Denver or Tina Does the Tri-Cities or one of those—and he’d been eating Chee-tos! Yes!
Mystery of the orange pecker disease solved, Sherlock. Life was good.
So why had he snuck back inside his house last night? He’d used the key under the mat to let himself in through the kitchen door. Opened a bottle of Mount Gay and had a few. Gone and got his gun out of the garage and stuck it in his mouth. Pulled the trigger five friggin’ times. Man. Click. Click. Click. Click. Click. You talk about dodging a bullet.
After he decided not to pull the trigger that one more time, he’d put the gun down and started crying. Staring at the picture of his kids. Watching the sunrise. Crying like a goddamn baby.
He’d gone upstairs to Rita. Gotten down on his knees beside the bed and begged her to take him back. Said how sorry he was and how he’d never hit her again. She said she thought he was sick. Crazy in the head. She’d made him swear to go to church and talk to Father Menendez about whatever it was that was wrong with him. He’d wanted to crawl in bed with her so bad he’d said yes.
And here he was, just like he promised.
“Father, I’m afraid I’ve done a terrible thing,” Gomez said in the confession booth. “I don’t know if treason is a mortal sin or not, but it’s a bitch all right—sorry, I didn’t mean to say that word—it’s a real bad thing, I know that.”
“Tell me your sins,” the priest said.
For about half a minute, he actually thought he was going to be doing just that. And that’s when he forgot about the bear with the bomb in his belly and thought about the million dollars again.
“Sorry, Father, I guess I’m not feeling all that great right now,” he said. “I’ll catch you later.”
He stood up and left the confessional, hurried out of the church, and got in his broiling car.
Christ, he could use a cold one, he thought, starting the Yugo. He’d seen a cool Corvette ad in one of his magazines. Showed a guy in a red ’Vette, and in big type it said, “Know that warm feeling of belonging you have owning a Yugo? We don’t either.”
29
“You say you know the name of the murderer?” Congreve said, staring at Stubbs Witherspoon in disbelief.
The elderly gentleman had returned to the table with an ancient cardboard box containing the Hawke file. He removed the cover and pulled out a pale blue folder.
“No. I said I know the name of the man responsible for the murders, Chief Congreve,” Witherspoon said. “I will come to that. Please bear with me.”
The old man put his hand on the blue folder. “These are the crime-scene photographs,” he said. “Before I show them to you, could you indulge me a moment? I’m a little curious about Scotland Yard’s interest in a thirty-year-old murder case.”
“Of course. I should have explained that earlier. Have you ever heard the name Alexander Hawke?” Congreve asked.
“Yes. That was the child’s name. The sole witness,” Witherspoon replied. “The husband was Alexander. An English lord. The wife, of course, was Catherine, although everyone called her Kitty. A famous actress. She was one of the truly great beauties of that era. An American, from the south. New Orleans, I believe.”
“Yes, it was a famous marriage on both sides of the Atlantic. The sole issue of that marriage is my employer as of this moment. I met young Alex Hawke over twenty years ago. A famous jewel robber was holed up down on one of the Channel Islands and I was hot on his trail. I found him on the same island where Alex was living with his grandfather, Lord Richard Hawke. A brilliant detective himself, he helped me solve the case. And his grandson has been like a son to me ever since.”
“So the reason for your interest in the case is personal?” Witherspoon asked.
“Entirely,” Congreve said. “I should explain that I am mostly retired at this point. Although I do maintain an office in the Special Branch, I work, as I said, primarily on assignments for Alex Hawke himself. As does Inspector Sutherland here, who is on loan from Scotland Yard.”
“So, Mr. Hawke has decided to reopen the issue of his parents’ murders?”
“No! Alex Hawke has no idea I’m even looking into this. In fact, he has no memory of the actual murders—”
“Which he witnessed,” said Witherspoon, shaking his head sadly. He poured each of them some more lemonade.
“Which he witnessed,” Congreve said. “He has those memories buried very deeply in his mind. He has, in effect, erected a wall of denial around them. He never, ever refers to that terrifying chapter in his life. But, I think it haunts him to this day. In fact, I know it does. It is a source of enormous pain.”
“You want to exorcise your friend Alexander Hawke’s old ghosts, Chief Congreve?” Witherspoon asked.
“I’d like very much to somehow put his mind at rest, yes,” Congreve said. “That’s why we’re here in Nassau. If we could solve this thing, even bring the murderers to justice, it might offer him a bit of peace.”
“I see.”
“You should probably know that Alex Hawke is one of the wealthiest men on earth,” Ross said. “He controls a vast business empire. You may have heard the name of the holding company. Blackhawke Industries.”
“They own a shipping company based here in Nassau, I believe,” Witherspoon said.
“Not to mention the banks and brokerages,” Congreve said. “Blackhawke’s central operations are run out of London, but the reach is worldwide. Because of this, he has tremendous contacts at the highest levels of every major corporation and many governments.”
“In recent years,” Congreve added, “he has been doing a lot of work with both the British and American governments. Because of who he is and whom he knows, he has been invaluable to both governments in certain delicate matters.”
“One such mission for the Americans has brought us to your beautiful islands, Mr. Witherspoon,” Ross said. “But my superior and I are here in Nassau completely unofficially. We are looking into these murders on our own.”
“I think I understand now. Thank you,” Witherspoon said, holding the blue folder in his hand as if he were unsure about sharing it.
“We are eager to hear what you have to say,” Ross said.
“Well. I told you that I know the name of the man responsible for the murders. That is true. His name is revealed in these photographs.” Witherspoon slid the file across the table to Congreve.
Only the birds outside and the whir of the fan could be heard in the room. The minutes stretched out as Congreve studied each black-and-white photograph and then handed it to Sutherland, who did the same.
The old policeman rose from his rocker and crossed the room to stand at the window. He had no need to see the photographs again. He had been first to board the yacht when it arrived in the harbor. The first police officer to view the crime scene. The image of that stifling room and what horrors lay inside it would be engraved in his mind forever.
A small, bright green bird alighted in the yellow hibiscus outside his window. The bird turned its darting glance this way and that, finally settling its tiny black eyes on the old man standing in the window. Stubbs Witherspoon willed the vision of the little bird to drive the other vision from his mind. It almost worked.
When he finally turned away from the window, he saw Congreve slumped in his chair, staring down at his hands, which were folded in his lap. Tears were streaming down the Englishman’s face. He made no effort to wipe them away.
Inspector Sutherland was gathering the photographs and returning them to the folder. His eyes, too,
were red. It occurred to Witherspoon that these two men had been looking at the nightmarish pictures not with their own eyes, but through the eyes of a seven-year-old boy. A boy, now a man, whom they both deeply admired, perhaps even loved.
“Would you like to take a little walk in my garden?” Stubbs Witherspoon said, putting his hand on Congreve’s shoulder.
“Yes,” Congreve said, composing himself. “Indeed, we should both like that very much.”
“Come along then,” the old fellow said, picking up his folder, and they followed him outside onto the porch.
“Those plants are quite amazing,” Sutherland said, pointing at a bizarre group of palms. “Nothing like that in an English garden, Mr. Witherspoon.”
“Thank you. Birds of Paradise. And that tree? That’s what I call a ‘Tourist Tree.’”
“Why is that?” Congreve asked.
“Just look at de bark of it, mon! It always red and peeling!” Witherspoon said with his merry laugh. “Real name of it is Gumbo Limbo. You see that other tree over there past the Tourist Trees? That big old Calusa tree?”
“It’s lovely,” Congreve said.
“Alex Hawke and his grandfather helped me to plant that tree.”
“You don’t say?” Congreve said. “How extraordinary!”
“Not really. I had just bought this old place at the time. I invited them for luncheon one day, just before they flew back to England. Considering the circumstances, we had ourselves a fairly jolly good time, I remember. Little Alex and my dog Trouble, he was the grandfather of old Roscoe over there, runnin’ all over the place, chasing Trouble’s little red ball.” The three men walked out into the yard. There were a few wooden chairs under the Calusa, and they all sat down in the quiet shade of its branches.
“Of course,” Congreve said quietly. “You would have interviewed little Alex in the course of your investigation.”