Cuban Death-Lift

by Striker, Randy

  “Good. I’m going to hold you to that. And I’m also going to hold you to your promise to get the hell out of here once I know my way around. I know my way around, O’Davis. And it’s time for you to leave.”

  “So you kin do what?” He said it too loud, and he immediately lowered his voice. He crouched over, sticking his red face in mine. “So you kin stroll up ta that wee bit of shack, knock on the door, an’ tell’em to turn your woman loose? They’ll shoot ya down, Yank. I’ve seen two men killed in this blasted harbor already, an’ I’ll not let me new mate play the fool for the likes o’ them!”

  “O’Davis, you’re big and tough and bullheaded, no doubt about that. But goddammit, believe me when I say that you’re going to be in over that Irish head of yours if you don’t start listening. You’re out of your league, O’Davis. Now, dammit, get the hell out of here before I show you just how tough you really are!”

  Offended, he took on an air of burlesque aloofness. “Out of me league, am I? Well, tell me, Yank—jest what do you plan to do?”

  “I plan to sit right here, wait on the next bus, and see just who gets on it.”

  “An’ if she’s not among ’em, then what?”

  I shook my head wearily. “O’Davis, were you born stubborn, or do you have to work at it? If the woman doesn’t get on that bus, then I’m going to find out where she is, snake her away from the Cubans, then head my boat for American water just as fast as I can. It’s going to be messy, you Irish fool, and some people are going to end up pretty damn dead—and I don’t want you to be one of them! There, have I made myself understood?”

  “Ah, ye have, ye have.” He stood up as if to leave.

  “But I appreciate your help,” I said quickly. “And the invitation to visit me in Key West still stands.” I stuck out my hand as a final sign of friendship.

  He looked at me, looked at the outstretched hand, confusion in his face. “Why, ya doon’t think . . . I’m not leavin’ for good, Yank. Jest stood up to stretch me legs and get us a coupla more beers.” He stuck out his palm, as if testing for rain. “Sure, ’twas an interestin’ little speech ye give me. But it’s a fine soft night and, if you doon’t mind, I’ll stick around for a while longer and join ye in conversation while ye wait.”

  He moved as if to go to the bar, then turned back to me. “I’ve taken a likin’ to ya, brother MacMorgan. After twenty-two days o’ sittin’ round this hellish harbor, I’m not about ta miss me one chance for a little excitement. Besides, I’ve luck enough for six men, an’ I’m a-thinkin’ yer goin’ to need all the luck you kin get. . . .”

  I didn’t even see them coming. I was doing one of my little stunts. Cute little stunt, MacMorgan. Let your concentration sag for a moment, and watch your new friend die. . . .

  The bus for Havana came and left. Big Spanish-made bus, all chrome and steel, looking totally out of place alongside the wooden-wheeled cart that followed it in, bored donkey and bored driver clip-cloppa-clipping along the dirt road, hauling a fresh load of beer for the tiendas. The donkey was gray with a white blaze on chest and forehead. Sweat lathered around its harness, and it wore a straw cane cutter’s hat, holes for pointed ears, implying some affection on the part of the somnolent old man who was driving. The donkey pulled to a rolling stop in front of the beer trough without a word from its owner.

  Sitting on my crate seat, I watched the bus make its hydraulic pee-e-esh as doors opened and Cuban-Americans began to unload after their trip to the Triton Hotel in Havana. A guard stood at the door of the bus checking their packages as they exited. The Cuban-Americans accepted the indignity of being searched with a remote indifference that sent a strange surge of pride through me. Here they were in their native land, seeking only to help their loved ones, and yet the Castro regime was treating them like criminals. But they were Americans, an immigrant people who had fought before for their selfrespect, and they weren’t about to give the guard the satisfaction of reacting to his slights. One by one they filed off, somber-faced, but filled with the strength of their own dignity.

  Once the bus was empty, the driver came off, lit a cigarette, and sat on the bottom step while a ludicrous pipe-organ version of “On Top of Old Smoky” came tinnily through the speakers of the bus.

  People began to line up outside the door of the bus, waiting patiently to pay their fifteen dollars for the return trip to Havana.

  I felt my shallow breaths and my heart pounded heavily in my ears as I waited for the door of the little guard shack to open. A light was on inside, and a silhouette moved before the window: a hugely fat man, cheeks hanging as slack as empty balloons.

  No doubt about the man’s identity: one general Halcón, code name Hawk.

  For once in your life, Stormin’ Norman Fizer, you lied to me. You told me Halcón was one of the good guys. You told me he had defected, pledged his new allegiance to America and to the destruction of the Castro regime. But he’s the one who took my new love; the one who slapped her across the face as if she were some disobedient dog. You were wrong, Storm in’ Norman. Wrong, wrong, wrong, and only Halcón’s corpse will atone for the lie. . . .

  The driver threw his cigarette onto the ground without snuffing it and called for the people to board. “On Top of Old Smoky” had changed to pipe-organ calypso. The new group filed on, heads held high, and I waited for the guard-shack door to open; waited for them to shove Androsa out and onto the bus so I could follow along and, with luck, mark the room at the Triton Hotel which would become her final prison.

  But the door never opened. Halcón’s mass passed once more before the window, then was gone. The doors of the bus pee-e-eshed closed, and then it powered back through the exit gates in a cloud of dust and invisible diesel exhaust.

  “So it’s not ta Havana they’re takin’ her, eh, Yank?”

  O’Davis stood before me, two beers in hand, watching the bus disappear.

  “Nothing to do but wait,” I said.

  He read the quality in my voice. “Cheer up, brother MacMorgan. Cheer up, lad. All across America there are folks a-rottin’ their brains before the television tubes on this fine night, waitin’ ta die, while we’re down here, fine men with the courage of a plan, jest waitin’ to take life by the throat.”

  I looked at him and couldn’t help but smile. “Do you realize, O’Davis, that you are eye deep in bull-shit?”

  “Not only realize it, Yank—but am very proud to admit it meself. Ah am, ah am.”

  So we drank the cold beer, talked and waited.

  Westy O’Davis was not only an entertaining talker, he was a fine listener as well; one of those rare people you meet and immediately feel as if you have known a lifetime. He was one of those unusual people who follows conversation down branches, exploring veins of thought with the delight of a discoverer, mixing little truths with dark Irish humor. He told me how he had followed Castro’s takeover of Cuba, fascinated with a man so dedicated to a cause that he would spend his youth hiding out in mainland mountains and on offshore islands just waiting until the time was ripe for revolution.

  “True, I admired him fer a time—jest as them newspaper an’ broadcast folk in yer own country are still naive enough ta admire him. But then I came to realize he was jest one more dictator insane with the want of power, as brutal as he was charmin’. And for the likes o’ us ta fight it, Yank, will do no more good than pissin’ inta a stout wind.” He laughed and slapped his leg. “But ain’t that what men like you and meself are built fer? A life battlin’ the evil wind. An’ what more could a real man want, Yank?”

  They came for us when he was on his second trip to the canvas tienda: a copper-haired, red-bearded sea rover but always the dark son of Ireland, ambling broad shoulder, hands in pockets, head bowed slightly, wanting more beer because it was a fine soft night with a hint of wind.

  I hadn’t noticed them pulling up in the twin-engine patrol boat: Captain Lobo, feral-faced Zapata, three heavily armed sailors in baggy blue uniforms, and the soldier O’Davis had
cold-cocked, back on the Pinares, bandage around his head.

  O’Davis saw them before I did. I watched in vague surprise as the soldier with the bandage scanned the crowd at Pier Two, then locked in on me. He pointed, dark eyes fierce.

  He yelled something in Spanish. Lobo nodded as if not surprised, then barked orders to his complement of assassins. They came at me, violence on their faces, AK-47 assault rifles beaded on my head.

  And that’s when O’Davis made his move. He stumbled out into the three of them as if hopelessly drunk, secure for a time in the knowledge that the soldier with the bandage had never seen the man who had hit him. They shoved him roughly away, but back he came, playing the role of the sloppy drunk, trying to give me time to run, to escape, to get the hell away from Pier Two and Mariel Harbor before it was too late. And then one of the sailors cracked him in the face with the butt of his rifle, a glancing blow to the chin. And the Irishman went down hard on his rump. I saw his face blanch and the blue eyes narrow, and for an instant it was like looking in some long-gone reflection of my own face.

  Westy O’Davis was not a man to be sent to the ground without a fight—a fight to the death.

  The soldiers were maybe twenty-five yards from me when the Irishman got back on his feet. They were concentrating on me, not the drunk they had left bleeding behind. He hit the guard who had clubbed him at full stride, head down, shoulder bulling into the sailor’s spine like an NFL linebacker hell-bent on destruction. The sailor’s neck jerked back with a loud ker-RACK like a tree limb bursting, and O’Davis came up rolling, AK-47 in his hands. In two explosive bursts, he cut the other two sailors into wilting heaps.

  I was on my feet now. The soldiers from the guardhouse were running, vectoring in on the Irishman, opening fire. I hit the first one thigh-high, feeling his knee crumple beneath the impact. But he refused to give up the rifle. I wrestled with him desperately, watching in the slow-motion horror of the moment as the Irishman died.

  Zapata, a rattish leer on his face, had an automatic weapon in his thin hands. He didn’t know how to use the rifle. It swung wildly in his arms, throwing flames. The old man stood by the cart holding the reins of the sleepy donkey with the straw hat. As the old man watched, shocked, his face suddenly splintered and disappeared into a sludge of crimson. The donkey went down braying, bullet-sprayed, legs kicking like a dreaming dog on the run. O’Davis didn’t have a chance. He had made the good fight; battled the evil wind to the end. And as I watched Zapata level the AK-47 at him, I knew that it was over for the two of us; knew that the vultures had finally taken their pound of flesh, and then there was a bright light erupting in my brain and then there was darkness. . . .

  16

  I awoke to a dull cranial ache as if my brain had been vinylized and stuffed with cotton. Bright corona around the white light over my face. Numbness of face and hands.

  A voice: “Can you hear me, Capitán MacMorgan?”

  Heavy Spanish accent. Voice I remembered . . . from where?

  I sat bolt upright, head swiveling. I wasn’t dead, and I wasn’t in a prison. Surprised, I put odors of bottom paint, diesel, and familiar surrounds together: I was back aboard Sniper.

  Captain Lobo, his heavy face perspiring, stood over me. He said, “So you are awake, Capitán MacMorgan. Good.”

  He seemed somehow relieved.

  I got shakily to a sitting position, wiping face with hands. I expected to see blood, but there was none. Lobo stood at the entranceway of Sniper’s master berth. Behind him were three soldiers, cramping the narrow quarters of my boat, filling it with an odor of tobacco smoke and sweat.

  “Where’s O’Davis?” I tried to stand, but Lobo pushed me back.

  “Dead, I assume.” No trace of emotion when he said it. He paused for a moment, looking at me. And then: “You and your friend put us in a very awkward position, MacMorgan. If I had my way, gringo, you would have been dead an hour ago. But . . . I have my orders.” He turned and said something to the soldiers. Obediently, they left the cabin, closing the door behind them. He paused, took out a cigarette, and lit it with great deliberation. “Before one of my men clubbed you,” he said, “three Americans—Cuban-Americans—were killed in the firing your friend so stupidly caused.”

  “He didn’t—”

  “No, your friend did not kill them,” Lobo interrupted. “Unfortunately, one of our officers did—but it doesn’t matter who killed them. They’re dead. As you know, my country holds your country in something less than contempt. Capitalism—hah! The rich get richer, no?”

  “I’ll pass on the political lectures, if you don’t mind, Lobo.”

  The smile he always wore became evident, edged with a sneer.

  “As I was about to say, Capitán: My country holds yours in contempt, but it is still a force to be reckoned with. And the fact that three Americans have been shot to death here . . . well, the possible political repercussions are obvious. Because of that, at this moment, Radio Havana is preparing to broadcast a statement blaming the killings on a few poorly organized anti-Castro Cubans—revolutionaries who attacked and killed randomly until our forces were able to turn them back. Of course, you and the other Americans who witnessed what happened will claim otherwise. But it will be just your word against ours—”

  “And you can hardly get away with killing everyone who was there, right?” I finished.

  “Exactly.” It was a hard, thin smile now. He reached into his shirt pocket and extracted a sheet of paper. He unfolded it and glanced over it briefly.

  “Capitán MacMorgan, how well did you know the woman you brought to Mariel—Androsa Santarun?”

  I tried to keep my face empty and my voice neutral. “Not too well, really. Her lawyer contacted me. Paid me fifteen thousand dollars to bring her over here so she could try to take her father back to America.” I tried an extra bit of truth to keep the story believable. “I, ah . . . we became lovers while we were here.”

  He didn’t take his eyes from the paper. “Then that explains it, Capitán.”

  “Explains what?”

  “Why she insisted that you not be killed.” He lifted his dark dead eyes from the paper for the first time. “Capitán MacMorgan, Androsa Santarun is a spy. Please, no look of surprise. It makes no difference if you knew it or not. As far as we know, she has no family living in Cuba. There was a half brother”—he shrugged—“but he is dead. Señorita Santarun is the fourth American spy to come to Mariel Harbor. The first three came foolishly believing they could find and then assassinate Presidente Fidel Castrol. Luckily, the same agent who informed us of their intentions also assured us that they were renegades, and not sent by your country—”

  “You mean you people have agents in Washington—”

  He silenced me with a threatening look. “You are not here to ask questions, Capitán. You are alive only so that you can listen and carry a message back to your people. I was about to tell you that those three agents are dead—all killed, unfortunately, before they could be . . . interrogar . . . interrogated.”

  “So now you plan to force the woman to talk.”

  “There is hardly need to force her, Capitán.” He made a face as if offended at being so misunderstood. “Señorita Santarun has, of her own free will, defected.” He handed me the paper he had been holding, ignoring the look of shock that I felt slip across my face. “If she could have been forced into telling us the secrets of your government, would we even bother with a formal paper of defection from her? No, certainly not. As you can see, the letter is signed in her own hand—and of her own free will. But as you probably know, Capitán MacMorgan, she is a stubborn woman, and she will not begin to truly cooperate with us until you are safely back in the United States.” He checked his watch. “Soon, our patrol boats will escort you out of Mariel Harbor. Once you reach Key West, you are to radio a message on VHF 11. You are to give the name of a book you gave your lover, Señorita Santarun. There is no way we could know what book that might be, and so the correct titl
e will be proof to the señorita that she is not being tricked. You will send the message once every fifteen minutes over the period of an hour to make sure we receive it clearly.” Captain Lobo checked his watch again. “I suggest you hurry, Capitán MacMorgan. If you are not back in Key West in . . . twenty-four hours? . . . then we must assume something has happened to you. And that will make the señorita useless to us, so we will kill her. Until then, she rests at a very pleasant cottage at the Naval Academy, awaiting your cooperation.”

  He turned and left without another word.

  So do your job, MacMorgan. The woman was the bait and the tiger finally got her, so hustle on back to that gaudy little pirate town at the end of A1A and report to Norm Fizer. It’s what everyone wants you to do—from Castro’s gun-loving puppets to your own dear government. Sure, Androsa Santarun was something special, but so what? And Westy O’Davis was one of those rare guys you want to count as a friend for a lifetime, but they had shot him dead and there’s nothing you can do. So carry out your orders, MacMorgan, because that’s what you’re supposed to do, and you’re a man who has always and forever followed orders . . . right?

  Wrong. . . .

  Somewhere in the Havana night would be a radar antenna whirling attentively, tracking me on a thirty-to-forty-mile scan. Not all that tough to beat it, really. The drug runners have it down to a science. And once upon a time I had studied the methods and ploys of drug runners in the same way an osprey studies the convolutions of schooling mullet.

  One of the antiquated gunboats led me out of the harbor. It was three a.m. by the green glow of my Rolex watch. I steered from the main controls, head aching slightly, red chart light letting my eyes stroll across the map of mainland Cuba, memorizing exactly what I must do. For the hell of it, I took the overhead mike in hand and tried to raise the Key West marine operator. It wouldn’t hurt to try to get a double-edged message to Norm Fizer. But the Cubans jammed me, as I knew they would.