At the World, he was relegated to covering sordid local stories. His last one was an exclusive interview with the “naughty granny,” sixty-eight-year-old Sadie Kaplan, a resident of an upscale gated retirement community. Sadie was arrested for drunken public sex in the community pool with the 25-year-old water aerobics instructor. He was so ashamed of his current position in the publishing food chain that he didn’t even keep in touch with his journalism school buddies.
Although he felt like he was presently stuck in a tacky Florida vortex, Doug saw himself more as a Philip Roth than a Carl Hiaasen. He was currently—as was often the case—anxiously awaiting a call from his New York agent on the sale of one of any number of book proposals he had in circulation to put him in the mainstream. The ideas all had two things in common: there wasn’t a scent of tabloid in them, and there was little likelihood of a publisher biting.
His most recent pitch was a sure thing in his mind, a biography of Addison Mizner, the visionary architect behind the development of Boca Raton, as well as La Guerida, the Palm Beach estate owned by Joseph Kennedy that served as JFK’s Winter White House. He was convinced every carpetbagger developer from New York would buy a copy to read during the winter in South Florida—if he could just land a publisher. “No takers—as of yet,” his third-rate agent kept telling him.
But that morning, as he rode the elevator to the second-floor conference room, Doug was turning over in his mind what could be the most amazing story he had heard in years—or which might’ve been the delusions of a demented old man. If it turned out to be the former, he might have found the break he had been waiting for, his one shot that would be respected by the literati. A story that would move him into the big leagues.
Let’s see how this one lands, he said to himself as he entered the conference room.
The World editors and senior writers were already seated around a conference table littered with Starbuck’s cups. Sally Hughes, dubbed the “editrix-in-chief” by her staff, sat at the head of the table wearing a loose fitting, lime green sundress that emphasized her large green eyes and thick strawberry-blond hair. She tapped her dainty black boots as she sipped a Diet Coke in a plastic Big Gulp cup. Sally was generally affable and a good sport, and even though she ran a tabloid, Doug had found her to be somewhat interested in actual news from time to time.
Sitting next to Sally was Xander Lavin, the deputy editor angling for her job. Xander, with his sarcastic demeanor, represented everything that Doug despised about tabloid journalism. He sat twirling a pencil with one hand while scrolling his iPad with the other.
Sally called the meeting to order. As she ran down the stories in progress, Doug sat patiently until it was his turn to pitch.
“Okay, kid,” Sally said. “Whadda ya got?”
“A hot Cuba story, set during the revolution.”
She gave him a blank look. “We can’t do a 60-year-old political story on Cuba,” she said. “Not unless there’s more—like you got a Kennedy angle?”
Doug maintained his focus on the sell. “It’s about how an eighteen-year-old Cuban girl at great personal sacrifice came to possess and then reveal a critical piece of intelligence that affected the outcome of the revolution. The headline: She may still be alive, may be living in Miami, and may be ready to tell her story.”
Xander let out a laugh. “Evans, if you’re looking for a Pulitzer, you’re in the wrong place.”
Chuckles rose from the others in the room. They’d heard Doug try to climb above them before.
Doug upped the ante. “There’s a cover-up of the whole thing by the CIA.”
Xander spoke up. “You mean like the Bay of Pigs?”
“You don’t even know what the Bay of Pigs was,” Doug shot back.
“Do so,” Xander says. Sally was shaking her head, seemingly lost in thought, but then she snapped back: “Who’s your source, Evans?"
“Cuban old-timer named Salazar, says he was there, then exiled in Haiti for the last fifty-nine years” Doug said. “He’s a little rough around the edges but seems credible. He knows lots of people. May even have been a spook himself.”
Sally was skeptical but intrigued. “Really? Then why doesn’t he take it to The Herald?”
“I asked him that,” Doug replied sheepishly. “He said he wanted someone who knows the history of US involvement in Cuba to tell this story. He liked the piece I wrote about how Obama has opened a new chapter in our relationship with Cuba. I told him I’d read a lot about Cuba and many of Che Guevara’s works and my master’s thesis was about the key members of Castro’s Movement. Then he told me that an eighteen-year-old young woman from Guantánamo who saved the revolution, knew all of them.
“So, The Herald passed? Is that it?”
Doug spun it another way. “With the push-pull between the Neuvo Herald and the old guard at the main paper, I don’t think they can agree on anything to do with Cuba now. Besides, you can’t be certain what the next president to reside in the White House will do. Sally sucked on her straw and took in a mouthful of Diet Coke. “OK, you can check it out . . .”
Doug had pushed away from the table and was halfway to the door before she managed to finish her sentence.
“But only locally. I’m not sending you to Cuba to whore your way around!”
Already at the elevator, Doug missed the last part.
CASA HERNANDEZ
It was shortly before noon on Saturday and Evans was about an octave above his ideal range as he drove onto the Rickenbacker Causeway toward Key Biscayne. The radio was mercifully loud enough that Billy Joel drowned out his efforts as he attempted another chorus of “Piano Man.” His exuberant mood reflected the ridiculously beautiful Miami day as the palm trees of Wainwright Park gave way to steel and concrete and the causeway rose above Biscayne Bay. The steep angle of the ramp pointed the car skyward, nothing but blue sky and sunshine up ahead.
Driving down Crandon Boulevard, Evans checked the address on his phone, 670 Harbor Drive. He took the first right past the park, gliding past multimillion-dollar compounds, many with mega yachts docked out back.
Under normal circumstances, Doug wouldn’t have been selfconscious about the hand-me-down car, a gift from his mother after college, but this wasn’t like the zip codes he normally found himself in. Unless he was staking out a celebrity, hoping to get the scoop on an unfolding paternity scandal or DUI arrest, he usually traveled in circles in which his modest ride would actually pass as a work of ingenious camouflage. Here, the twelve-year-old Toyota Camry with a sizeable dent in the passenger side fender looked like something not even the cleaning crew would drive, so he parked it a block away.
As he walked up the street the gate opened, and a late model black Lincoln town car pulled out of the driveway. The car turned left heading in the direction Doug was walking from. A liveried chauffer eyed him suspiciously and said something to the elegantly coiffed blonde lady sitting behind him. A cell phone quickly went to her mouth as the car accelerated past Evans heading out of the neighborhood.
He walked up to the house, rang the bell, and finger-combed his thick black mop of hair while checking his reflection in a small pane of glass in the center of the heavy oak door.
The door swung wide open. Standing before him was an adorable little girl, about seven years old, with blue eyes and a creamy white complexion.
Doug leaned down “Hello, what’s your name?”
The little girl was remarkably self-possessed, looking him right in the eye. “Pilar.” she said.
“Pilar? What a pretty name,”
The little girl smiled, rolled her eyes. “That’s what everybody says. What’s your name?”
Before Evans could answer, hurried footsteps echoed from inside. A very tall, well-muscled, mid-fiftyish man with a thick sandy crew cut arrived at the door.
“How can I help you?” he demanded.
Doug fished a business card from his shirt pocket. “Doug Evans. I’m a journalist. I’m trying to find a woman nam
ed Pilar Ruiz. Do you know her?”
The man’s eyes narrowed with obvious suspicion. “Yes I know her? That was my mother’s name.”
Doug’s tone became solemn. “Oh, I’m sorry to hear that,” he said, casting his eyes downward. “Would you mind speaking to me about her, perhaps?”
The man in the doorway suppressed a grin. “I didn’t say she was dead, I said Pilar Ruiz was her name. She’s been Pilar Hernandez for more than fifty years or so. I’m her son, Roberto Hernandez.”
He and Doug shook hands. Doug’s right hand left smarting from the crunch.
Doug was flustered and hurting. “Nice to meet you. I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to imply anything.”
“Well, she is getting up there in years, so I understand.” Roberto was good-naturedly enjoying Doug’s discomfort.
The little girl butted in. “That’s my name! I’m Pilar Hernandez!”
Roberto hugged little Pilar. “Yes you are, and that’s also your grandma’s name,” he said. He turned to Doug and asked, “May I ask what it’s about?”
I’m working on a story concerning events that took place almost sixty years ago during the revolution in Cuba and, as I said, another young girl named Pilar. Your mother, I believe.”
“And what publication is this for?” Roberto inquired.
He raised Doug’s business card to read it, patting his empty shirt pocket, looking for something. He addressed his daughter. “Have you seen your papa’s reading glasses, sweetheart? I hope momma didn’t borrow them again to take to her meeting in Miami. Please go to my bedroom and bring me a pair.”
Doug intervened. “I’m working freelance.” He let it hang there for a brief, awkward moment. “I have a degree in journalism from Columbia University.”
Roberto was just being polite. But his eyes narrowed, and he asked Doug, “Would you like to tell me a reason she would want to meet you.”
Is she here now?”
“First you tell me why she would have any interest in you.”
“Well, please just mention to her the CIA, Chip Thompson, and Héctor Salazar.”
“Wait here,” said Roberto as he closed the door, locking Evans outside. Roberto walked about ten steps down the hall and whipped out his cell phone. “Don’t worry honey I can handle this guy you passed with one hand tied behind my back. But he may be someone Abuela Pilar would be interested in so please check out the information on his card which Roberto only had to hold a little extra distance from his eyes to read with no difficulty. “Oh, and he also mentioned that he’s a Columbia Journalism grad, and he looks like that would be quite recent, so see what your New York colleagues can find out. I’d especially like to know if he is sincerely interested in Cuban history.” A few minutes later, Roberto opened the door wide, inviting Doug inside. “She is indeed here now. Would you like to join me for a cocktail?” The two of them walked down the hallway from the foyer towards the living room.
“Oh, no thank you, I’m working,” Doug said too quickly.
“I thought you said you were a journalist,” Roberto said.
Doug had no argument against that kind of logic. He smiled as he wrung out his still smarting right hand. “Do you have tequila?”
Doug didn’t spend much time in galleries, but the artwork on the walls looked incredible—and expensive—to him. He especially liked one that was kind of a cartoon featuring Groucho Marx. The aroma of Cuban cooking hit him as he entered. Mojo marinated pork, he figured. In just over a year in South Florida, he’d sampled plenty of Cuban cuisine, and loved it. As the corridor emptied into the main house, he heard voices, children mostly. A family gathering was in progress.
An elderly couple worked on a jigsaw puzzle with several children at a coffee table in the center of a comfortable living room with a view of Hurricane Harbor.
Roberto introduced Doug to Tio Ernesto and Tia Consuela. “Doug Evans, this is Uncle Ernesto and Aunt Consuela,” he said.
Ernesto, dressed flamboyantly in a colorful tie and madras trousers, stood up and warmly offered his hand to Doug. “Welcome to Casa Hernandez.”
As the two men shook hands, Doug took note of Ernesto’s loafers—handmade in Italy, well broken-in, no socks. “Prada?”
Ernesto lit up. “A man who knows shoes. I like this guy!”
“Of course you do!” interjected a man’s voice from out on the veranda.
Consuela, a tall woman in her seventies with a striking figure and attractively dimpled cheeks, turned toward the veranda and spoke loudly in order to be heard by the unseen interloper. “Don’t mind him. He’s just jealous.”
She took Doug’s hand, confiding in him. “He has no fashion sense, either.”
Roberto continued with the introductions. “And the voice from outside that would be my father, Theodore Hernandez.”
A man who seemed to be about the same age as Consuela and had thinning hair, a salt-and-pepper mustache, and kind eyes to go with his pleasant expression, appeared in the open sliding door.
Doug had to step over a couple of children to shake the older man’s hand. “A pleasure to meet you, Mr. Hernandez.”
The old guy threw an arm over Doug’s shoulder. “Call me Teddy,” he said.
Teddy said something to his son in Spanish, and Roberto hurried away.
Consuela patted the sofa cushion, beckoning Doug over. “Come and sit. Do you like puzzles?”
A cool breeze was blowing in off the water through the veranda and into the house when Roberto returned with a tequila for Doug, who was now comfortably ensconced with the family. The children continued to work on the puzzle in parallel with the adult’s conversation, which was focused on the spectacular weather.
Roberto changed the subject. “Are you hungry, Doug?” he asked. “My mother is making lunch and asked me to invite you to stay.”
Doug—as was often the case—had forgotten to eat breakfast and was happy to oblige. “That would be lovely, thank you.”
At that moment, a handsome woman with long gray braids emerged from the kitchen. She wore sandals and a summer dress that accentuated her still-trim physique, that of a former athlete.
“Hello, I’m Pilar.” She greeted Doug with a warm smile. “You must be Mr. Evans. My Roberto tells me you’re a periodista?”
“He strikes me as more of a fashionista,” Uncle Ernesto said, laughing at his own joke.
“I’m both,” Doug said. He gave Pilar his best boyish grin. “It’s a great honor to meet you, Mrs. Hernandez.”
Doug took her waiting hand, surprised by the strength of the elegant lady’s grip.
“I’m Pilar.”
“And I’m Doug.”
“Good, everybody knows everybody now,” quipped Teddy. “What’s for lunch?”
“Pork marinated in mojo criollo sauce with plantanos maduros and yellow rice,” announced Pilar. “Do you like Cuban food, Doug?” She didn’t wait for an answer, leading him to the table. “Come and sit next to me, Chico.”
She spoke to her grandchildren in Spanglish and they rushed off, returning with plates of food from the kitchen, placing them on the long table, which had two benches for sitting instead of the dozen or more chairs it would have otherwise accommodated. Everyone clambered in, with children filling the gaps on the benches. Ernesto and Consuela sat next to one another, as did Pilar and Teddy.
Doug turned to Teddy and Pilar. “How long have you two been married?” he asked.
“Let’s see, we were married late in 1959, so it’s a little less than fifty-six years,” Teddy answered. “But we’ve known each other since high school.” Roberto sat at the head of the table. The chair at the foot of the table was unoccupied, although there was a place setting.
Doug turned to Roberto, and asked, “The picture in the silver frame on the console, is that you in the Navy Ensign’s dress-white uniform next to the beautiful blue-eyed blonde in a wedding dress?”
“Indeed it is,” Roberto said. “My wife Megan and I were wed on the day of my graduat
ion from the Naval Academy. Unfortunately, I doubt that she’ll get home from her desk at the Hernandez Law Office in time to join us. You just missed meeting her when you arrived.” Doug thought of mentioning having seen her drive off in the limo, but decided not to mention it.
A beaming Pilar injected, “That day Roberto fulfilled a dream I had for him since the incredible historic day he was born. And, on top of that, I couldn’t have been happier about his choice of a bride, even if she does work too much.”
Doug perceived an unusual quality in the way Pilar held herself when she laughed, projecting a rare feminine elegance. But her empathetic eyes seemed to communicate something different: a deep sense of authority. The overall effect of these contradictory elements was quite striking, and he found it difficult to take his eyes off her. There was mystery in her.
Teddy winked at Doug. “She has a lot of secrets, this woman.”
“Hey, that’s what I’m here for,” Doug interjected.
He took a gulp of tequila, chewed some ice as he formulated his next question, this one for Ernesto.
“How about you two?” he asked. “Were you two childhood sweethearts, as well?”
Ernesto turned to Consuela, and they simultaneously burst into laughter.
Pilar and Teddy joined in their mirth. A moment or two later, Evans, having no idea what was so funny, was laughing along with them.
Although nearly all Cuban-Americans in Miami were opposed to the Castro regime, Doug promised himself not to charge into any premature discussion, lest he find himself on the wrong side. What Salazar had told him, such as it was, might have pegged Pilar as a Hero of the Revolution, but her current views on Cuban affairs, and American politics concerning Cuba, were unknown. Doug avoided the subject during the meal. But after lunch, along with the impact of three tequilas, Doug felt compelled to shift the conversation.
He inquired of Pilar casually, “So, tell me about the revolution?”
The room went silent.
He immediately felt cloddish, thinking to himself, “What have I done? I’m supposed to get the subject drunk, not myself.”
The Girl from Guantanamo Page 2