2 Green to Go

by John H. Cunningham

  The son of a bitch destroyed Betty.

  The radio, of course, was in fine condition, well cared for, and worked like new. I thought back to when I saw Truck’s brother. Bruiser had said he’d been trying to reach Truck on a certain frequency. What the hell was it? Then I remembered he didn’t say it, he wrote it on a piece of paper, which I pulled out of my wallet.

  I spun the dial clockwise until I was in that approximate location. A steady static hummed from the speaker. I edged closer and took the large microphone in my hand.

  “Calling the Sea Lion, calling the Sea Lion. This is … this is … Betty the Widgeon, calling the Sea Lion.”

  I repeated the same hail a dozen or more times and micro-adjusted the dial in case I was off the frequency. I was about to give up and try again later when the static was suddenly broken by a voice in English.

  “Come in Betty, this is the Sea Lion.”

  Got to love Truck Lewis.

  “Howdy, Sea Lion. What’s your twenty?”

  “My twenty? Damn, Buck, you a cross-country trucker now?”

  “I have a little problem, Sea Lion, need your help. And it’s Betty, got it? How far out of home port are you now?”

  “Not sure I have a home port no more, Betty the Widgeon.”

  Uh-oh. Ray had speculated on whether or not Truck would head to the rendezvous point with the Mohawk, given the treasure he had on board. My stomach sank. Is that what he meant by being unsure of his home port?

  “You’re not—”

  “Cutting and running? All this good hooch on board? Shit, man, what you think? I’ve steered myself in circles at every damn island I pass. Could be living like a king down here, man.”

  The line turned to static, and I swallowed.

  “But no, my mama’d track me down and kick my ass, that’s for damn sure. Your buddy Nardi calls me every hour. We should meet up by dawn. We’re about two days out of home port, Betty.”

  Truck had given me his most serious military voice with the last part. His most sarcastic one, too.

  “So, what the hell’s your problem anyway?” he said.

  “Remember our favorite island, to the south of home port? Well, we had a little problem and a hard set down here, real hard, and now we have no way off. We’re darn close to the end from where you’ll be sailing by, could be available for a pick-me-up when you pass.”

  “Brother, I swore I’d never go back to that place after what happened last time. Those motherfuckers nearly made a stew out of me, man. You know what I’m talking about. Weren’t for you, would of happened, too.”

  “Time to repay the favor, Sea Lion. Our old friend who moved back here has the hots to find me and wants a reunion in the worst way. In fact, it was his explosive summons that caused the unplanned stop here and inability to leave. So, time’s of the essence, Sea Lion.”

  A long static followed on the line.

  “Betty, I’m sorry to hear that, I truly am. But you gotta remember what I’ve got on board this old sailboat. And I can’t exactly haul ass if’n they come after me, know what I’m saying? And like I said, I’m hooking up with your friend before long. So how about I have the orange stripes come bail your ass out?”

  It was my turn to go silent. Damnit to hell.

  As much as I wanted to be pissed at Truck for refusing to come, he was right. The Sea Lion was 100+ years old, sail only, and had the Atocha treasure on board. At least a lot of it.

  “Matter of fact, Betty, after you bailed me out down south, I persuaded my … guests here on board to reminisce a little. They confirmed what I told you about your boy. The one who wants to get even with you for his boat.”

  “Oh, he got even already, trust me.”

  “Yeah, well, he took half the crates.”

  “Half? Is he the brains behind the deal?”

  “They made it sound like he was working with or for some others from that rotten island. So, no, just middle management, but maybe making an end run.”

  Didn’t surprise me. Gutierrez lived in Key West for years, probably loved going to the museum, and once he blew town could have dreamt of coming back to steal that treasure.

  “Makes sense, Sea Lion.” I swallowed hard. “Listen, don’t mention us to anybody just yet. If what you suggested is true, and the orange stripes—or worse, the Washingtonians—start making a stink, the hunt on this side will only intensify and we might disappear for good.”

  “You might be right about that, Betty.”

  I checked my watch. “I’ll try you again around this same time tomorrow. We have one other option we’re working on that might do the trick. Drive that boat straight home, Captain, and don’t upset your mama.”

  We signed off, and as good as it was to hear a friendly voice, it left a hollow feeling. No cavalry was coming for us. Not even an old pirate ship like the Sea Lion.

  I imagined him sailing into the Key West Bight with a Coast Guard escort, TV crews lined up along the seawall, Donny and the Treasure Salvors gang smiling ear to ear, Marine Patrol boats in the harbor, state police, Key West cops, Monroe County sheriff—uh oh …

  What about the FBI? Special Agent Booth would be waiting too, the only scowl amidst a sea of smiles. He’d push his way through and demand to know where I was. Then, when Donny discovered that half of the treasure was missing, along with Ray, and me, Booth would come to his naturally paranoid conclusion that we’d absconded with the missing gold, silver, and jewels. Would he believe Truck’s story that Gutierrez had the goods? Or that Ray and I were stranded here? If Booth had seen that security video, he’d tie it all together in a nice, neat little conspiracy.

  Damn.

  32

  Ray muttered to himself in a self-induced aviation mechanic’s fantasy of doing the impossible in a ridiculously short amount of time. Even if he did, we’d have to risk our lives to see if it worked. We needed to buy some time.

  I pulled Señor Maceo aside. “Can you take me back to Puerto Esperanza? I want to try and camouflage Betty—the Widgeon—so it can’t be seen from the sky.”

  The old man turned toward the Beast.

  “But Señor Ray, he needs my help with the Goose. I, ah, I don’t think … Nina. Tell Nina I said to take you.”

  I left them in the dark hole and set out to find her. The farmhouse was empty, the truck and Lada were still in the drive, so I made my way toward the other barn. It was filled with old farming equipment, looked like a warehouse of agricultural antiques about to go on display at a museum. No Nina.

  On the way back to the farmhouse I heard a rhythmic, fast-paced gravel crunch headed my way from around the next bend ahead. I dove into the thick plants along the path and held my breath as I tried to imagine what could make such a sound. After a few seconds, I found out. Nina ran by at close to a sprint. She wore shorts, tennis shoes, and a tank top. Her legs were every bit as muscular as her arms, and she moved in a swift, sure motion up the path before she disappeared over the rise. I remained hunched in the tobacco plants and thought about how good she looked and what fine shape she was in until I suddenly felt like a voyeur and stepped out of the bushes. A moment later she walked back down the path, wiping sweat from her brow, breathing hard but not panting.

  She saw me but her expression didn’t change. She kept coming and I tried not to stare at the sweat-soaked tank top that clung to her breasts.

  The situation was complicated enough, I couldn’t make it worse. Nina was off limits.

  “Good run?”

  She smiled and wiped her brow again.

  “My idea of the siesta. I like to be in good condition before the harvest begins.”

  A flirty response came to mind, but I bit my lip.

  “I need to go back to Puerto Esperanza, and I’m afraid your grandfather volunteered you to take me. Would you mind?”

  She grumbled something in Spanish and turned toward the barn, ready to go chew her abuelo out, but she stopped. The gears in her mind turned quickly, and she gave me a nod.
/>   “If it helps get rid of you faster,” she said. “I’ll change and we can go.”

  Back in the farmhouse she pointed me toward their refrigerator and instructed me to make some sandwiches from the meager contents while she changed. Ten minutes later, with a canteen of water, sandwiches, and some fruit in a canvas sack, we were headed back up the road toward the coast. Nina drove much faster than her grandfather and sped right past the neighbors who waved from a horse-drawn cart.

  “Can you slide down in your seat, please? People will start talking when they see you with me.”

  “No need to get anyone jealous.” Damn. The words just came out on their own.

  “Very funny. You look a hundred percent gringo. If the police are searching for you, I’d rather not have them find you with me.” She cast a quick glance at me. “And there’s nobody to be jealous. I don’t keep men around long enough to get jealous.”

  Focus, Reilly.

  As we made our way to the coast, I asked about her family’s history here in the Pinar del Rio.

  “My relatives were successful and wealthy before the revolution,” she said. “They were forced to continue their legacy as managers on their own plantation after. Papi sent my grandmother to Florida—”

  “By herself?”

  “He promised he would follow but never did. The farm was too important, she was safe, and he refused to leave me. They haven’t spoken in over twenty years.”

  “What about your parents?”

  “My father was to succeed Papi, but he died of cancer twenty-two years ago when I was a child.”

  Nina spoke in crisp, idiomatic English, used few hand gestures, and showed no emotion whatsoever—until I asked about her mother. She looked at me, unguarded. It was only for an instant, but the depth of pain made me feel that I was intruding just by seeing her face.

  “She was raped and killed by soldiers. The men were shot for their crimes.”

  I didn’t ask more questions. Given what Cuban families had suffered these past fifty years, especially those who’d been stripped of their possessions and marked as virtual traitors, their scars naturally ran deep. At least families like the Maceo’s, with expertise in key areas like agriculture, were indispensible, even under the Communist regime.

  “And what about you and your family, Buck Reilly?”

  My pause caused her to glance over. I still hadn’t developed a concise response to that question.

  “My parents died in a car accident a few years ago.”

  “I’m sorry,” she said. “No wife?”

  “Not any more.”

  “Ah, sorry again.”

  “She left me when my company went out of business. We’d been very successful and she couldn’t stand the thought of being broke. I do have a younger brother.”

  “Are you close?”

  “Not really. He bought me the plane, though—the one that’s now a ruin in Puerto Esperanza.”

  She too stopped asking questions.

  “For the past couple years I’ve used my plane to run a charter and salvage business out of Key West. It’s called Last Resort Charter and Salvage. Or at least it was.”

  Another sidelong glance. In her eyes I read the conclusion: no more plane, no more business, no more wife. And here I was stranded in Cuba. Then came the last straw, a sympathetic smile.

  We drove the remaining ten minutes in silence. I recognized the sandy road that descended toward the small enclave of beach shacks and we both tensed.

  “Better slow down. I’m not sure what we’ll find here.”

  She downshifted and we lurched along toward the water.

  When a fishermen walking up the road saw Señor Maceo’s truck, he looked back over his shoulder and quickly held his hand up in front of his chest. Nina stopped the truck. The fisherman checked behind him again, then hurried over. He bent down, peered at me, and exchanged harsh whispers with Nina. I heard a quick intake of breath from her and she jammed the truck in reverse.

  “Wait!” I said. “What’s the matter?”

  “The PNR are guarding your plane. It’s too late, we must leave before we’re seen.” She released the clutch and we started back. “That means policia—”

  “Wait, Nina! Just stop a minute and let me out.”

  “You can’t go in there, what if they see you? You don’t even speak the language, and—”

  “I look a hundred percent gringo, I know.” I pretended as if the concern in her eyes was for me, but she didn’t want to get caught, and I didn’t want to place her in danger. “Just let me out and drive up the road a half-mile. I’m not back in twenty minutes, go home and forget you ever saw me.”

  “Why are you doing this? You can’t hide the plane any longer, they’ve found it! And the fisherman, he says a colonel from MININT is on the way. That’s the Secret Police, in case you didn’t know.”

  “Twenty minutes, that’s all I ask.”

  “Fine, get out.”

  I eased out of the door and closed it quietly. We met eyes.

  “You’re a fool, Buck Reilly.”

  If only I had a dollar for every time someone told me that.

  33

  I made my way through the woods along the shore slowly to avoid making noise. Once I was close enough to hear the water lapping at the beach, I spotted Betty through the brush. I squirmed closer until I saw a guard with a rifle standing on Betty’s port side. He smoked a cigarette and kicked gravel into the water.

  All the fishing boats were beached and none of the fishermen were in sight. I looked at Juan’s shack. The curtains were drawn, and although I could see light inside, I couldn’t see him, Maria, or their kids. Every shack was the same, buttoned down tight.

  Damn. If Gutierrez were on his way, he’d do whatever was necessary to find us. Could he know that Ray and I intercepted the Sea Lion? Or did he just want my maps back? Or to get even? No other vehicle was visible, so the PNR must be alone.

  I returned the way I’d come, then jogged up the road. My twenty minutes was nearly up and I doubted Nina would give me a grace period. I saw the truck ahead, on the side of the road, with the engine running. She must have been watching from the side mirror, because she waved to me without looking back. I jumped in and we started up the shore road.

  “You must leave the farm now,” she said. “Take your friend and go. I’ll drive you to Bahia Honda, maybe you can hire a boat.”

  She was right, of course. If the PNR had found the plane, it wouldn’t take long to figure out who picked us up. We raced along at what had to be close to the old truck’s maximum speed.

  “What did the fisherman say, exactly?”

  “He said the PNR arrived an hour before, in a car with another man. He left once they found your plane and returned to Havana, or maybe to Viñales, I’m not sure which. They were very excited and told the fisherman that Colonel So-and-so of the Secret Police would be here tomorrow and that they had been looking for this plane.”

  Tomorrow?

  “You never told us the Secret Police were looking for you!”

  The rest of the ride was white-knuckled and chilly. She flew up the driveway, threw the truck in park, and ran into the farmhouse. Before I got to the top of the steps she stormed back out and said her grandfather and Ray weren’t inside. We hustled over to the barn, shimmied down the hole and were astonished at what we found.

  The barn doors were now open, and afternoon sunlight streamed in. A wall of tobacco plants stood five feet high beyond the door. Ray and Señor Maceo had strung cables and pulleys from the large truss that held the floor above and used a tractor to hoist the Beast up high enough to hand-crank the wheels down. The Goose now sat on two flat tires. Additional lights lit the old plane, which had been wiped clean. My earlier thought was confirmed—there were no markings or numbers of any kind, only bullet holes. Ray stuck his head out the hatch as we approached.

  “Welcome back! This baby’s in better shape than I thought!”

  “We’ve got tr
ouble, ” I said.

  Nina shouted in Spanish to her grandfather, who peered over Ray’s shoulder.

  “They found Betty. She’s under guard, and some big shot colonel is supposed to be here tomorrow.”

  Ray’s face sagged. He climbed out of the Beast, the equally droopy old man followed after him. Nina continued issuing orders and proclamations in Spanish, waving her arms around, pointing to me, then Ray, until Señor Maceo flung his hands toward her palms up and waved his arms while he talked just as intensely if less dramatically.

  “The biggest issue is that one of the engines seems seized,” Ray whispered.

  “And what about that wing?” I pointed to the port wing, which was cut in half. The fuel tank on that wing was also torn open. Hard to believe the plane hadn’t burned when it crashed.

  “The port engine’s the bad one, too. Overall, the electronics are rat-worn, but the hydraulic system seems okay, so the flaps, elevator, and rudder are working. The front windshield has some holes in it. I think the pilot and copilot were shot, which is probably why they crashed.”

  Nina was glowering at us. She had a torn look to her, and I felt responsible for the wedge between her and her grandfather. I knew she was right. Our putting them at risk was unacceptable.

  “It doesn’t matter, Ray. Now that they’ve found Betty we need to go—”

  “No!” the old man said. He and Nina began another duel in Spanish I interrupted at the first pause for breath.

  “She’s right,” I said. “We’ve already put you in too much danger. We—”

  “But she can be fixed,” he said. “Señor Ray says so.”

  “There’s no realistic chance,” I said.

  “Think where Betty’s damaged,” Ray said.

  I looked from him to the old man and back.

  “Her starboard side, where the rocket hit,” I said. “It fried the tail and burned up that side of the fuselage and part of the wing. Lucky we didn’t explode.”

  “But her port wing and engine’s fine, right?”