Once More to Die

by Jim Johnson

  She got out of the SUV and went inside. Doubtless she had long since figured he didn’t want to be seen, in person or on security camera if he could help it.

  When she returned with the room key, she said, “You had to fill in type of car and tag number. I just wrote Toyota, not the make, and I scrambled the tag number so if they check it looks like a mistake, not deliberate misinformation.”

  “You are a quick study, college girl.” He wondered how she would react to sharing a room. So far she had not objected, nor had she complained. Was she worried about her virtue? “Like a fucking movie,” he laughed.

  They went and found a nearby barbecue restaurant, ate quickly and quietly, and went to their room.

  “221?” said Tommy. “Sherlock Holmes’ street address. Baker Street. Actually, it was 221B, but we won’t quibble.”

  She looked at him strangely as he dumped his duffle bags on the floor.

  “Been a long day,” he said. “Lesson four, or whatever number we’re up to: RHIP.”

  “Okay, I give. What is RHIP?”

  “The acronym for rank hath its privileges. Means I got the bathroom first,” he said digging clothes out of one of his bags.

  In a little while, he came out of the bathroom showered and shaved, in shorts and a T-shirt. “Next.”

  She went into the bathroom with her bag. Later when she came out, he was lying in bed under the covers reading. She was dressed in lacy hiphuggers and a low cut sleeveless top.

  “Merde,” he said, and she looked at him quizzically. He did not explain.

  She went over and tilted his book so she could read the cover. “Collapse, by Jared Diamond.” Phantom cinnamon wafted over him and another unidentifiable pheromone grabbed his attention.

  “Interesting book.”

  “Strange book,” she said, “about cultures and societies making it or dying.”

  “Strange?” he asked. “Because of me reading it? Or what?”

  “I read the one before it, Guns, Germs, and Steel. Fascinating.”

  He looked up at her as if his eyes were focusing over the top of a pair of glasses.

  “I ain’t discussing theoretical history and culture with an attractive skimpily-clad young lady standing in front of me with a suggestive hip stuck out. Have you no modesty?”

  “Oh.” Her surprise was almost genuine. She went over to her bed and turned down a corner of the cover.

  “Look here, Pocahontas, we gotta talk about boy-girl stuff.”

  “Um, okay, Tommy.”

  “What’s your plan? How long you figger you gonna need to hide out?”

  She shrugged, sitting down on the bed. “I don’t know. Maybe until I can find some things out in Miami. Determine where I stand.” She told him about her conversation with Tillie.

  Atkins wondered if his special talents could be employed to help her. It certainly was not his intention. He did admit he’d been in a few wars, and not all military and patriotic. But he wasn’t prepared to engage life again. He had to stay hidden.

  “Sometimes,” he opined, “problems work themselves out, especially big ones.”

  She laughed at him without mirth. “Yeah, right. Tell my father that.”

  “Point taken, but back to my original concern. You are a very attractive young lady. It ain’t my intention of jumping your bones, I mean, ravaging you. But you gotta do your part. You can’t run around like that at night—or in the day, for that matter.”

  She smiled impishly. “You don’t like me?”

  “Dumbass question, María Elena. Don’t go all girly on me here. Remember I have seen your glorious naked body. Sure, it’s fine and admirable. But I don’t go where I ain’t invited. And you goddamn well best not be playin’ any games.” He paused for a short grin. “Did I pass the test?” Actually, he thought she was pretty smart: get it out in the open and do it right away. Determine where they stood with each other. She had been testing the waters, whatever her intentions were. Maybe she just wanted to know if she could trust him. Or, she could want to know if he was attracted to her. Sure, she had a streak of vanity and he hadn’t made a pass at her. Must have gotten to her.

  “I need some frumpy jammies.”

  “Frumpy jammies? Yeah, that’ll help.”

  She looked under her brows at him. “Are you gay? Or what?”

  He shook his head. “Hell, no. And you might be about to find out. Lemme sleep.”

  “Can I use your laptop?” She wore a sly smile as if she’d just proved something to herself.

  He nodded. It held absolutely nothing personal of his; just the results of his reading news, sports, and Amazon.com links. “I trust you know enough to stay away from places you can be traced? Don’t sign in or otherwise identify yourself—or my computer. Use the private browsing setting.”

  “Yes, Tom.”

  “Tommy.”

  “Yes, Tommy.”

  “And tomorrow, you’re going to brief me on what the hell you’ve gotten me into. I am not going into this mess blind.”

  “Yes, Tommy.”

  As she brought his computer to her bed, he turned out his light and rolled over facing away from her. She watched him pull his .380 out from under his pillow and place it on the bedside table.

  “What was the second book?”

  “The second book?”

  “You brought two books.”

  “I have a bunch more electronical books on my Kindle machine and my laptop,” he said avoiding the question. His opinion of her rose even more: it was likely she was smart enough to make some educated guesses when he told her the title of the other book he’d brought. After all, she knew the Jared Diamond books. Likely she knows this one. And Tommy Atkins wasn’t ready to provide any clues to his life.

  “Password?”

  “VICAR. All caps.”

  When he woke, he opened his eyes to María Elena sitting back on only her right knee, rail straight against the wall alongside the television. Her left leg was bent behind her at the knee and was also rail straight up the wall. At least she was dressed in gym shorts now. Then she folded her right leg up behind her. Then she performed some other in-place exercises.

  “A more upscale motel or hotel will have an exercise room,” she pointed out, “and I wouldn’t have to bother you.” She waved a pair of elastic exercise resistance bands she’d apparently bought at the mall.

  “Everything you do bothers me, Pocahontas.”

  When they finished breakfast, he sent her down Thomasville Road to find a mall and fill out her wardrobe. He gave her another big handful of twenties and fifties.

  “How much money do you have?”

  “I dunno. Maybe a hundred large. Maybe more.”

  “You don’t know? A hundred thousand—maybe?”

  He shrugged. “Also, buy a cheap wide mouth purse, a cheap wallet, a couple of handkerchiefs, some hairpins, lipstick, aspirins, and loose tampons. The usual things that fill up a woman’s purse.”

  “A throwaway? I’m intrigued.”

  “Also buy one of those Swiss Army knives for your own purse.”

  When he didn’t explain, she said, “Anything else?”

  “Yes. Get enough frumpy jammies for the duration.”

  “How long is the duration?” she wanted to know.

  “Beats me.”

  “All right, Tommy, whatever.”

  He went back to the room. She returned with an armful of shopping bags and another small suitcase. Carefully, she folded all of her new clothes and packed them.

  After they loaded the Toyota, he tossed her the keys. “West on Interstate 10.”

  “How far?”

  “We’ll see.”

  They drove west for an hour, and then Atkins said. “Fess up, Pocahontas. It’s time.”

  After a moment, she said, “Is this going to be reciprocal?”

  He shook his head. “Nope.”

  “I’m not prying, Tommy. I really want to know.”

  “You’re stalling, colleg
e girl.”

  She grinned. “You betcha.” She thought for a minute. “Okay.” She cruised past an eighteen-wheeler and settled in on the right lane.

  “My father—“

  “He got a name?”

  “Don Carlos Vasquez.”

  “Everybody’s a don.”

  “It is a title of respect. It is protocol for certain people.”

  “Even Don Diego, the assassin?”

  “That’s different. We didn’t used to think he was a, a killer, but…”

  “Tell the story in order.”

  “Stop interrupting then.”

  “Yes, dear.”

  Ignoring his sarcasm, she glanced at all mirrors, inside and driver’s side and passenger side occasionally.

  “My father, he has always been against Fidel. And all the other sons of bitches that ran Cuba and still do. He married my mother. She was one of his co-conspirators and twenty years younger than he. She—“

  “She got a name?”

  “Oh, yes, sorry. Isobel Perez Guerrero. My mother—“

  “Was she as pretty as her daughter?”

  María Elena glared at him. “More so. Muy hermosa. Let me tell the story.”

  “Go on.”

  She pulled out into the fast lane behind a Buick. “I hate people who go slow in the fast lane.”

  “Me, too, but do not draw attention to us.”

  “Yes, dear,” she mimicked.

  “Tell it, stop stalling.”

  She took a breath. “Alpha 66, Cuban American National Foundation—or CANF. Two Cuban exile organizations. The former more militant and the latter much less so. 13 is more like the latter but has been around longer, and is not as well known. All dedicated to the establishment of democracy in Cuba. Alpha 66 used to do violent things, blowing up stuff and hijacking and more. Papá founded 13 in memory of my mother to peacefully work for democracy. But here is the key: it was also designed to be ready and have in place plans for a peaceful transfer to democracy when Raul and Fidel and their legacy descendants are gone and the long awaited normalization takes hold.”

  “Maybe some general has a different idea,” Tommy pointed out.

  “It is possible, of course. But they are ready with money and more money. Can you imagine what will happen when Cuba opens up? Billions will flow, and not just from the United States. No self-respecting general is going to miss out on his share.”

  “Point taken.”

  María Elena adjusted her Miami Dolphins hat so that the ponytail fit better through the opening above the snap-lock strap. This made the hat appear to sit on back of her head and the bill point more upwards. She was wearing low cut jeans and a tight top, also low cut. She was going to drive him to distraction. “Fast forward. Those days are nigh upon us. The future is here. There is a power struggle amongst even us, the Cuban community, to be the first with the most. Cuban ex-pats are drooling over the future.”

  “You, too? You’re a full Americano, Pocahontas.”

  “I am, and damn proud of it. But, yes, certainly I have an overwhelming proprietary interest. My friends, my family, my family’s life has been tied to this.”

  “Fine with all the philosophy. Gimme the facts.”

  “Don Diego. My father many, many years ago—“

  “How long?”

  “About twelve, perhaps fourteen.” She avoided his gaze by checking all her mirrors. “My father brought him into the movement. He was a respected half Cuban, half Mexican.”

  “And?” He sensed her reluctance to talk.

  “My father was becoming elderly and needed an heir.” She couldn’t hide the bitterness in her voice.

  “Ah, now I’m beginning to understand. You were it and then you weren’t.”

  “Latin macho paternalism,” she said. Then she shrugged. “I understand it, yes; but I don’t have to like it. Nowadays even more.”

  “Meaning?”

  “I am no longer eighteen years old.”

  “Nowadays you’d be forceful in your own behalf.”

  “Correct.”

  “Fill in the blanks, María Elena.”

  She glanced annoyance at him. “I became the voice of our operation. I was an internationally known blogger—“

  “You mean you are.”

  She paused. “Yes. I guess I still am. The cause remains.”

  “What remains,” he said, “is why it came to murder and rape?”

  “Assassination. That’s what he did. He assassinated Papá.”

  “Why, college girl?”

  “Because of me,” she said bitterly. Then she went on quickly, “I discovered some things about Don Diego. He had slowly taken over the organization, of course. He was supposed to. Suddenly I noticed that many of the old guard were no longer in position or even active in the organization. Diego had all of the power positions filled with men of his own choosing.”

  “I’m guessing it gets worse.”

  `“Just how long is this panhandle of Florida?” She shook her head as a PENSACOLA 100 MILES sign flashed by.

  “Too long,” said Tommy. “I’d feel better if we were out of the state. You never know what the Florida Highway Patrol has been told to look for. Alabama is just past Pensacola and likely the alarm, if any, won’t spill over.”

  “You’re always thinking. And you know, of course, that I have no ID, specifically a driver’s license.”

  “I am always trying to think ahead. And I don’t have a license I want to show, either. If you drive carefully within the rules, we’ll be okay. So what happened? It ain’t hard to guess you found out some bad stuff about Don Diego.”

  “I did that. He now has iron control of 13. One of my jobs is to do a quick occasional informal audit of the books. I found some things didn’t make sense. And began digging deeper. And asking questions under the table. What I found was probably only the tip of the iceberg. Don Diego had turned a fine and peaceful organization into a cover for his nefarious dealings.”

  “What nefarious dealings?”

  “Human trafficking. Maybe drugs. I think it might be possible that Diego is also funneling intelligence into and out of Cuba.”

  “A double agent?”

  “I do not know, Tommy. But he sort of bragged about it when he grabbed Papá and me. Without specifying.”

  “You’re saying you don’t know who Diego is conniving with?”

  “I do not. You have to understand the politics. It could well be he is being paid by Raul or his agents. It is equally likely that the CIA is paying him for intel. Or the CIA is paying him to be a double agent while he spies for Cuba. Or the other way around.”

  “My head hurts.” Atkins was beginning to understand the scope of their problem. “Could be any threat to Don Diego in turn threatens some kind of pipeline he is using for the CIA. If you can get people in and out, then who’d notice a few agents going and coming?”

  “Yes. They will accommodate a lot of illegalities to maintain that pipeline. Especially with an eminent transition of power. This all the condensed version. To finish, every few months, we do military training outside of Miami. But when we do certain other training, with all the so called soldiers, the government lets us use a big tract of land nearby where you live.”

  “Not any more.”

  She shook her head ruefully. “I am sorry, Tommy.”

  He shrugged. She was driving well: not that he was being judgmental, just that he had to know if he could trust her when and if they landed in some dangerous situation.

  “Somehow Diego got wind of my informal investigation. I had told Papá and he knew. But we had no real proof and Papá did not yet know how to deal with the problem or with Don Diego.”

  “They grabbed you and drug you over to my area.”

  “Yes.” She was silent, thinking, for a moment. “A real Latin coup.”

  “Shit. I bet it gets worse.”

  “Summary time: yes. It’s worse. We don’t know if Diego is plotting to assassinate Raul or whatev
er general is in charge nowadays and claim the mantle of leadership. We don’t know that if and when the government of Cuba falls, that Diego might want to take over and become the next dictator. It is a position of power and authority. My father built 13 into a well-respected group. There was to be no counter-revolution. We were to bide our time and become a bridge to democracy when the time came.”

  “Diego must hate you.”

  “All the illegal activities have made him enormous amounts of money. That was the first thing he did not want jeopardized, much less his future plans. Not only had I found him out, but also I was a threat to his leadership. Since I was my father’s daughter and times are now different, women can be in charge. Nor was I any longer eighteen and not yet capable of doing the job. Diego resented the status I’d earned by my blogging.” “He gave you to his men before he was going to have you killed.”

  Her jaw clinched. “Yes. I’d come real close to thwarting his plans and an animosity had grown between us, a poison.”

  Tommy guessed there was more to it than that.

  At that moment Tommy was thinking that her anger was spilling over to her father for not crowning her his political heir. But way down deep where he didn’t use the thought process, he knew there was more to this than what she had just told him. The thought process did not take him that far because he was in the middle of realizing a massive problem.

  “Okay, María Elena, calm down. Enter Tommy Atkins stage left. Now here we are.” He looked at her and they shared thoughts. That scared Tommy worse than the actual thoughts. And those actual thoughts were of their death sentences.

  “I’m sorry, Tommy. I didn’t mean to drag you into this.”

  Yes, she knew all right.

  “I don’t usually say something which goes without saying.” Tommy scratched his head. “Watch the road, Pocahontas.”

  “Yes, Tommy.” She was very contrite.

  “But I’m gonna say it to make sure it is crystal clear. One can see where this Don Diego needs you dead in the worse way.”

  “Yes, Tommy.”

  “And not only does he have his own resources, but he’s got the CIA, too.”