Havana Run

by Les Standiford

  “Perhaps we can save you a bit of trouble, then,” the man said, a smile spreading under his blanked-out eyes. “We’ve just come from Villas Cayo Hueso, you see. And as Tomás here will verify, there wasn’t a soul to be found, save for your watchman.”

  “Eddie?” Deal said. He wasn’t so much surprised that everyone else was gone as he was that Eddie Hayduke had actually shown up on time.

  “He did not provide us with his name,” the silver-haired man said. “But he did give us this address.”

  Deal glanced again at the Town Car. “Are you down here from Miami?”

  The question brought what seemed like a glare from Tomás, but the man in the suit gave a nod that was somewhere between acquiescence and denial. “We have in fact passed through Miami,” he said.

  Something occurred to Deal then. “You stopped by my offices up there, yesterday. Spoke to my bookkeeper.”

  It seemed to please the man. “Indeed we did, Mr. Deal. I’ve been quite anxious to talk to you. I have a most interesting proposition, you see. And you are the very man I need.”

  “I didn’t get your name,” Deal said.

  “No, you did not,” the man agreed, smiling once again. He raised his hand and snapped his fingers softly. Tomás reached into a pocket of his guayabera and produced—rather deftly for a man his size, Deal thought—what appeared to be a business card. The man in the suit received the card over his shoulder without a backward glance, then extended it between his first two fingers toward Deal. A theatrical gesture, Deal thought, but he appreciated good theater as much as the next person.

  “My name is Fuentes,” the silver-haired man said, in his confident baritone. “Antonio Fuentes. And I have come a great distance to speak with you.”

  Deal descended the staircase far enough to take the card from the outstretched fingers. He glanced at the bodyguard, then more closely at Fuentes. His old man had been a great fan of the black-and-white gangster movies of the forties and fifties. Here was Cesar Romero in the flesh, he thought, unflappableness incarnate.

  He examined the card Fuentes had handed him—no phone number, no address, no company affiliation, simply the name in a bold, flowing script. Deal gave Fuentes a questioning look, and the man made a placating gesture with his hands.

  “Please, Mr. Deal,” he said, indicating the office door behind him. “If I could simply have a few moments of your time. It is my earnest intention to make you a wealthy man.”

  Deal had to stifle a smile at the outrageousness of it, but then again, how often did people show up at his offices offering to make him rich? His old man had probably had characters like Fuentes standing in line on a daily basis, but he was more accustomed to strip-mall developers beating him up for fifty cents off the square foot. He had another look at the cut of Fuentes’ suit, then turned and headed for his door. “All right, Mr. Fuentes, you can come on up.”

  ***

  “How much do you know about Cuba, Mr. Deal?” Fuentes was sitting in one of the battered wicker cabriolets that had apparently served the former occupant of the offices as side chairs, his fingers tented over the plume of his dark red tie. He still wore his sunglasses, an affectation that Deal found annoying.

  Deal glanced at Tomás, who remained standing, hovering at his boss’ shoulder. He was about to answer Fuentes when something dawned on him. “Do you wear your glasses for a reason, Mr. Fuentes?”

  Fuentes offered his saturnine smile. “Are you asking if I am blind?” He raised a finger to the side of his glasses, continuing before Deal could answer. “It is an unusual condition which makes my eyes extremely sensitive to light. In the sunlight, it is very difficult for me. Even here in this room, it seems quite bright.”

  Deal glanced about the office. He’d switched off his desk lamp on his way out earlier, leaving only the late-afternoon light reflecting through the single window on his left. Another half hour, they’d be sitting in the dark. “I’m sorry,” Deal said.

  Fuentes waved it away. “It’s disconcerting, speaking to a man when you cannot see his eyes. I quite understand.”

  “You were asking me about Cuba,” Deal said, trying to get them back on track. “What about it?”

  “I was simply curious,” Fuentes said. “How much you know, the level of your interest.”

  “I’ve lived in South Florida all my life,” Deal said. “It’d be pretty difficult not to know a little bit about the place.”

  “Have you ever traveled there?”

  Deal shook his head. “It’s not all that easy. Are you trying to sell tickets, Mr. Fuentes?”

  Fuentes laughed softly, but Tomás’ face stayed stony. Deal found himself wondering if the bodyguard spoke English. He looked rather Teutonic, but he’d been fooled that way before. “I am not a travel agent, I assure you,” Fuentes said. “I was simply curious.”

  “My old man used to go down to Havana before the revolution,” Deal said. “He had a boat he liked to take there a couple of times a year.”

  “And you never went along?”

  “I was in diapers,” Deal said. “Besides, he was going down there to raise hell.”

  Fuentes nodded. “Havana was a good place for that, back then.”

  “So I hear,” Deal said. “I’m sure there’s a point to all this.”

  “Would you call yourself an impatient man, Mr. Deal?”

  “I’m anxious to get rich, that’s all.”

  Fuentes seemed pleased with that. “Havana was once a magnificent city,” he said. “Is still a magnificent city,” he corrected himself, “though it is crumbling as we speak.”

  Deal nodded. He’d heard the sentiment often enough from architects and others. “Are you Cuban?” he asked Fuentes.

  Fuentes offered his smile before he answered. “I prefer to call myself a citizen of the world, Mr. Deal. But I do have a great interest in the country, and in its potential. That is what I have come to talk with you about.”

  Deal stared. “Are you sure you haven’t got me confused with someone else?”

  “Quite sure, Mr. Deal,” Fuentes said, he shifted in his chair, leaning forward as if giving in to Deal’s impatience. “You see, great changes are impending in this country to the south. Ninety miles from where we sit. Closer by half than to Miami.”

  “And it might as well be a thousand miles,” Deal said.

  “For now,” Fuentes said, dismissively. “But these political impediments that seem so monumental at present will soon disintegrate into nothingness. Think back a few years. One day the Berlin Wall was standing, the next day Coca-Cola was flowing outside the Kremlin.”

  “The situation is hardly the same,” Deal said. “There are plenty of Cubans in Florida who aren’t exactly ready to buddy up with Castro.”

  It brought another dismissive wave from Fuentes. “Soon Castro will be gone,” he said, “and with him will go the fuel that fires the political theatrics you refer to. There is a tide of dollars coming that will sweep all that away forever.”

  “That’s a rather cynical position, Mr. Fuentes.”

  “I would rather call it optimism, Mr. Deal.”

  “I seem to remember a lot of people thinking they’d get rich once the Berlin Wall came down,” Deal said. “But they forgot nobody had any money to buy all the Cokes and Levi’s we were going to sell over there.”

  “Which brings us to the reason I’ve come to talk with you, Mr. Deal. I am not here to talk to you about trade. I’m here to talk about infrastructure.”

  Deal shook his head. “Then maybe you ought to get to it.”

  “You’re a builder,” Fuentes said. “And an intelligent man. I should have thought you’d have pieced it together by now.”

  “My grades were never that good,” Deal said. “Why don’t you help me out?”

  “It’s why I asked if you had ever visited Havana,” Fuentes told him. “If you had, you would realize the scope of the work to which I refer. As one gauge, conside
r that the United Nations presently sponsors a multinational effort to restore certain of the most important structures in Old Havana. The entire budget of this enterprise is less than twenty million dollars annually. You have a practiced eye, Mr. Deal. If you were to survey Habana Vieja and the Malecón for yourself, you would see that twenty billion would scarcely scratch the surface.”

  Some of Fuentes’ reserve had left him now, and his voice had risen to something resembling urgency. “Fifty years of neglect, Mr. Deal. Try to imagine Venice or Florence transported to the tropics and left for fifty years without a single coat of paint, a tightened screw, a roof tile replaced. The scope of the work to be done in restoration alone is enormous. And that does not take into account the amount of new construction that is inevitable: hotels, convention centers, marinas, state-of-the-art port and transportation facilities…”

  “Who’s going to pay for all this?” Deal asked.

  “This is not Bulgaria we’re talking about. People want to travel to Cuba, just as your own father did. Americans will flock there again by the hundreds of thousands, once the obstacles have been cleared and the amenities they seek are in place, and never mind any misguided rabble-rousers who don’t wish to join the parade. The politicians who manipulate them now for profit will be the very ones reaping the rewards of a revitalized Cuba.”

  “Sounds like you’ve got it all figured out, Mr. Fuentes. I still don’t see where I come in.”

  Fuentes paused and sat back in his chair, regarding Deal over his retented fingers as if he were a parent calculating how to handle a troublesome child. “I’ll be honest with you,” he said after a moment. “The truth is that you are convenient.”

  “I’m sorry?”

  Fuentes leaned forward again. “You come highly recommended to us,” he said.

  “Us?” Deal said. He didn’t imagine that Fuentes was talking about him and Tomás. He held up the card bearing Fuentes’ name. “Just who the hell is us, anyway?”

  Fuentes held up a hand meant to calm him. “I represent a group of businessmen, an international consortium with significant ties to interests in the United States as well, who have positioned themselves to be of aid as Cuba struggles to rebuild itself. Not everyone there—and I include some in the present government—is inimical to the prospect of increased foreign development, not even the involvement of individuals from your own country.”

  “Dollars have a way of making friends,” Deal said.

  “Exactamente,” Fuentes said. If he had heard any irony in Deal’s tone, he gave no sign of it.

  “I’m a builder, Mr. Fuentes, not a politician. And the last time I checked, American companies weren’t permitted to do business in Havana or anywhere else in Cuba. When and if that changes, I’d be happy to talk to you and your partners, whoever they are, about the various possibilities, but right now, I think that we’re both wasting our time.”

  “I assure you that we are not,” Fuentes said. He reached inside his suit coat and withdrew an envelope, then laid it on Deal’s desk. Deal eyed it suspiciously. Blank, no addressee, no return address, the same cream-colored linen stock as the card Fuentes had handed him.

  “What’s that?” Deal said.

  “Consider it a retainer,” Fuentes said.

  “For what?” Deal asked.

  “For your services as a consultant.”

  “What if I’m not interested?”

  “Why don’t you open it before deciding?”

  Deal gave Fuentes a look, then picked up the envelope, untucked the flap. Folded inside a sheet of thick stationery bearing Fuentes’ name he found a cashier’s check, made out to John Deal, drawn on a bank in the Cayman Islands. Deal checked the figures, then glanced back at Fuentes.

  “You must have made a typo,” he said. “My bookkeeper just did the same thing.”

  Fuentes smiled. “The amount is correct, I assure you.”

  Deal looked at the check again, just to make sure. “Why would you want to offer me a million dollars, Mr. Fuentes?” Deal’s gaze traveled to Tomás as he spoke. The expression on the bodyguard’s face suggested he shared the same sentiment. So much for questioning his grasp of English, Deal thought.

  Fuentes made the dismissive gesture with his hands again. “It’s simply a first installment. I told you it was my intention to make you a wealthy man.”

  “You’ll have to do better than that,” Deal said, tossing the envelope back on the desk. “I’d be interested to know who sent you here and exactly what services you think I can provide that are worth that kind of money.”

  “I’ll be frank with you,” Fuentes said, and for the first time his tone seemed sincere. “I’m here to take advantage of your pedigree. As you point out, you are not a political animal. Of the half-dozen builders of your rank in South Florida, you’re the only person who wouldn’t have thrown me out of his office the moment I broached the subject and the location of our undertaking. For another, your reputation is impeccable. In fact, it precedes you with our friends inside the ministries to the south. You may not have been aware of it, but your father had many influential friends in Cuba. And not all of them departed during the general Diaspora.”

  “So I’m an honest South Florida building contractor, and as far as Cuban politics goes, a don’t-care-ified one-eyed cat. That’s worth a million dollars?”

  “We think it is,” Fuentes replied. “You are able, honest, well respected, and you carry not an iota of political baggage. For what we hope to accomplish in the coming years, that makes you an extremely valuable person indeed.”

  “In other words, you’re looking for a front man.”

  “Nothing could be further from the truth,” Fuentes said. He pointed at the envelope lying between them. “I hope that the amount does not insult you.”

  Deal tried not to laugh. “I just take this million-dollar check down to the Bank of the Keys and cash it, that’s it? No contract, no guarantees, no nothing?”

  “Your acceptance of the retainer implies your partnership and willingness to represent our interests, of course,” Fuentes said. “Among other things, we’d want you to visit Havana, talk with some knowledgeable people, see with your own eyes the scope of what I have been describing to you.” He shrugged. “We want to be prepared to hit the ground running, as you say, the moment the political climate permits.”

  Deal stared at him, calculating. “If I were to do that, go over there and engage in any serious discussions about building anything in Cuba, and the word got back about what I was up to, I could forget about doing any more business in Miami-Dade County—they might even try to pull me off the port project.”

  Fuentes shrugged. “I understand there’s a certain amount of risk.” He paused and pointed to the envelope on Deal’s desk. “But it is my contention that the rewards far outweigh the downside. Besides,” he continued, gesturing at the site map of the Villas project that Deal had pinned to the wall behind his desk, “it’s my understanding that you’ve come to enjoy your time in Key West. Your work with us should carry no political ramifications in this area. And there’s no reason why you can’t continue the project you’ve already begun while our planning goes forward elsewhere.”

  “I still don’t know who you are or who you work for or with,” Deal said. “Do you really think I’d take this kind of money from someone I didn’t know?”

  “It happens all the time, Mr. Deal.”

  “Not in my life,” Deal said.

  “Simply more proof that you’re our man,” Fuentes said, rising from his chair. “I would have been surprised and even disappointed had you snatched this offer.” He leaned forward and spoke more softly, as if conveying some privileged message. “It is a delicate matter, of course, but I will see that you receive all necessary information regarding the nature and the makeup of our partnership. You’ll look it over and make a decision. I’ve no problem with that, though I hope that I can count on your discretion.”

 
“What makes you think you can trust me?”

  Fuentes offered his smile again. “My confidence in your character is what has led me here, Mr. Deal.”

  Deal stood up then, too. He picked up the envelope and held it out toward Fuentes, who was already headed for the door. “You’d better take your check,” he said.

  But Fuentes continued on without breaking stride. “Keep the check,” he said, holding up a hand. “Tear it up, burn it, cash it, do whatever you decide,” he said, Tomás close on his heels now.

  He paused at the doorway and gave Deal a meaningful glance. “You’re a singular man, Mr. Deal. I look forward to doing business with you.”

  Chapter Seven

  “Well,” came the voice at Deal’s ear, “isn’t this a surprise?”

  He turned from his seat at the Pier House bar to find Angie Marsh standing a few inches away, what looked like a frozen margarita clutched in her hand. The color on her neatly manicured nails matched that on her toes, he realized, and he wondered why he hadn’t noticed as much before.

  The fact that he was working on his second Meyer’s and Coke while he waited for Russell Straight to show might have had something to do with it. When he slowed down, he tended to notice more things, simple as that.

  For instance, he was very much aware that she had changed from her loose-fitting orange print dress into a pair of black slacks and a clinging white tank top that revealed even more of that lovely bone structure he had admired earlier, as well as an inch or so of bronzed skin just above her belt line. It had become abundantly clear to Deal that he would have to keep the inside stairwell door not only locked but possibly nailed shut as well.

  Hire this woman as his secretary? Sure. And why not add Salome and Madonna to the staff while he was at it?

  “Were you waiting for someone?” she asked.

  “I am,” Deal told her. “But he’s late.”

  She regarded him for a moment. “What a coincidence,” she said. “The person I was waiting for hasn’t shown either.”

  “Have a seat?” Deal offered, indicating the stool beside him.