Little Havana Exile

by Hale Chamberlain

  The other option was to go underground and hope the Cubans forget about him, which admittedly was even more of a long shot.

  Either way, Teddy was determined to get as far from South Beach as quickly as possible. He looked around, his heart pumping fast. There was hardly a soul in the streets. This side of Ocean Drive was quiet as it gets, there wouldn’t be any melting away into the masses here. The jam-packed Art Deco districts and its stylish hotels and cabarets were far up the avenue. He needed a vehicle, and fast.

  He could see a car in the distance, driving away from him, but none coming his direction. He paused to consider where to go. He was breathless, and wasting any more energy unnecessarily in the middle of a chase was a risk that was not worth taking.

  As he scouted the adjacent street, it hit him. Joe’s Stone Crab! That’s gotta be it!

  Teddy dashed left on South Pointe Drive, moving his skinny-fat legs with a velocity that seemed to defy the laws of physics. The sudden flow of adrenaline pumped into his limbs was so overwhelming that he reached his destination, past the intersection of Washington Avenue, in record time.

  Joe’s Stone Crab was the busiest food joint of South Beach by some margin. Patrons would flock from all over Miami Dade to taste the much sought-after Florida stone crab claws. Notorious guests of the institution included Al Capone, Frank Sinatra, and probably Joaquin Herrera.

  In any case, Teddy blew a sigh of relief as he turned the corner. The place was bustling with city socialites looking to be seen. The line of cars waiting to park near the restaurant was in complete contrast with the desolate roads and boulevards situated only a couple of blocks away.

  Spotting a young couple stepping out of a white Ford Mustang, Teddy raced in their direction. Without warning, he grabbed the man’s hand, caught the keys sliding out of his palm, and pushed him vigorously on the sidewalk.

  Teddy said, “Promise, I’ll take care of your baby.” The woman screamed in horror. Teddy winked at her.

  He got in the car, started the engine, and second later the Mustang was hurtling on Alton Road. Moments later, the tires creaked as he turned on the MacArthur Causeway bridge.

  He gazed up at the interior rear-view mirror, leaving the peninsula in his stride, and was relieved to see that nobody was following him. In the eerie early hours of the morning, as he drove in silence the Magic City, it finally dawned on him that his mentor had been iced in a shameless ambush. A sudden feeling of anxiety seized him, and he squeezed hard on the steering wheel. Paco! Bloody Cubanos, you’ll pay. I swear, you’ll pay tenfold what you did to them!

  Now that he was presumably away from the men who wanted him dead, Teddy thought back at what Santi told him earlier that night. All necessary evidence had supposedly been gathered over the years. He remembered that Santi said copies were dispersed in multiple locations, as a fail-safe.

  Where the hell did you hide those goddam papers, Paco? And why didn’t you fill me in!

  For the first time since he had landed in Florida a decade ago, Teddy felt completely out of place. His closest friend and associate had not deemed it judicious to let him in on his plans to overthrow el Padrino.

  As he entered Dolphin Expressway, the dazzling sun slowly rising on the horizon kept him awake and alert. Teddy mulled over the possible locations of the cogent evidence. Their shared apartment was definitely too small to be a safe storage place for documents of that importance, and associates close to Herrera occasionally came over to discuss business. Santi must have had some copies, as did Nacho. But they were both sleeping with the fishes now.

  Teddy could think of a few restaurants and clubs whose owners had a close relationship with Paco, but they were all closed at this hour and wouldn’t open before eleven A.M. Then, there was the possibility that Paco sent some copies to Cuba. Can’t retrieve those ones, Teddy thought.

  Fuck it! I’ll start at the beginning.

  He changed his course, turning on NW 22nd Avenue, and two minutes later he pulled over the white Mustang on the sidewalk, only a street away from their apartment in Little Havana.

  CHAPTER 18

  Teddy had to pause for a moment as he crossed the doorstep of the apartment. This was the place he associated the most with his late friend, and a heart-wrenching feeling of loneliness pervaded his mind as he peeked into the empty apartment. He had been on edge since the first shot had been fired on Fisher Island earlier that night. Only now did the full realization of the horror of the night set in. This was a different kind of mourning than after the death of James Wilkinson. Teddy had matured considerably in the decade that had passed since that fateful day, and even though he could feel a raging anger blazing through every cell of his being, he had learned to contain it. At least momentarily.

  The five-hundred square foot he was standing in had been the bedrock of his life in Miami. With half the Cuban mafia after him, he would have to abandon the two-bed flat. Hell, he had no idea where he would live come the next day.

  The place was far from tidy, but it wasn’t dirty either. Paco would call it an organized chaos, Teddy recalled. In truth, while the rare furniture was positioned optimally, the sheer number of junk accumulated over the years made the place look like an elderly residence. There was a nostalgic feel to it, as if someone had used it as a storage room for the quaint memories of a lifetime.

  Teddy’s immediate concern, however, was to see beyond the rubbish and find the evidence that Paco had gathered in secret for years and dispersed in unknown locations. It dawned on Teddy that this whole ordeal could have been a very entertaining treasure hunt, under different circumstances.

  He inhaled deeply and set in a frantic and methodical search of the place, beginning with Paco’s bedroom. He turned his wardrobe and drawers upside down. Beyond flashy shirts and crocodile boots, there was no sign of the invaluable files. He left no corner unchecked, even tearing apart the bed mattress. Anyone coming to the scene afterward would have legitimately believed a burglary had occurred. He found nothing there.

  Next, he moved to the living room where he applied the same vigor to rummaging the pile of various objects on top of each other, but without any more success. The only notable find was a pile of $100 banknotes in plastic bag loosely dissimulated under a tile of the parquet flooring, which he placed in his jacket’s interior pocket.

  Paco, you sneaky bastard, where did you hid those bloody documents? It’s not in your bedroom, not in the common room. Wait…You wouldn’t have…

  Teddy burst into his own bedroom. If he wanted me to find something, he would definitely place it where I was most likely to find it, Teddy reasoned. He spent the following ten minutes inspecting every square inch of the room, including the corners of the ceiling, the floor, and the walls – without the slightest hint of evidence against Herrera. Out of idea, he went through the clothes in his wardrobe, checking each pocket of his trousers and jackets.

  As he examined an old piece of clothing tucked inside a box, his fingers felt something unusual. Pulling out the object, he realized it was the card an old Englishman had given him long ago. The carton read Keith Price, CEO Boat Masters Ltd. Teddy smiled ever so faintly at the recollection of the colorful character. That had been a decade ago, but he remembered fondly the poise of the man.

  A honk coming from the road outside startled him. He peered through the window and saw that the quiet night was slowly making way for the familiar hustle and bustle of Little Havana, just as the first rays of sun begun to light up the most obscure recesses of the awakening neighborhood.

  It was still early in the morning, but the first pedestrians were already filling up the streets. Teddy noticed the bolita van was already parked on the sidewalk at the intersection.

  He was about to resume ransacking his apartment when an incoming car drew his attention. On closer inspection, the vehicle looked familiar somehow, but he couldn’t place it.

  The vehicle stopped on the side of the road across the bolita van and two of its occupants got out. Teddy c
ould smell trouble on the horizon, as DEA agent Parker and one of his beefy colleague stretched their legs on the sidewalk. Both of them seemed to be wearing bulletproof vests.

  What the fuck are those weasels doing here? Teddy wondered if their convenient arrival was linked to the event from earlier that night. He knew it was.

  He spun around and gazed at his bedroom in bewilderment. It was completely upside down. There was no way around it, if what he was looking for had been here, he would have found it.

  He decided to confront the cops, who he reckoned might know more than he did. A remote possibility was that Paco had arranged that a copy of the documents be sent to the nosy narco agents.

  When Teddy finally came out of the building, the DEA agents seemed unsurprised to see him.

  “Look who’s here, young Theodore Harper. The simple half of the city’s finest comedy pair,” Parker said.

  Teddy paced toward the agent and broke his brisk pace abruptly right in front of the man’s face, glaring at him scornfully straight in the eyes. He said, “It’s just me now, as you probably already know, you dirty packrat.”

  The beefy agent took a step forward, his tensed face signaling he was ready for physical confrontation. Agent Parker raised his hand in front of him, and said, “Don’t bother, Frank, the man will drop his tough guy act soon enough.” Frank’s facial features returned to normal, which was to say that of a steroid-inflated bodybuilder lookalike with a DEA badge. He was wearing tar trousers, and a short-sleeved white shirt under his vest. Both men had purposely left their shoulder holsters in plain sight.

  Parker continued, “Look, kid, I couldn’t care less about the little feud within your Corporacion. We’ve known for years that you guys were a ticking bomb waiting to explode. Well, I guess it just burst into your face spectacularly. I have no empathy for any dead Cuban. And neither does Frank. “

  Teddy clenched his fists, but he was careful not to do anything reckless just now. He would avenge his friend the right way this time.

  Frank spoke next. “This doesn’t look good for you, kid. If Herrera’s indeed decided to purge your little rebel circle, you won’t last a week. Look, here’s the deal–”

  The conversation came to an abrupt close as the hiss of tires resonated further down on Calle Ocho. A black Chevrolet drove at high speed and pulled at the intersection of SW 19th Avenue, barely a hundred yards away from them. Four Cubans exited the vehicle and Teddy immediately recognized them as Herrera’s henchmen, even at that distance. They came for him, there was no doubt about that. And he knew it was about to get ugly.

  Parker rushed to his car, opened the door and grabbed the radio, “Agent Parker. Requesting immediate backup. Intersection of Calle Ocho and SW 18th. Armed men likely to engage in confrontation.” He took out the siren stored in the glove box, smashed it on the roof of the car, and turned it on.

  Passersby glanced at the car worryingly and were fleeing the scene as the screams from the warning device propagated through nearby blocks.

  The palpable tension was broken by a sturdy yet screeching voice resonating from across the street. “Chicos, que pasa ahora? What is going on? Teddy boy, is that you?”

  Teddy glanced across at the van, where the call had originated. Old Cristina was standing behind the counter and she looked unsettled. Teddy crossed the road hastily and the Cubans followed him with their gaze.

  “Abuelita, this is not safe here, something really bad just happened. Please pack up for now and come back in a few hours.”

  The woman, now well into her eighties, looked anxious but resolute. This very spot had been her workplace for an outrageous number of years, and she wasn’t going to leave it without a fight, much less take the advice of a young Englishman.

  “Where is my Paco?” she asked. “You look awful, amor, what’s going on?”

  “Cristina, please listen to me. Take the morning off. Paco is…he’s dead Cristina, and the same people who killed him are coming for me now.”

  The woman’s eyes widened and she let out a crisp high pitch shriek. She covered her mouth with her hand, and tears started to fill up her eyes, but she resisted the urge to cry. Teddy felt a pinch in his heart at the sight of the old woman’s anguish, yet in a matter of seconds, she put herself back together and disappeared into the back of her van.

  CHAPTER 19

  The four Cubans at the other end of the street appeared mesmerized by the DEA car. One of them was holding a voluminous mobile phone. It looked as if he was receiving instructions from someone on the line.

  Teddy glared over at them and felt that the presence of two narco agents wasn’t going to do much in the way of delaying what they had in mind for him. Herrera could be even more convincing than a couple trained officers. And the Corporacion was vindictive where the American judicial system tried to be righteous. The goddamn Hispanics are plotting how they’re gonna cook us, Teddy thought.

  Agents Parker and Frank were bracing themselves for a nasty face-off. They both moved to the other side of the car, in case the Cubans decided to drive past them and open fire.

  Across the road, Cristina re-appeared at the counter. “Teddy, chico, take this,” she urged, producing a large bulky envelope. Immediately, Teddy felt a faint glimmer of hope. He was still nervous about the skittish Cuban contingent observing them from afar, but what Cristina held in her hand might just be his salvation.

  She went on, “Paco told me to keep this hidden and give it to you in case he…:” She sighed. “I’ve had a peek, I couldn’t help it, and it’s–”

  A first detonation was heard in the distance, and the van trembled almost unnoticeably when the flying bullet pierced through the upper right corner of the vehicle’s steel frame. The ensuing symphony of gunshots stunned the old woman. The files slipped from her extended hand, and Teddy rushed back to the DEA car across the street for cover.

  Ten seconds later, the gunfire ceased. Frank and Parker were ducked behind the car’s hood. Both front doors were open for additional protection.

  Teddy slid to their side. Crouched between the two agents, he threw a rapid glance at the van. It was damaged, but he breathed a sigh of relief as he saw the old woman unscathed. She got out through the rear door and was crouching in fear.

  Frank stood up and fired five times at the Cubans, who found cover behind their vehicle. He squatted back down. “If they come anywhere near us, we’re fucked!”

  “Surely you’ve got a gun, kid. Don’t be shy now, take it out!” Parker said.

  “Lost it on Fisher Island while escaping those bastards,” Teddy fired back.

  A new wave of bullets hit the DEA car. They all ducked. It’s an all-out fucking war! How bad do they want to kill me? How far are they ready to go for Paco’s posthumous secrets?

  “Listen up,” Teddy said. “The envelope on the floor over there contains everything you’ll need to lock up Herrera for good.” He pointed in the direction of the van. “Paco’s been gathering incriminating intel on Herrera for months, if not years.”

  Frank and Parker glanced at each other, bemused.

  A muted siren was roaring in the distance, largely covered by the one blaring on top of the DEA vehicle.

  The four Cubans looked to be arguing and cursing at the missed opportunity. Without delay, they jumped in the car.

  Teddy continued, “If the Cubanos figured out what’s inside that envelope, they’ll stop at no cost to put their hands on it.”

  Parker nodded. “I’ll get the damn thing, take my gun. You guys cover me.”

  “They’re moving! Towards us! It’s now or never!” Frank shouted.

  Agent Parker shoved his gun into Teddy’s hand and scurried toward the van on the other side of the road. A spatter of gunfire swept the street in all its width. Parker managed to pick up the envelope from the ground and plunged behind the van. Cristina was squatting there, staring at him in disbelief.

  Teddy and Frank retaliated with full force, emptying their magazine in the span of a fe
w seconds.

  Moments later, the black Chevrolet zoomed between the DEA car and the van, as the sirens from nearby police cars got increasingly louder. And just as fast, the car full of Cubans vanished on SW 18th Avenue.

  A holler echoed from the side of the van, and Frank dashed to the opposite sidewalk, closely tailed by Teddy. Cristina was on her knees. Agent Parker was cowered in her lap and bleeding profusely.

  Frank threw himself at their side. “Buddy! Hold in there, back-up’s almost there. Don’t leave us now!”

  “Calm down for fuck’s sake. It’s just my leg, I’ll survive.” Parker said, squinting at the pain from the open wound.

  Teddy looked down at the DEA agent. His bulletproof vest had been hit in at least three places, and a fourth bullet had lodged in his right thigh.

  “Nasty shit! If the femoral artery’s touched, you better take care of that quickly.” Teddy said.

  “Thanks, Doc’, why don’t you shoot yourself in the head now!” Parker hurled the envelope at Teddy, who caught it clumsily. It was covered in blood, but the content seemed intact.

  Cristina was applying a tourniquet to the agent’s leg when two police cars pulled over next to the bolita van.

  “That was bloody close,” Teddy said. “Thanks for recovering that, Paco died for that information.”

  The two agents frowned, and Parker said, “Keep the false hopes away, the hardest part starts now. Whether those documents indeed inculpate Joaquin Herrera and his closest associates is one thing. Actually, catching the man is another undertaking entirely. The man’s probably far from Miami already.”