Cuba Straits

by Randy Wayne White

  Ford, walking toward the door, replied, “The 7-Eleven’s still open, if you’re desperate. I’ve got to find my dog.”

  • • •

  FORD’S LAB was an old house on pilings in the shallows of Dinkin’s Bay, just down from the marina, where, on this Tuesday night, people who lived on boats were buttoned in tight but still awake, watching monitors that brightened the cabins along A dock.

  The dog was there, curled up next to the bait tank, probably tired from swimming all day. A picnic table allowed a view of the bay. Ford sat, opened his laptop while explaining to the dog, “I didn’t renew my Internet service because it’s so damn intrusive. And I don’t want to be there when Tomlinson sneaks a joint. Or comes back with more beer.”

  The dog’s eyes sagged open. His tail thumped once. He went back to sleep.

  “People say you need Internet for research? What the hell’s wrong with going to the library? I like libraries—or used to.” Ford, using two fingers, banged at the keys. “Next time—I mean this, by god—Tomlinson is getting a hotel room and he can either ride his bike or call a cab. What kind of grown man asks to do a sleepover? His exact word: sleepover. Then bitches at me about not buying enough beer.”

  More hammering on the keys before he scanned the boats, some held together by epoxy and tape, others expensive yachts. “Crappy reception out here. You’d think one of these people could afford a decent router. Hey”—he was speaking to the dog—“Hey, if I’ve got to sleep in the same house with him, you do, too. Your too-tired-to-walk crap isn’t going to fool me twice. The way he snores, I get it, but I’m the one who needs sleep.”

  Ford zipped the laptop into its case, loaded the dog into his truck, and drove to Blind Pass, telling himself he would cast for snook along the beach on the good outgoing tide despite a waxing moon.

  From the parking lot of Santiva General Store he could look across the road to the beach and colorful cottages of The Castaways, red, green, and yellow, although they appeared gray at eleven p.m. on this breezy night.

  From the back of the truck, Ford selected a spinning rod—an intentional deception. All the cottages were dark but for one where a woman, opening the screen door, said, “I was hoping you’d stop by.”

  • • •

  SHE HAD YET to request or offer an exchange of last names, or personal histories, which created a vacuum of protocol that, to Ford, felt like freedom.

  He asked, “Need any help?” No lights on, the woman was in the bathroom, searching for something—a towel, it turned out.

  “Not with you around. Wasn’t it obvious? That was a new one for me.”

  “It seemed natural, just sort of happened.”

  The woman, voice husky, said, “I wouldn’t mind if it happened again,” and came back into bed.

  Maggie, that was her first name. Whether it was her real name or short for “Margret” or “Marjorie,” he hadn’t risked inquiring. Intimacy with a stranger was a cozy tunnel untethered to the past, open at both ends. Secrets, if shared, would necessarily vanish at first light.

  Seldom had Ford felt so relaxed.

  Later, they talked some more. Him saying, “I know the Cuba idea sounds far-fetched, but it’s an actual business proposition. Usually, I’d put it down on paper, a list of pros and cons, instead of bouncing it off you. You mind?”

  Without using names, he had condensed Rivera’s unusual cover story.

  Maggie started to ask “What kind of business are you . . .” but caught herself and opted for a safer option. “Machine guns and motorcycles, huh? I guess we’re all Huck Finn at heart. I’ve always wanted to go to Cuba—not that I’m fishing for an invite. I’ve got this place booked through Sunday.” She tested the silence for awkwardness, then added, “Havana is beautiful, from the pictures. Have you been?”

  He dodged that. “There are direct flights from Tampa now. That would make it easier.”

  “But is it legal? And, once you get there, is it safe? I read an article about an antiques dealer—he’s from Miami, I think—that he’s in jail, accused of stealing documents from the Castro estate. Paintings and stuff, too. And this other man who tried to smuggle in electronic equipment. Almost four years he’s been in prison.”

  Ford’s attention vectored. “Which Castro?”

  “Well . . . I’m not sure, but they’ve both been sentenced to death by firing squad. Not the Castros, the men I’m telling you about. Or sentenced to life. Some terrible punishment. I’d have to find the article.”

  Ford settled back. “It wouldn’t have made the news if it was true.”

  “You mean it would have made the news.”

  Too late to correct his slip. “Could be. You hear all kinds of rumors about that place.”

  “What I’m saying is, you need to confirm with your friend that what you’re doing is legal. If he is a friend . . . or she is a friend. Either way.” Her hand found Ford’s thigh. “Sorry, none of my business. Tell me the rest.”

  He did, paraphrased a summary he’d written on a legal pad earlier in the lab:

  On December 31, 1958, three American pitchers playing for the Havana Sugar Kings were delayed by extra innings and accidentally trapped when Castro’s army came to power. The players—two from the Midwest, one from the Bronx—weren’t politically savvy but knew it was dangerous to return to Havana until things cooled down.

  They were cautious for good reason: Cuba’s recent dictator, flaunting Caribbean League rules, had personally signed their contracts after bribing them with cash and presents. Bribes included new Harley-Davidson motorcycles and three gold-plated Thompson submachine guns, each personalized and engraved LOYAL BEYOND DEATH—FULGENCIO BATISTA.

  At the end of seventeen innings, when news about the coup circulated into their dugout, that inscription took on a darker meaning. Fulgencio Batista was the recently deposed dictator.

  Everyone in Havana had seen their hot rod Harleys and gaudy rifle scabbards. No denying that. So the three Americans waved good-bye to the team bus, mounted their bikes, and lay low in western Cuba for a week. Ultimately, they swore a blood oath and either hid or buried their valuables before returning to the United States. Because of the embargo, they never went back.

  Ford ended the story, adding, “My friend has a contact who claims to know where the stuff is. It would be fun, I think. Not for the money—if we recover anything, it should go to the players’ families. That part we haven’t discussed. Problem is, my friend might have invented the whole business just to lure me down there so I can help with something else.”

  Maggie, rather than ask the obvious, decided to have fun with it. “They buried their motorcycles . . . my god. That sounds unlikely. Probably hid them, don’t you think? Even if they didn’t, you should go. Adventure for its own sake. We get trapped in ruts, doing what’s expected instead of what we really want.” She squeezed his hand. “I don’t mean to sound maudlin, but I’ve wasted too many years afraid to step off the high board.”

  Ford, loosening up, said, “Might be fun. There’s a species of turtle down there I’ve never seen. Occasionally found in Cuba anyway. A Pacific Ridley. Not that I’m an expert—you were wrong this morning. So yeah, why not? As long as I don’t have to spend too much time with this guy. He can be a lot of work.”

  “Then your friend is a man.”

  “Times two. I thought I made that clear.”

  Maggie—if that was her name—lifted the covers and sprawled atop him, her breath warm. “Good. I don’t care what happens tomorrow, but tonight—I’ll admit it—I’m glad you’re not going with some ballsy woman.”

  “Jealous?”

  “Envious,” Maggie replied, “of any woman with that much nerve. This is my first vacation without training wheels”—she was repositioning her hands—“and, so far, I like the taste of freedom.”

  In the morning, the retriever followed Ford past
the marina office, where Mack, behind the counter, read the sports section as fishing guides fueled and iced their boats. No rush. Fog had displaced the wind with a stillness that dripped from the trees. Poor visibility required a late start.

  Mack called out the window, “Were you there when police showed up at the stadium?”

  Ford was on his way to the beach. “What do you mean?”

  “That Senior League tournament. You had a game last night, didn’t you?”

  “Yeah . . . ?”

  “Says here there were gunshots, but it could have been a car backfiring. That a locker room was robbed and a couple of cars. Must have been quite a game.”

  “You’re kidding. Cars were stolen or just broken into?”

  “During a brawl,” Mack replied, and resumed reading until Ford was inside. “Says here it started because a batsman scored four home runs in two games, which somehow caused a fight.” He peered up through his bifocals. “Is a four-over considered a century? Or is it called a round-tripper?”

  Twenty years since Mack had immigrated from New Zealand, but he still confused baseball with cricket. Ford approached the counter. “Mind if I see that?”

  There were two stories about a game and resulting incident at an old Grapefruit League complex, Terry Park in east Fort Myers, miles from the Twins stadium, which Ford explained.

  Mack, although disappointed, looked on the bright side. “I suppose there are enough ugly rumors about this marina, so I’m glad you weren’t involved. Particularly”—he motioned in the direction of Tomlinson’s mooring buoy—“you-know-who.”

  Ford scanned the newspaper for familiar names and zeroed in on yesterday’s box scores. In the afternoon, a shortstop named F. Casanova had hit three home runs playing for the Dallas BMW Bandits. Last night, pinch hitter F. Casanova, playing for the Tallahassee Orthopedics, had beaten the Dallas team with a solo shot in extra innings.

  Thus the brawl.

  Was F. Casanova “Figueroa,” the general’s missing shortstop? More likely it was “Frank” or “Felipe,” some baseball stud who sold his services to the highest bidder. It happened. Interesting, though, because the locker room and two vehicles had been damaged by forcible entry during the game. It brought to mind Rivera’s missing briefcase.

  There was something else: F. Casanova had vanished by the time police and the news reporter arrived.

  Ford, after asking Mack’s permission, tore out the page. “Tomlinson will want to see this. Is he around?”

  “I sure as hell heard him when I got up to check for water in the rentals. Snoring. Before sunrise, even with this fog, I knew it was him from a hundred yards away. If sleep apnea didn’t kill His Holy Weirdness, I suppose he went to breakfast. Did you check the rack for his bike?”

  Ford went out the door, the dog at heel but jittery when a gaggle of pelicans parted to clear a path.

  • • •

  TOMLINSON’S BEACH CRUISER, with fat tires, AC/DC stickers, and a basket stolen from Fausto’s in Key West, was outside Bailey’s General Store, intersection of Periwinkle and Tarpon Bay, a quarter mile from the marina. Only a few vans and lawn service trucks in the lot. Ford sat on a bench near a bulletin board, watching men exit with coffee and breakfast in Styrofoam containers.

  Not Tomlinson. Two bananas, a bag of scones, and a six-pack of Corona for him.

  “Damn it,” he said, “forgot the limes.” Then looked up from the bag in his hand. “What happened to you last night? I got up to piss around four, you weren’t back. But I smelled coffee before sunrise.”

  Ford replied, “I actually got some sleep,” and handed him the newspaper. “Keep an eye on the dog while you read. I’ll grab limes while I get breakfast.”

  “You’re welcome to a mango scone.”

  “Bottom of the page about a brawl,” Ford said, “the teams from Dallas and Tallahassee. Oh”—he waited until Tomlinson had found the article—“the name of Rivera’s missing shortstop is Figueroa Casanova. Take a look at the box scores.”

  “Is it ‘Figueroa’ or ‘Figgy’? That makes a difference.” Tomlinson stroked his beard while he read. “Geezus, the dude hit four dingers?”

  “Could be a different Casanova.”

  “Not if his name’s ‘Figgy,’ it couldn’t. That’s what I meant, just by the rhythm. A ‘Fran’ or ‘Floyd’ or ‘Federico’ couldn’t hit his weight, not playing shortstop. And sure as hell wouldn’t be my choice to pinch-hit with the game on the line. Yeah, gotta be ‘Figgy’ . . . ‘Figgy Casanova.’ What do you want to bet?”

  Ford had refused a scone but decided to try one. “What I’m curious about is, the locker room was broken into. Did you get to that part?”

  “Don’t pressure me, Doc. It’s too early for speed-reading. Besides, not all illegal immigrant shortstops are thieves. That is semi-racist.”

  “Spare me your guilt-ridden lectures,” Ford replied, then explained about the missing briefcase. “Rivera said Casanova isn’t smart, but he’s loyal. When he wandered off, he left his street shoes and other stuff but took Rivera’s briefcase. I’m projecting, probably no connection whatsoever, but see what I mean? Because that’s what he’d been told to do: watch the thing.”

  Tomlinson liked that. “A position player you can trust, plus he hits for power. What do you think he’d charge to play for us?”

  Ford, walking toward the electronic doors, didn’t remind him their team had been eliminated after a misguided attempt to steal home. When he returned with a salt bagel and coffee, Tomlinson was still reading, but less enamored with the missing shortstop. “The dude went and double-crossed Dallas. He’s nuts. You don’t screw a team from a state that fries killers before the judge’s truck is out of the parking lot. Why would the generalissimo trust Casanova with anything valuable?”

  “Rivera said the briefcase contains some letters, personal stuff, nothing worth much. But it wouldn’t be the first time he’s lied to me. The man’s tricky. He’s got a very nasty edge—don’t let the charm fool you.” No reason to add that, during Masagua’s first revolution, Rivera had put a bounty on Ford’s head—ten thousand córdobas, dead or alive. But then, a few years later, at a baseball tournament in Cartagena, he had greeted him like a long-lost friend.

  The generalissimo’s team needed a bull pen catcher, turned out.

  “He claims he doesn’t have a cell phone and wouldn’t say where he’s staying. So we’ll have to wait until this afternoon—if he shows. I’ve got work to do in the lab anyway.”

  Something else Ford intended to do was check for articles about items stolen from the Castro estate.

  Tomlinson had folded the page to “Senior League Tournament,” “Today’s Games.” “Dallas is playing the Long Island Starbucks at ten a.m., Terry Park. A clash of cultures, man, in the loser’s bracket. You know how grueling that shit is. Two or three games in one day and both teams desperate for players who can still walk. I think we’ve got a shot at starting.”

  Ford, fussing with the dog’s collar, shook his head.

  “Your call, man. You going for a run?”

  “To the Island Inn and back, hopefully eight-minute miles or better. Then pull-ups. I need to start pushing myself.”

  “Sure. Pain is a lot more fun than baseball,” Tomlinson replied. “If I can get my van started, I’ll let you know how things shake out.”

  • • •

  IN 1921, a baseball-loving farmer donated cattle pasture east of Fort Myers in the hope of attracting a major league team to spring training. Connie Mack’s Philadelphia Athletics obliged. Although teams changed through the decades—Pittsburgh, then the K.C. Royals—the baselines of the main diamond had not moved an inch since 1925.

  Tomlinson loved that about Terry Park. He sat in his van, windows open, soaking up history while the morning sun baked the fog away. Senior League games didn’t attract fans, so players’ cars
were clustered behind the stadium but not on the grass near the gate. That’s why Tomlinson had chosen this spot, out here in the Bermuda flats, close to the old clubhouse, but not because the locker room had been robbed. He was a man who valued solitude for practical reasons—such as lighting a joint after amping up Springsteen’s “Glory Days” until the bass vibrated in his heart. Then held his breath so long he had to relight the joint, which was okay, because he also valued ceremony.

  Next up, Tomlinson decided, he’d play Warren Zevon, with the Stones on deck and Jimi Hendrix in the hole. No . . . Buffett was a better choice to hit cleanup. Captain Jimmy prolonged the amperage of a buzz; he sort of took the tiller until mist cleared unto another fine day.

  This was a bold move that required a lineup change. Which is why Tomlinson was pawing through a box of CDs when a man, his face obscured by a towel, appeared in the van’s mirrors. The man was barefoot and shirtless, all skin and muscle, built low to the ground, maybe five-five on a tall day, with baseball spikes slung over his shoulder and wearing a towel like a hoodie.

  Tomlinson sat up straight, cupped the joint, and let his paranormal powers assist his eyes.

  Hmm . . . were those Santería beads hanging from the guy’s equipment bag? Yep. Beads of red and black. They hinted at the man’s identity despite the towel over his head. If true, this was one ballsy finesse, attempting to sneak onto the field this morning after causing so much trouble last night.

  Tomlinson made a clucking sound of approval and used a boney hand to motion the stranger closer. “Aquí, amigo,” he called. “Over here.”

  The little man tilted his head to sniff the air, sniffed again and appeared interested. Then started toward the van—which is when two sheriff’s deputies exited the locker room and scanned the parking lot. An instant later, an equipment bag banged through the van’s window. The little man followed, small and agile enough to land curled up on the floor like a cat. With his hands, he urged Get moving.