Cuba Straits

by Randy Wayne White

  Tomlinson smiled down from the steering wheel. “Dude . . . I love your act already.”

  “My brother,” the man replied, “that pitillo, it smells fine, but not so fine in jail, huh? Let me hold that thing while you drive.”

  “You’re from Cuba, aren’t you? A shortstop, I’d wager.”

  Figueroa Casanova formed a V with his fingers and accepted the joint with a smile.

  • • •

  WHAT FIGUEROA couldn’t understand is why, after only five days in America, so many angry men had chased him, some with bats, but one with a pistola, and now police were after him, too.

  “I come here, all I want to do is play baseball. In Cuba, we play all day, all night if there’s no cane to cut or I’m not in jail. Why is such a simple matter so crazy? Amigo, my ears hurt, those men yell at me so loud.”

  Tomlinson pulled into the old armory, no cars around, just seagulls sunning themselves and shitting on haggard Humvees beyond the wire. The symbolism won him over, so he put the van in park. “Wait until your first iPhone, pal. Hell, or even a laptop if your ears are ringing now. The social media thing, Twitter and Facebook, they jackhammer into your skull. They’ll infest your privates and suck your soul dry. In terms of decibels? S and M—social media, I’m saying—the shit’s a relentless banshee scream that no silver bullet can silence.”

  Casanova had no idea what Tomlinson was talking about, so continued with his story. “General Rivera, he says to me, ‘Figuerito, I promise all the baseball you want,’ but then leaves me—although in a fine hotel, it is true. Two days, do I play baseball? Three days, same shit. I bounce the ball in the parking lot. I sit on my ass in that room with cold air. Then bang-bang-bang at the door—it’s a bandito with this thing over his head—like a sweater with eyes, you know? A damn pistol pointed, so I grabbed my shit and ran. Brother, I have been running ever since. Well”—Figueroa paused to accept a freshly rolled joint—“not yesterday, when I hit three home runs. I trotted the bases out of, you know, respect for the pitcher. But those big gringos last night, when I hit a fourth, they chased me anyway.” He reached for the lighter. “What’s the name of that town where their team lives?”

  Tomlinson was opening his cell. “Dallas, Texas,” he replied, then left another message on the phone in Ford’s lab. For half an hour and one fat joint they’d been talking, just driving and taking it slow to see what they had in common. There was Juan Rivera and baseball, now they were getting down to the nitty-gritty. This was the first Tomlinson had heard of an armed man breaking into Casanova’s motel. It sobered him. “Any idea who it was? From his voice, or maybe you saw his car.”

  The shortstop was admiring the van’s spaciousness. He shook his head. “A man sticks a pistola in my face, all I think about is, run. He wanted something, kept yelling at me, but how the hell do I know?” His eyes did another scan. “This thing’s roomy, man. Last night, I slept on a bench outside ’cause of what happened. A golf course, I think. It was a field with flags.”

  “What do you think the guy wanted?”

  “The bandito? Whatever he could get. That’s why I left my money and shoes in the room. Nice shoes, and almost twenty dollars American. But guess what? Didn’t matter. That man chased me, too.” He went into detail, saying he didn’t know where Rivera was staying, and that he was afraid to return to his fine hotel, the Motel 6 on Cleveland Avenue, so he had nowhere to stay. Then, peering through the windshield, asked, “Which way is Texas?”

  Tomlinson pointed west.

  “Let’s don’t take that road,” Figueroa said, frowning.

  “No way in hell, so don’t worry. But help me make sense of what’s going on here. The friend I told you about, Doc—his name’s really Marion Ford—he knows Rivera a lot better than me. He thinks Rivera’s tricky. And, from personal experience, I know he’s dangerous.”

  “Who?”

  “The general.”

  “No, the other one. His name is Doc?”

  “Marion Ford, he’s my neighbor on Sanibel.”

  “Oh. Of course. All generals are dangerous. Why you think I ride a boat to Florida from Cuba?” Figueroa let that sink in for a moment. “Yes . . . what you say is interesting. The general has a bad temper, this is true. And always on the phone whispering. Secretive, you know? I think he is running from something, or afraid.”

  “Rivera gave you a briefcase to hang on to, according to Doc. Is that true?”

  The shortstop patted the equipment bag at his feet, an oversized model carried by catchers, to indicate the briefcase was inside. “The general, he trusts me.”

  “Maybe that’s what the robber was after.”

  “The case? Could be, yeah. I don’t know ’cause I couldn’t understand what he was saying.”

  “That’s the confusing part. Your English is excellent—thank god or we’d need sign language. Or was it because you were so scared?”

  Figueroa gave him an odd look. “Man, I don’t speak English. What makes you say this crazy thing?”

  Tomlinson tugged at a strand of hair and reconsidered the joint he had rolled. “You’re shittin’ me.”

  “Just Spanish. What you think we’ve been talking this whole time?”

  “I’ll be damned. You actually understand me?”

  “Except for all the crazy shit you say. Smoke some nice pitillo before a game, yeah, I need it to slow me down. But too much”—he shrugged—“guess we all different. You a pitcher, huh? Left-handed, I bet.” Talking, he reached, unzipped the equipment bag, and removed a briefcase.

  “This is so freaking cool,” Tomlinson murmured. He located his own eyes in the mirror, decided there were untapped worlds behind those two blue orbs. Among them, a cogent intelligence that might decipher why his new best amigo had been assaulted by a bandit.

  The briefcase drew his attention. It rested in Casanova’s lap: antique brass buckles, and leather of waxen brown, all handsomely sewn. “Hey . . . that’s what that bastard bandito was after. What Rivera told my friend was a bald-faced lie, I think.”

  “Yeah?”

  “Rivera claimed there’s nothing valuable in there, but my cognitive senses reply, ‘Bullshit.’ Yes, a lie . . . a blanket deception designed to cover his ass—and all the more plausible because Rivera gave the briefcase to you. Why didn’t the general hide the thing in his own room? That’s the question. Dude . . . I can only think of one reason.”

  “’Cause the general knows I’m honest.”

  “That, too—or because it’s dangerous.” Tomlinson looked from Figueroa to briefcase.

  The shortstop didn’t want to believe him. “This?”

  “Damn right, Figgy. Dangerous, sure, to have in your possession.” Tomlinson bent to see a logo branded into the leather flap . . . no, three letters, one bigger than the others, but all too small to read until his nose had damn-near skewered the brass lock.

  Figueroa was getting nervous. “I didn’t ask what’s inside. The general tells me to watch something, I watch it. He tells me not to look inside a briefcase, I don’t look inside. As a child, I made a vow to a certain deity that I will not lie unless—”

  Tomlinson, after inspecting the flap, sat up fast, saying, “Son of a bitch—I was right,” but gathered himself when he saw the shortstop’s face. The poor guy was ready to run barefoot through the streets again. So he took a breath—like, No big deal—and added, “On the other hand, Figgy, I’m seriously blazed. For instance, I didn’t realize I spoke fluent Spanish until now.”

  This was true, although the initials on the briefcase suggested it was a big deal.

  “God damn, brother, you scared me, actin’ like you found something bad.”

  “Dude, look for yourself. We’ve got ourselves a situation here. Do the initials F.A.C. mean anything to you?”

  “Nope. You want to open this case, you welcome, but it’s up to you.” The
shortstop pushed the thing toward him and reached for the lighter. “All I promised to do is watch.”

  F.A.C. Tomlinson, after reconfirming those initials, decided, It’s got to be his. Damn few people, even Cubans, knew that Fidel Castro’s middle name was Alejandro. But that wasn’t proof enough. He fiddled with the lock, part of him hoping it wouldn’t open.

  Cripes. Like magic, the flap peeled back to reveal what was inside. There were well-sewn pockets. They holstered reading glasses with wire cables and several antique pens. At the bottom was a stationery box adorned with a ribbon in the shape of a heart. The box smelled of lavender perfume, and had some weight when he placed it on his lap. This offered hope. A man, especially the leader of a revolution, wouldn’t keep something so blatantly feminine in his briefcase.

  Figgy, gazing out the passenger window, said, “Hurry up. I’m tired of pretending not to see.”

  Inside the box were letters. Several dozen . . . no, at least a hundred, written on paper that ranged from fine onionskin to postcards to cheap legal-sized. Even a couple of telegrams, all in Spanish.

  Tomlinson said, “Dude, I’m going to need some help here.”

  The shortstop refused to turn his head. “If you can speak it, you can read it. But, brother, don’t read out loud ’cause I don’t want to hear this bad thing you’re doing.”

  Tomlinson let his mind go loose and picked out a letter at random. It had been typed; others were in cursive ink, written with a flourish that suggested a Jesuit education:

  17 March ’53

  My Adored Gaitica . . . I saw Mirta yesterday, she said that she had spoken with Mongo by phone. I haven’t been to the University since the softball game three days ago . . .

  “Softball,” the English spelling.

  “Figgy, how do you say ‘softball’ in Spanish?”

  “‘Pig shit,’” he responded but didn’t turn.

  “Float on, hermano,” Tomlinson replied, and skipped over several lines to:

  There has been no blood shed until now. Havana is still in a sleepy state and nobody speaks on the buses. Last night they detained Dr. Agramonte and other Party leaders again. Fidel and I remain in hiding, although discreetly moving around a lot . . .

  Huh?

  He flipped the page over.

  My regards to all and to you all the affection of your unforgettable love.

  It was signed “Raúl.”

  What the hell was a letter written by Raúl Castro doing in a briefcase with his older brother’s initials?

  Tomlinson plucked out another letter, this one handwritten, three pages, dated April 1954 . . . and, my god, it was postmarked from prison on Cuba’s Isle of Pines. There was a censor’s stamp and red initials.

  My Dear Little Doll . . . In the night I imagined you taking a bath in the washbasin and you were telling me in the mirror that you are too young to be so daring . . . I lay in bed rather absentmindedly and was soon in a state of ecstasy with thoughts of my sweet little girl . . .

  Tomlinson spoke to Figueroa. “This one’s hot. I think the guy’s whacking off, which I don’t blame him because he’s in the slammer. You know? Locked up. But wait, let’s see how it’s signed . . .”

  The shortstop covered his ears.

  At the bottom of the third page:

  You are always in my thoughts. Fidelito

  Whoa! Jackpot.

  Check the mirrors, lock the doors, check mirrors again. Tomlinson started the van.

  They were on I-75, south of the Twins stadium, before he finally said to Figgy, who was calmer, “I’ll tell you a great place to play baseball—you ever been to Key West?”

  Ford was in his truck, crossing the bridge to the mainland, when Tomlinson phoned from a dugout where the Key West Fighting Conchs played, saying, “It’s top of the seventh, our lives are in danger, and so is yours. Oh . . . and guess who’s playing shortstop?”

  It was late afternoon. The Gulf of Mexico, to Ford’s right, was a horizon of cloudy jade; not much traffic this close to sunset.

  “You’re on the Keys? I don’t understand a damn thing you’re saying.”

  “Figgy Casanova,” Tomlinson replied, then muffled the phone to watch Figgy dive to his right, deep in the hole, but come up dealing and throw a runner out at home. “Poetry, man. He’s got a gun. Did you know his grandfather danced for the Moscow Ballet?” A pause, bleacher noise and whistling, before he added, “Seriously, Doc. Rivera’s a traitor. The shit he’s into could get us all killed. Plus, it’s just morally wrong, you know? My conscience won’t let me stand back and do nothing.”

  Marion Ford, who had survived jungles and violence, was a stickler for small concessions to safety. Among them, talking while driving. Past the toll station, where gravel and mangroves edged the bay, he pulled close to the water and parked. “Okay . . . go over that one more time. What’s this about a gun?”

  “I found Figuerito. He’s with me. Dude’s got a freakish arm; a true magician. And has this child-like quality. Plus, he’s a full-on stoner—but, with him, it’s more of a metabolism thing. Anyway, I had to get him out of Dodge, so I did, which gave me time to think. Thing is, Doc, if you’re already committed to the generalissimo’s deal, I can’t tell you much more. This wasn’t an easy decision, hermano. Just keep in mind, Rivera’s the problem. Not you. Oh, by the way—how’d your run go this morning?”

  Assembling order from a scattergun conversation with Tomlinson required patience. “You’re at a baseball game. I can hear that much. But are you really—”

  “Yeah, Key West. Seven hours on the road, and we saw some Roy Hobbs players at the Arby’s on Cudjoe Key. There’s a wood bat tournament; the finals are today, so why not? Their team hasn’t talked money yet, but it won’t be a problem the way my man Figgy is picking it clean. The manager, this team from Indiana, he wants to adopt him—or give him a job at his Cadillac dealership.”

  Ford knew Tomlinson’s sailboat was in Key West—an obvious link—but played it loose, saying, “And it’ll be seven hours back. You are coming back?”

  “Not through Hialeah. A black SUV tailed us clear to Homestead, so I took the back way to Key Largo and lost them in a convoy of bikers. That’s why I turned my phone off—there’s no running from a GPS, man. Didn’t even stop at Alabama Jack’s because—”

  “Hold on. Why would anyone follow you? If you’re worried it was Rivera, it wasn’t. I’m on my way to meet him now. If this is paranoia, fine, but try to avoid the fantasy riffs. You’re confusing me.”

  Ford heard the ting of an aluminum bat and more whistling. Had to wait awhile before Tomlinson replied, “Meeting the generalissimo, huh?” He sounded wary.

  “You knew that. He’s in a rental cottage near the Sky Bridge to Fort Myers Beach. He called about an hour ago.”

  More silence. “Doc, we’ve been friends a long time, and I want you to promise me something. Promise you won’t tell that traitor fascist where we are.”

  “Okay. What should I tell him?”

  “Nada, man. Rivera has played Figgy like a rube. First of all, the little guy’s age, he’s closer to forty than thirty, so no major league team’s going to sign him—especially without a birth certificate. Did you know that? No passport either.”

  “How does that prove the general’s a traitor?”

  “He’s an asshole, too. In Figgy’s mind, no birth certificate means he’s ageless, but why get the guy’s hopes up? Mostly, I’m pissed because of the briefcase. Rivera stuck him with it for a reason, almost got the dude killed. He’ll get me killed, too, if he knows where we are.”

  What’s in the briefcase? Ford wanted to ask, but held off. Through the mangroves, he watched fishermen wade the sandbar and a lone woman paddleboarding. Tomlinson had his quirks but also a gift for reading people accurately. Stoned or straight, his IQ was off the charts. If this wasn’t paranoia, it was seri
ous.

  He waited for background noise to quiet. “I warned you about Rivera, remember? So whatever you say, sure. If you want, I’ll help you pull some kind of switch, or just play dumb. Tell me what to do, I’ll do it.”

  Tomlinson, reading Ford’s mind, said, “After I tell you what’s in the briefcase, you mean?”

  • • •

  WATCHING THE WOMAN PADDLEBOARDER, he left a message for a friend who owned Tampa–Havana air charters, then left another for his seaplane pilot pal, Dan Futch. If Tomlinson panicked and turned his phone off, no contact, so Ford might need to fly out tonight, Thursday at the latest. A narrow window. Even in a clunky old Morgan sailboat, Key West to Cuba was only a full day’s sail, two if the wind was wrong.

  It all depended on Tomlinson . . . and if Juan Rivera would talk.

  At McGregor Boulevard, he turned right toward Fort Myers Beach, still unsure if his pal was in danger or just reacting to THC and systemic guilt. The contents of the briefcase, albeit valuable, weren’t as dangerous as he’d feared. It contained love letters to a young girl, nearly a hundred, written between 1953 and 1963 by two men who even then were the equivalent of Cuban rock stars.

  Fidel Castro and his younger brother, Raúl.

  Hearing those names, Ford had muttered, “Bastards,” which Tomlinson assumed referred to Gen. Rivera.

  Stand back, though, view the big picture: Having the briefcase wasn’t that bad. They were personal letters, not political documents, according to Tomlinson. Never mind the brothers were writing to the same girl. Their mistress had saved them, plus snippets of poetry and a lock of Castro’s hair, in a binder decorated with hearts and dried wildflowers. It was a totem of adolescence, Tomlinson had reasoned, from a girl besotted by two older, famous men.