Cuba Straits

by Randy Wayne White

  Ford told himself, The girls will be able to explain, yet the subject nagged at him. Maribel had witnessed a murder, but it was not a typical crime. A serial killer was on the loose in her rural district, and gossip about the girls returning would travel fast through the countryside. Was Marta Esteban savvy enough to understand why he had given her daughters money and the name of a hotel—the Hotel Plaza in the old city—and instructed them to book rooms for a few nights? Or would she fear a setup?

  No way to contact Marta. Like many homes in rural areas, there was no phone.

  Ten-year-old Sabina, with her fierce temper and tongue, was the focus of Ford’s worries. That puzzled him because Maribel was the obvious target. It was irrational.

  Intuition, Tomlinson would have said.

  • • •

  AT AN AFTERNOON GAME, near the bull pen in Havana’s Grand Stadium, Gen. Rivera said to Ford, “That is a dangerous subject here. Even now. Every Cuban has heard the same rumor, but few believe because, well, they don’t want to believe.” After relighting a cigar, he amended, “Every Cuban born before the days of JFK, anyway.”

  What Ford had said was “Some myths die hard,” an oblique reference to a fact: Fidel Castro had never played baseball. Not even high school baseball. Yet, the legend he had been offered a contract by the Pittsburgh Pirates and Washington Senators was still parroted by U.S. writers, broadcasters, even historians.

  Ford replied, “The world doesn’t know or care about old lies—not that it matters now. You were talking about an incident, something about Americans who played here in 1959—”

  “It matters,” the general insisted, but kept his voice down.

  “To a few crazies, maybe, but not the rest of the world.” Ford was taking in the spectacle. There were a thousand people or so in the stands, cops patrolling every section. Nice field; the scoreboard missing some lights, but he liked that. “Big egos a long time ago when baseball was important,” he said. “I can see why it pisses off someone like you, but let it go, General.”

  “Latinos aren’t gringos,” he snapped. “It will always matter to the movement, to Fidel’s legacy, and to the new government that is already going to hell. Never underestimate the power of superstition and baseball in Cuba.”

  Ford, who had just arrived, wanted to push through the pleasantries, end this talk of sports and find out what was important. Any news about Tomlinson? The Castro letters—how had Rivera gotten them? More importantly, who wanted them? But the generalissimo was a stubborn man. “Juan, you see things from a different aspect. Here, particularly, I know it’s better to talk in generalities. Being offered a major league contract”—Ford smiled at the thought—“he wasn’t the first man to lie about that.”

  “If you knew history as I do, you wouldn’t take it so lightly. The Revolution interrupted the most important baseball series of that era: the Havana Sugar Kings against the Minneapolis Millers, champions of the American minor leagues. Cubans were furious. To hell with politics, why were these games canceled? National pride, even racial pride, was at stake. There were riots that threatened the Revolution. So Fidel became an instant champion of the game, created his own team, The Bearded Ones, while his propaganda people spread a lie—a brilliant lie that U.S. magazines printed. The world still believes Fidel sacrificed a major league career to save Cuba. That’s why the subject is dangerous to discuss. There is an old saying: Disprove one nail in the cross and religion becomes mere fairy tale. I was once a believer,” Rivera said. “No more.”

  Ford looked around before warning him, “Yes. Dangerous, as you said, to use certain names.”

  The general ignored him. Nodded toward the field where the Industríales—the equivalent of Cuba’s New York Yankees—and Pinar del Río were tied in the fifth inning, playing before a good crowd that seemed sparse in a stadium that seated seventy thousand. Rivera started to say, “Havana’s Sugar Kings were a Triple-A team for Cincinnati in those years . . .” but his attention shifted to a group of men coming through the nearest tunnel. They were noisy, with drunken, florid faces, among them a giant who was older but looked fit, yet had to weigh over three hundred pounds. A former athlete, fluid in his movements, but with a sour attitude; indifferent to the men he was with.

  “Russians,” Rivera said, suddenly uneasy. “Do you recognize the large one? His name’s Kostikov.”

  Ford knew a great deal about Anatol Kostikov, was surprised to see the man here, but asked, “What about him?”

  “I expect to be followed, but it’s never been like this. We shouldn’t meet for a couple of days.” Rivera attempted to stand but sat back when Ford pinned his arm.

  “General, don’t make it so obvious. Maybe he came to see the game. But”—Ford had to think for a moment—“just in case, let’s get the important stuff out of the way. Do you know if Tomlinson is here?”

  A nod. “Don’t contact him, he’s being watched. Friends say he arrived in Cojimar, but without the briefcase. That might be the problem. Figuerito drowned. Something about a freighter hitting them, but his sailboat survived.”

  “Geezus. The shortstop? Why the hell would he—”

  Rivera pulled his arm free. “Not now. On the Prado, in the old city, there’s a restaurant not far from the seawall, La Científico, an old mansion with apartments downstairs. We can meet there tonight for drinks if—”

  “What about Tomlinson?”

  “Yes, yes, he’s fine. I’ll tell you later.”

  “What are you afraid of, Juan? You’ll only attract attention if you leave now.”

  “Don’t be ridiculous.” The man pretended to watch a hitter for the Industríales take a called third strike. “Curve ball,” he said, but his smile was forced. “Almost as good as mine.”

  Ford focused on the big Russian who was scanning the bleachers while the younger men filed toward seats. “You’ve been smuggling Cuban ballplayers and selling contraband on the Internet. The Russians are back. You’re surprised they’re interested?”

  “If he was sent to find me, yes. Kostikov was KGB, now the FSB—Federal Security Service—but you know about that. A very high-level talent, if you understand my meaning. Ruthless. You’re sure you’ve never heard the name?”

  Ford waited while the Russian’s eyes swept past them, no hint of interest, before the man turned and exited. “It’s okay, old buddy. You can breathe again.”

  Rivera dismissed that with a laugh and settled back with his cigar and seemed to relax in the noise of a thousand cheering, stomping fans. Two hitters later, he spoke again, but without turning his head. “We’ll discuss Tomlinson and the briefcase at the place I mentioned. La Científico. A great scientist once lived there—Cuba’s second president.”

  “You are scared.”

  “Only careful, until I figure out what is happening. My contacts here, even the powerful ones, are behaving oddly.”

  “How long since your last visit?”

  “Three weeks, almost four.”

  “Did you actually bribe the warden to get the shortstop out of jail? Or did you help him escape?”

  “What does it matter? No one cares about Figuerito. Something else has happened. Something important enough to change how an important person like me is treated. That’s what I don’t understand.”

  Ford, looking at the Russians, who were drunk, said, “I wonder what.” He asked about Rivera’s friend, the woman who had been hospitalized with uranium poison. She was dead. He asked for specifics. How was this trip different? Then brought it back around, saying, “You’ve spent your career reading powerful men. What’s your best guess?”

  “It might have to do with the briefcase,” Rivera conceded. “And what we were talking about—the year of the Revolution.”

  “What do a bunch of personal letters have to do with the Revolution? I can’t imagine them—you know who I mean—writing to a mistress about political
secrets or—”

  “Hear me out,” Rivera said. “The winter of the Revolution, the Sugar Kings were one game away from beating the Americans in what was called the True World Series, but Fidel’s army put an end to it. Do you understand? After decades of being treated as inferiors, this was Cuba’s first chance to prove its team was as good as any team in the major leagues.”

  Ford asked, “The games were played here?”

  “All but the fourth game and the final seventh, which was under way, and tied in extra innings, in Pinar del Río. The Minneapolis Millers had great players, such as Carl Yastrzemski and Orlando Cepeda. The Kings had American players, too, from Cincinnati’s farm system. Lou Klein broke the Latin League home run record; Luis Tiant was rookie of the year, plus the three American pitchers I told you about. A great deal of pride was at stake.”

  “And money,” Ford said. “Are you sure about those names?” The timing seemed a little off.

  “No, but the money, yes. Havana’s casinos were run by Meyer Lansky and other Mafiosos. The betting was international. Batista knew he was losing control of the country. He would have paid any amount to have won that game.”

  Ford said, “And stayed in power,” but was thinking, Rivera is after more than just motorcycles and machine guns. What the hell is in those letters?

  The general signaled a passing vendor and bought two empanadas, which he shared. “As an example, take Nicaragua’s last revolution. Nineteen eighty . . . was it eighty-four? No, nineteen eighty-five. When Daniel Ortega came to power, the first thing he did was order the execution of the former dictator’s best pitchers and his cleanup hitter. That was—what?—only thirty years ago. To most Americans that would seem absurd, but you know it’s true. Personally, I understand the demands of politics, but to do such a wasteful thing shows contempt for the game.”

  Ford nodded because it was true. “Better to draft them into your army,” he suggested.

  “Exactly. Same with lying about a contract offer from the major leagues. Contemptible. Three perfect games I have pitched and many no-hitters, yet I have never shown disrespect for the scouts who didn’t have the balls to sign me.” Rivera ate the last of his empanada. “They were biased fascists, of course.”

  “Intimidated by your stature, more likely.”

  “No doubt, but I never asked a scout to lie for a story in Sports Illustrated, unlike . . .” Rivera touched his chin, meaning “The Bearded One.” “There is a book written by a Yale professor—”

  “The Pride of Havana. I read it.” Ford knew where this was going.

  “The professor searched every box score in every Cuban newspaper published during Fidel’s teens and twenties and found only one mention—a softball game when he was in law school. That man was my hero. You know that. Yet, you now ask why it is important?”

  Ford glanced over while the generalissimo stared into space. “I’m surprised you let yourself believe something in a book.”

  “I didn’t until I checked with certain sources. I got drunk the night I learned it was all true. Shitty softball, not even the real game. Fidel pitched, his only appearance on a Cuban mound, and he lost. My god”—Rivera tossed the empanada wrapper into the aisle—“I would prefer a bullet in the ass to losing a slow-pitch softball game. That book is banned here, of course, because the legend must be protected. Especially now. As you say, people wouldn’t believe it anyway, and proof died with one lying baseball scout. No . . . Cubans would never believe the truth. Cubans would have to hear the truth from Fidel’s own dead lips.”

  Rivera festered over that—a man whose political and baseball careers had been lost in the shadow of the Castros—but paid attention when Ford said, “Lips . . . I thought that’s what you were worried about. A lip-reader.”

  The general’s reaction: Huh?

  Ford shielded his mouth with a hand. “I thought that’s why you got upset when I brought up the subject. In the press box—someone with binoculars. They’re watching us. I assumed you knew.”

  Rivera said, “Pendejos,” and made a show of searching for something at his feet. “Is it Kostikov?”

  Ford, getting up, said, “Don’t say the name of the restaurant again. I know the place. Are you staying there?”

  Rivera’s head moved imperceptibly. “Come around ten. You’ll have time to check into your hotel. Marion—make sure you’re not followed.”

  • • •

  FORD DIDN’T LEAVE. He waited inside the stadium, drifting among fans, where meat sizzled on makeshift grills mixed with tobacco smoke, a cavern noisy with maracas and guitars, until Kostikov appeared, a foot taller than Cubans who parted to create a path. Kostikov with a liter bottle of beer in his hand; rude, not making eye contact with those he brushed aside, on his way somewhere, no interest in the game.

  Ford followed, but, first, pulled on a green baseball cap he’d just purchased. He had seen photos of the Russian as far back as . . . ten, fifteen years ago. Had the Russian seen photos of him, an American who sometimes went by the name Marion North?

  Better to find out here than later on a dark street.

  He had bought the hat at a kiosk that sold diapers and aspirin—typical in a stadium that served many government needs. Ford had played ball here years ago, remembered exiting the field into a room of young mothers, some nursing babies, while a doctor lectured on hygiene and birth control.

  “Wrong door,” the doctor had said, as if she’d said it a thousand times to men wearing spikes. She probably had.

  Through another wrong door: people wove mats while a man read to them from the works of José Martí.

  Bizarre. The Grand Stadium—Estadio Latinoamericano, the official name—was a catacomb of tunnels and disjointed intent. But Anatol Kostikov seemed to know where he was going, plowed a straight furrow while people scattered, even a cop who looked away when an old man stumbled into a domino collision that tripped him and two others to the floor, both children, who got up fast, but not the old man.

  A cane of oiled wood lay nearby, and his hat. Ford retrieved both and got a hand under one boney arm, saying, “Let me help you, patrón.” Patrón, a noun that granted respect and deference to a man who hadn’t had either for a while, judging from his clothes. His temper, however, hadn’t aged.

  “Clumsy hippo,” he hollered after the Russian. “Come back here—I’ll teach you manners.”

  Kostikov, if he heard, didn’t slow, pushed onward while people stared, but not the cop. The cop recognized authority without being told, so he went the other way, but only after warning the old man with a glare.

  Ford asked, “Are you hurt?”

  “That coward. Twenty years ago, I would have boxed his ears. I would have”—the man looked more carefully at his cane—“Damn . . . he broke the tip off. That dickless snake. Do you still see him?”

  Kostikov’s head was melon-sized. Far down the corridor, he turned toward a sign that read HOMBRES. A bathroom stop. It gave Ford some time. “Take it easy, patrón. You seem to be standing okay. How’s your balance?”

  “To hell with my balance. I hate stupid questions as much as I hate stupid people.”

  Ford smiled, noting the man’s hands—a fighter’s hands, all knuckles and gnarled fingers—and asked his name, which was Lázaro. Made him repeat it—Lázaro Junco—hoping he would calm down.

  Lázaro had a temper. “Call the Guardia, I want that tourist scum arrested. Was he Italian? The motherless goat dildo. Where did he go?”

  “He’s Russian,” Ford said.

  Some fire went out of the man. “Shit. I assumed he was an Americano but didn’t want to offend you. No wonder Omar snuck away.”

  Ford handed him his baseball cap, which was old-style, red felt with a Cuban C above the brim. “Who’s Omar?”

  “The security guard.”

  “Not the police?”

  “He pretends to
be. I work here, have to see that maricón every day. He is a spineless puta who masturbates with animals. I will never offer Omar a coffee again.”

  Ford, watching Kostikov enter the restroom, said, “You have a gift for profanity. What do you do here?”

  “Mind my own damn business,” the man replied. “Or do you mean my job?” He pointed to a sign over double doors that read STORAGE / ENTRY FORBIDDEN. “I’m in charge of all things useless. I sleep there as well. More than forty years, yet guards allow me to be assaulted by any fat son of a chinga who can afford a ticket.” With a hand, he used Ford’s shoulder to steady himself. “That filthy baló. I’ll stick this broken tip up his ass.”

  Baló—Cuban slang likening Russians to beach balls, round and soft.

  “You can always buy another cane.”

  “Not like this. I carved it for my grandfather from a bat broken on this field years ago. My father, the old cock, he used it after an accident, then my legs went to hell. See this?” A shepherd’s crook handle was screwed into the knob. “I stole an umbrella from the Hotel Nacional. Meyer Lansky’s umbrella, possibly, but it would be a lie to say I am certain.” The old man lifted his head, still searching. “Where’d that elephant go? He would need a circus tent to disappear.”

  Ford hefted the cane, gauged the strength of the ornate handle, the wood dense, solid, despite the splintered tip. A dangerous idea was assembling in his head. “You were a boy when you made this?”

  The man was too angry to hear. “Russians are always drunk. I bet he’s pissing, so I’ll surprise him from behind.” He tried to pull away, but Ford took his arm and steered him toward the storage room while he protested, “Gringo . . . I am not a cripple. Where are you taking me?”