“Me too. So—”
“So if we get double-crossed, we do what we did then. Shoot our way out.”
“You got a gun?”
“No. You do. Four of them.”
“You need a gun before you get to Cayo Guillermo.” He looked at me.
Well, I knew where this was going, and I knew that Jack didn’t have condoms in his fanny pack. “How did you get it past customs?”
“Easier than I thought.” He explained, “The two Cuban guys who came aboard gave us customs forms that we filled out and signed. Nothing to declare. They took the forms and their loot and left.”
I informed Jack, “Having a gun in Cuba is not your constitutional right—it’s your death sentence.”
“Well, sonny, in my country, gun control means using both hands.” He added, “Your Glock will increase the chances of you—and my money—getting to The Maine.”
“And increase my chances of getting arrested if I get stopped and searched on my way out of this bar.”
Jack quoted from one of his T-shirts. “Better to have a gun and not need it than to need a gun and not have it.”
“Right. Okay . . . thanks.”
“You don’t mean that now, but you might later.” Jack drank his beer and commented, “This shit isn’t half bad. We need this in the States. I can use my million to open a U.S. franchise when the embargo is lifted.”
I reminded him, “Half a million for deployment and half a mil for combat pay if we get shot at.” I also reminded him, “They don’t have to hit you.”
He looked at me through his cigar smoke. “I forgot to tell you—the Glock is costing you half a million.”
“It’s actually my gun.”
“I risked my life getting it to you.”
“I didn’t ask for it.”
“Tell you what, Captain, if you don’t want the gun, I’ll take it back to the boat.”
“I’m surprised you’re not a millionaire already.”
“Me too.”
“But you are an asshole.”
“Don’t piss me off. I got a gun. And you don’t.” He thought that was funny.
We sat in silence awhile, enjoying our beers and cigars. A D.J. set up his electronics and played a Sinatra album. Jack was hungry and we got a bar menu and ordered Cuban sandwiches. Frank sang “That’s Life.”
On that subject, I asked Jack, “What happened to the lady you married?”
“She got sick.”
“Children?”
“No.”
“Who are your next of kin?”
“I got a sister in New Jersey.”
“You have a will?”
“Nope.”
“If you don’t make it, how can I find your sister?”
“If I don’t make it, neither will you.”
“Let’s say I make it home, Jack, with the money. How do I get your money to your sister?”
“If you get that lucky, you keep it.”
“Okay. How do I find your sister to let her know you’re dead?”
“You sound like an officer.”
“I’m trying to sound like a friend.”
He finished his beer, then looked off into space.
I changed the subject and asked, “How’s the weather look this week?”
“Next couple of days look okay for fishing. But there’s a tropical depression brewing out in the Atlantic.”
It was the end of the hurricane season, but the Caribbean had been unusually hot for October. “Keep an eye on that.”
“We all are.” He asked, “Why is Havana so much fucking hotter than Key West?”
“Must be the women.”
He laughed. “Yeah. Felipe said if you stick a candle in a Mexican woman it comes out melted. Stick a candle in a Cuban woman and it comes out lit.”
Glad to hear they were bonding. I asked, “Any mechanical issues with the boat?”
“Nope.”
“When are your three fishermen flying to Mexico?”
“They go to Havana Airport right after the last day of fishing. They miss the awards dinner and all that shit.”
“When does the fleet sail for home?”
“About nine the next morning.” He looked at me. “I can develop a mechanical problem and wait for you past nine.”
I had no idea what time or even what day Sara and I would get to Cayo Guillermo, or what the security situation was at the marina, or who’d been bribed, or who might need to be taken out, or who, if anyone, was in Cayo to assist us. As a tactical matter it wasn’t important for me to know any of this right now, but from a psychological point of view it’s always good to visualize the path home.
“Mac?”
“You sail with the fleet. But thanks.”
“Hey, this has nothing to do with you or your girlfriend. This has to do with my money.”
“So if I show up in Cayo without the money—”
“I leave you on the dock.” He did a finger wave and smiled. “Adios, amigo.”
“You’re a tough guy, Jack.”
“Don’t take it personally. And by the way, asshole, you promised the boat to me if you got killed, and then you sold it to fucking Carlos.”
“If you make it back, he’ll be happy to sign it over to you in exchange for you keeping your mouth shut. And if we both get killed, there’s nothing to worry about.”
Jack had no response to that and knocked the ash off his cigar.
Sinatra was singing “New York, New York,” which was where I’d like to be right now.
Well, the time had come to move from future problems to present problems. “Listen to me.” I looked around to be sure no one else was listening. “It’s possible that the police are interested in me and Sara.”
He looked at me.
“If the police question you, here or in Cayo Guillermo, you can say you’ve heard of me in Key West, but you don’t know anything about me being in Cuba, and you don’t know anything about me selling my boat. You never heard of Sara Ortega and you’re just a hired hand. And if they tell you they’ve got me or Sara in jail and we told them otherwise, you stick to your story, ’cause that’s all you got.”
He nodded.
“If you get questioned in Havana, demand a call to the embassy. If you’re in Cayo Guillermo and something smells fishier than the fish, you can tell Felipe what I just told you—if he hasn’t already told you the same thing—and you and Felipe go out fishing with your customers and keep going.”
Jack looked at me. “Why do you think the police are interested in you and Sara?”
I wanted to be honest with Jack, but I honestly didn’t know if this mission was coming apart, or if Sara and I were overreacting, or misinterpreting Antonio’s bullshit. And I wouldn’t know until we met him tomorrow night, and by that time Jack would be in Cayo Guillermo. I asked him, “You remember getting paranoid five hours into a patrol when nothing was happening?”
“Yeah.”
“That’s God’s way of saying this isn’t a walk in the park. Keep your head out of your ass.”
“Okay. But that don’t answer the question.”
“Right.” So I briefed him about Sara’s problems at the airport, and about our Cuban tour guide, Antonio, and Antonio’s interest in Sara. “It could be a personal interest, but maybe something else.”
“Sounds like he just wants to fuck her.”
“Right. But it’s also possible that this guy is a police informant.”
“Yeah?”