I explained that tour guides in Cuba sometimes reported to the police, and I also told Jack, “Antonio mentioned the Pescando Por la Paz a few times. And he knows I’m a Key West fisherman.”
“How’d he know that?”
“He asked our American tour guide about me.”
“Yeah? So this guy’s a snoop and a stoolie.”
“And a lousy tour guide.”
Jack thought about all this and concluded, “You should kill Antonio.”
“He’s not that bad of a tour guide.” I told Jack, “I’m meeting this guy in a bar tomorrow night. I think he’s playing a double game. He wants five hundred dollars to tell me what the game is.”
“Okay. Then follow him home and shoot him in the head. End of game.”
“I think it might be easier for me and Sara to just get out of Havana and head out to where the money is stashed.”
“Maybe tomorrow night is a trap.”
“The secret police in Cuba don’t have to waste time with traps.”
“I told you this place was fucked up.” He also reminded me, “It would be easier to rob a bank in Miami for three million dollars.”
“That’s illegal. This is not. This is fun.”
Jack laughed. “You’re fucked up.”
“Me? You just told me to blow a guy’s brains out.”
“Just a suggestion. Do what you think you gotta do.”
“Thank you.”
The D.J. was playing Dean Martin now, and we sat in silence awhile, then I asked, “Did the security people who came aboard ask to see the boat’s registration?”
“Yeah . . . One of them checked it against the hull numbers.”
The registration certificate didn’t show the previous owner—me—though that information was available from the state of Florida if you were someone in law enforcement who had a legitimate need to see it. But that didn’t include the Cuban secret police. That was the good news.
Jack, however, had some other news. “A few of the crew on the other boats are from Key West, and they know you just sold The Maine, which is now Fishy Business.”
“Let’s just assume the police are not asking questions about any of this. But ask the other crews to give you a heads-up if they are.” I added, “And tell them: Don’t remember The Maine.”
Jack leaned toward me. “Maybe you and Sara should think about getting out of Cuba.”
“And you should think about becoming a millionaire.”
“I don’t think that’s gonna happen.”
“You’ll never know if I go home.”
“Okay. If you got the balls for this, I’ll see you in Cayo Guillermo.”
“Trust my instincts.”
“Your instincts are as fucked up as your judgement.”
“They must be if I hired you.”
The sandwiches came, but we weren’t hungry and we ordered two more beers. Dino was singing, “When the moon hits your eye, like a big pizza pie, that’s amore . . .”
On that subject, Jack said, “I hope you’re not just showing off for your girlfriend.”
There’s always a little of that. But . . . “I’m here for the money. Same as you.”
“If you say so.”
I looked at my watch. It was early for my rendezvous with Sara, but I said, “I have to go.”
“One more thing.”
“What?”
“The old man—Eduardo.”
I already knew what he was going to say.
“He’s onboard. Got himself a phony passport. Says he wants to see Cuba one last time before he dies.”
“Shit.” I asked, “Did he come ashore with you?”
“No, and Felipe is sitting on him.”
Well, Eduardo wouldn’t see much of Cuba from a docked boat. So by now he could have given Felipe the slip, and he could be wandering around Havana, drunk, yelling, “Down with the revolution!” False passport or not, Eduardo Valazquez in Cuba was a massive security breach, making my security breach in meeting Jack look like a minor lapse of judgement. “Why did you let him onboard?”
“You think I let him onboard? He stowed away in a stateroom. Squeezed his skinny ass under a bunk. Nobody knew he was onboard until we got into Havana Harbor.”
I wondered if Carlos knew. Carlos wasn’t stupid enough to okay this, but Eduardo was the client and Eduardo had the money and called the shots. I was pissed.
I asked, “Did the Cubans who came onboard see him?”
“No. Like I said, they didn’t even go below.”
“Okay. When you left the pier, was there any passport control?”
“Yeah. Just one guy.”
“Did he have a passport scanner?”
“Just his eyeballs.” He added, “The place don’t look open for business yet.”
“All right . . .” I suspected that Eduardo’s passport was a gift from the people he called “our friends in American intelligence,” and I assumed it was a very good passport that would withstand scrutiny. But if Eduardo wound up in an interrogation room, he would not withstand a good beating, and he’d tell them he’d arrived on Fishy Business. Damn it.
I looked at Jack. “Okay . . . When you get to Cayo, make sure the old man doesn’t step foot off the boat.”
Jack suggested, “I can throw him overboard on the way if you want.”
“Just keep him below.” I let Jack know, “He’s Felipe’s grand-uncle or something.”
“Yeah? Nobody told me that.”
“Now you know. So don’t feed him to the sharks.”
“Okay.”
I wondered if Sara knew that Eduardo had a nostalgic yearning to see Cuba one last time. Maybe. And maybe that was why she didn’t want me to meet up with Jack. Same with Carlos. Though to be fair and rational, neither Sara nor Carlos would put the mission at risk for something so stupid as Eduardo’s homesickness, so neither of them could have known. On the other hand . . . well, if I was Cuban, I might understand this.
I checked my watch. It was 8:30. I asked Jack, “Anything else?”
“Just the gun.”
“Okay. You leave first and leave the fanny pack on your seat.”
“You buyin’ the gun?”
“It’s my gun.”
“I’ll give you a deal. Four hundred thousand and that includes three magazines, one locked and loaded, ready to rock and roll.”
“Okay, asshole, I’ll buy the gun. But you’re not getting combat pay.”
“Okay. Sold.” Jack finished his beer and looked at me. “Here’s what else I’ll throw in. There’s an old waterfront bar called Dos Hermanos a few blocks from the pier. All the crews and fishermen are gonna meet up there at eleven. If you and your lady have nothing to do, meet me there at eleven-thirty—with your passports and money, no luggage. I bought a few blank visitor passes from the security guys—to get women onboard. They’re stamped and signed. So I’ll be able to get her—and maybe you—onboard The Maine.” He added, “When the fleet sails for Cayo at first light, The Maine is gonna sail for Key West.”
“I’ll see you in Cayo Guillermo.”
“You should ask Sara.”
“Okay. But if we’re not at Dos Hermanos at eleven-thirty, have a drink for us.”
“You got balls, Mac.”
“You gotta die someplace.”
He unhooked his fanny pack and stood. “My sister’s name is Betty. Elizabeth. Lives in Hoboken. Last name Kuwalski. Married a Polack. He’s an asshole. Two kids, Derek and Sophie, both grown up and on their own. See if you can find them. They could use the money.”
“Okay.”
“And if I make it and you don’t—?”
“Go see my parents in Portland and say good things about me.”