“I’ll try to think of something.”
“You know the drill, Jack—‘died quickly with no pain or suffering.’ Last words were ‘God bless America’ or something.”
“I know the drill. Okay, see you later.”
I stood and we shook. “This is your last fishing trip, Jack. Good luck.”
“You too.” He turned and left.
I called for the check, sat in Jack’s chair, and buckled the fanny pack under my sports jacket. I paid the check in cash and headed toward the lobby, half expecting to hear, “Stop where you are, se?or. You are under arrest. For real this time.”
I moved through the lobby, exited the hotel, and the doorman signaled to a white Pontiac convertible.
I got in and said to the driver, “Floridita, por favor.”
The cabbie, who spoke English said, “Yes. We go to Florida.” He laughed.
Everyone’s a comedian.
So off we went in the mid-century American convertible.
Not only was this place a time warp, it was an alternate universe where the past and the present fought to become the future. And I thought Key West was fucked up.
CHAPTER 32
Floridita, a pink stucco place on Calle Obispo, looked like a dive bar in a seedy Miami neighborhood, complete with a neon sign. I passed under a white awning that said ERNEST HEMINGWAY, and inside, Se?or Hemingway was at the bar, captured in a life-sized bronze, sitting precariously at the edge of a stool with his elbow on the polished mahogany. I would have bought him a drink, but he was already ossified.
On the wall behind Hemingway was a black-and-white photograph of E.H. and F.C. sharing a moment, and I deduced that the occasion was the Hemingway Tournament before or after F.C. won the trophy with his lead-belly marlin.
The inside of Floridita looked better than the outside, more 1890s than 1950s. There was a large mural behind the handsome bar, depicting what looked like Havana Harbor in some past era of square-riggers. The long open room had a blue ceiling and mottled beige walls, and a staircase that led to an upper floor. The café tables were littered with guide books, and the chairs were filled with American tourists, half of whom were badly dressed in shorts and T-shirts. The other half were badly dressed. The waitstaff wore nice red jackets and bow ties. Lined up on the bar were five electric blenders beating rum into glucose tolerance test cocktails.
The ma?tre d’ sized me up as an Americano—who else would come here?—and asked in English, “Table or bar, se?or?”
“Table for two, por favor.”
He showed me to a table against the wall, and a waiter came by for my order.
The drink menu listed half a dozen kinds of overpriced daiquiris, including a Papa Hemingway—but no Fidel Castro. I actually wanted a beer, but to get into the spirit I ordered a Daiquiri Rebelde—a rebellious daiquiri.
“Excellent. Will someone be joining you?”
Well, you never know in a police state. I checked my watch: 8:55. “Make it two.”
So I sat there listening to American accents and the clatter of electric blenders.
The A/C was trying to keep up, but the place was warm. I would have taken off my jacket, but . . . well, the other thing about a police state is that you’re not supposed to be carrying a loaded 9mm Glock in your fanny pack. I mean, this wasn’t Florida, where a gun permit was easier to get than a fishing license.
Anyway, Floridita was a tourist trap, but a nice enough one, though Richard Neville might not agree.
The daiquiris came and I sipped one. These things should come with insulin. I checked my watch: 9:05. I checked my cell phone: no service. Maybe next year.
A guy walked in wearing a light green shirt with military epaulets, a black beret, and a gun belt and holster.
The crowd got a little quieter as the guy walked toward the bar, and before he got there the bartender squirted a seltzer siphon into a glass and handed it to him with a forced smile. So the guy—cop or military—was a regular on a break, not on a mission. That was the good news. The bad news was that he put his back to the bar and scanned the crowd as he lit a cigarette and sipped his seltzer. Half the tourists looked away and the other half looked excited. What a great picture this would be. A real Commie with a gun. In Floridita! Shit.
The guy’s gaze settled on me, sitting by myself, wearing the only blue blazer in the place, not to mention the only fanny pack that hid criminal evidence. Stop-and-frisk was not a debatable issue here. Thanks, Jack.
The cop—or soldier, or whatever he was—gave me a final look, then shifted his attention to a table of two young ladies in shorts. They had good legs.
I looked at my watch: 9:15.
I would have used the bar phone to call the Parque Central, but that could be an invitation for this guy to engage me in conversation. It is warm in here, se?or. Take off your jacket.
Se?or Beret put his seltzer on the bar, then started toward me. I buttoned my jacket to hide the fanny strap. The ba?os were in the back, and I stood, evaluating my chances of getting to the crapper and doing a Michael Corleone with the gun.
Just then, Sara came through the door and the guy gave her a glance, then stopped at the table with the four pretty legs.
Sara noticed the guy, frowned, then saw me and smiled. She came over to me and gave me a kiss on the cheek. I pulled out her chair and she sat. “Sorry I’m late.”
I gave the guy another glance. He was smiling as he chatted up the two American se?oritas.
I sat. Sara was wearing black pants and a white silk blouse. “You look beautiful.”
“Thank you.” She said, “You’re sweating.”
“It’s warm in here.”
“Take off your jacket.”
“I’m okay.”
Sara looked at me. “I’m late because I had trouble finding a Coco cab. Not because I was on the phone.”
“You don’t have to explain.”
“I actually didn’t make that call to Miami. I decided to take your advice and do it in person.”
Also known as keeping your options open.
“That gives us time to . . . make sure . . .”
I thought we already had this conversation. “If you still want me after you hear me snoring tonight, I’m yours.”
She smiled and we held hands. She looked at the drinks. “What is this?”
“Daiquiri Rebelde.”
She sipped her drink. “Not bad.” We clinked glasses.
Sara informed me, “Long before Hemingway came here, expats from Florida used to gather here, so the locals called this place Floridita—Little Florida—and the name stuck.”
“I thought it meant ‘tourist trap.’?”
She smiled. “If you’re in Havana, you have to come here at least once.”
“Right. I’ll cross it off my bucket list.” In fact, I’ll cross this whole country off my list of places to see before I die.
I was keeping my eye on the man with the gun, and Sara glanced over her shoulder, then turned back to me. “He’s BE—Brigada Especial—part of the PNR, the Policía Nacional Revolucionaria. A branch of the Ministry of the Interior.” She added, “They have an eye for the foreign girls. The blonder the better.”
“That leaves you out.”