“Meanwhile, Felipe is watching Eduardo on the boat.” I added, unnecessarily, “I don’t want him running around Havana.”
“He . . . he wants to walk from Cayo Guillermo to his family home, through the countryside. And to visit the cemetery where his family is buried. On All Souls’ Day—the Day of the Dead. That’s what we do.” She looked at me. “Then he wants to die in Cuba.”
Well, that should be easy. I softened a bit and said, “All right. I get it.”
Thinking back to the sundowners on my boat, and my subsequent meetings with Carlos in Miami and Key West, I’d identified a number of things that could go wrong with this mission, and one of them was Eduardo coming along for the ride. Another was Sara coming to the attention of the authorities, and then there was the problem of me getting involved with Ms. Ortega. Well, that all happened. And now there were new problems, like Antonio, and also the gun, which was a problem only if I got caught with it. But if I followed Jack’s advice, the gun could solve the Antonio problem—though I saw no reason for that. Yet.
To add to these concerns was the possibility that the tournament would be cancelled, and/or we wouldn’t meet our contact. But were those problems? Or safe passes home?
Bottom line, we weren’t even out of Havana yet, and as my Scottish ancestors used to say, “The best-laid schemes o’ mice an’ men gang aft agley,” meaning, “This shit’s not working.” Next was Camagüey, the cave, and Cayo, which were going to be a challenge—if we could get out of Havana.
“What are you thinking about?” she asked.
“The road ahead.”
“I’m feeling more confident about that.”
It must be the daiquiris. I also told her, “I briefed Jack about Antonio and our possible problems with the authorities, and about Antonio mentioning Pescando Por la Paz.”
“All right . . . and did that spook him?”
“It raised his awareness. If it needed raising.”
“I assume he’s still in.”
“He’s in if I’m in.”
“And you’re in.”
“If you’re in.”
“So we’re all in.”
And all crazy. I finished my beer and she finished her daiquiri, then asked, “Did Jack say anything about Felipe?”
“No . . . just that Felipe was not happy to find Eduardo under the bed.”
“Felipe can handle his uncle.”
“I hope you’re right. And does Felipe know anything about what’s going to happen in Cayo Guillermo that he’s supposed to pass on to Jack?”
“I don’t know what Felipe knows,” she replied.
“How about Eduardo?”
“Eduardo did not want to know any of the operational details about the mission. His only mission is to go home.”
“He’s going back to Miami on The Maine.”
“Let him—”
“Subject closed.”
She called the waiter over, ordered another round, and asked for a light. I limit myself to a cigar a week in Key West. But here, as in Afghanistan, tobacco was not the primary health issue in terms of life expectancy.
Three guitarists appeared and began strolling around the room, strumming and singing. I recognized a few of the songs from Tad’s lecture. I was really getting my money’s worth on this tour.
Sara leaned toward me. “Are the guns onboard?”
Well, three of them are. One was sitting on my fanny. But I didn’t want to upset her—or excite her—with that news until the right moment. I replied, “They are. And Jack also has four bulletproof vests onboard. Hopefully, we will not need them, or the guns.”
She nodded.
The strolling guitarists arrived at our table and asked for a request. Sara, who I noticed didn’t reveal her fluency in Spanish, said in English, “Please play ‘Dos Gardenias’ from the Buena Vista Social Club.”
The three guitarists seemed happy with that and began playing and singing in Spanish. Not bad.
I looked at my watch: 10:35. We had an hour to get to Dos Hermanos if we wanted to go there. Next stop, Key West.
I looked at Sara smoking her cheroot and she saw me looking at her and winked. I tried to picture us together in Miami, or Key West, or even Maine. The picture looked better if we were in a red Porsche convertible.
The guitarists finished, and I gave them a ten and they gave us a happy smile. So if anyone was watching us, we looked more like dumb tourists than enemies of the state.
Floridita was getting more crowded and Sara said, “There’s a floor show later. Do you want to stay and drink sixteen double daiquiris?”
Or do I want to go to Key West and drink sixteen Coronas? Sara didn’t know she had that option.
“Mac?”
I looked at her. “The crews and fishermen are meeting at a place called Dos Hermanos at eleven.”
“That’s a famous old seafarers’ bar.”
“Jack asked if we’d like to meet them there.”
“We can’t do that.”
I leaned toward her. “Jack says he can get us onboard The Maine tonight.”
Sara looked at me.
“The fleet sails for Cayo Guillermo at first light. The Maine will sail for Key West.”
She stayed silent awhile, processing that, then asked, “What did you tell Jack?”
“I told him not to expect us. But he said I should ask you. So I’m asking.”
“I thought we made the decision to push on.”
“We did.”
“All right . . . what has changed?”
“Someone offered us a ride home.”
She seemed to be considering this and asked, “How do you know we can get on the boat?”
I explained about the blank visitor passes. I added, “Sort of like the letters of transit that Bogie gave Bergman and her husband. Just fill in the names.”
She nodded absently.
I continued, “We have everything we need with us—passport, visa, and bribe money.” To give her all the info she needed to make a decision I also told her, “Jack gave me my Glock, which I’ll ditch before we go through security. And let me remind you that Eduardo is on the boat, and he needs to go back to Miami.” And finally, I reminded her, “If the tournament gets cancelled, the fleet will be heading home in the morning and we’ll be in Cuba without a boat.”
The guitarists were serenading a young couple who were holding hands, gazing into each other’s eyes. I looked at my watch, then at Sara. “We need a decision.”
“I’m . . . weighing the pros and cons.”
“The reasons for scrubbing this mission far outweigh the reasons for going ahead. But that’s not how you’re going to make this decision.”
“Call for the check.”
I signaled the waiter for the check, paid in cash, and we left Little Florida, perhaps to go to Big Florida.
She asked me, “Where is the gun?”
“In a fanny pack around my waist.”
“Is that why you wanted to meet Jack?”
“No. But maybe it’s why he wanted to meet me. And maybe Eduardo being onboard is why you didn’t want me to meet Jack.”
“I was as surprised as you were.”
“Life is full of surprises.”
“It is,” she agreed. “Some pleasant, some not.”
“Indeed. Where are we going now?”
“It’s a surprise.”
Calle Obispo was a pedestrian street and we walked past her grandfather’s bank, where this all started fifty-five years ago, and came to the corner where a few cabs waited for tourists. We climbed into a Coco cab and the driver asked, “A dónde vas?”