Chico wished us buenas noches, walked over to an old Harley, kick-started it, and headed for the garage door. Flavio reappeared from the shadows and opened one side of the barn door just in time for Chico to exit his unnamed dealership. If it was his. Flavio closed and bolted the door.
I glanced at Sara, who hadn’t said much since we’d gotten here. I was anxious to get on the road, but first we needed the contact info for our person in Camagüey, and I assumed we’d get it from Flavio, but he came over to us and said, “Someone will meet you here.”
No use asking who, so I asked, “When?”
“Soon. And I wish you good luck.”
I guess he was leaving. He looked like he needed a drink.
Sara said to him, “Thank you for being here.”
“Marcelo wishes it could have been him. But they are watching him.”
“Perhaps next time.”
“He sends his regards.”
“And mine to him.”
He bid us good evening, turned, and walked toward the door.
Well, I was getting that outsider feeling again, like you get when a woman invites you to meet her family and they’re all talking about people you don’t know, and not talking about the crazy uncle in the attic.
I asked, “Who is he? And why was he here?”
“He was here to make sure everything went well with Chico.” She added, “He’s new to our organization. Unknown to the police.”
“He looked like he’d crack like an egg if the police got hold of him.”
She didn’t reply.
I looked at my watch. We’d been here about forty minutes. My training emphasized leaving a meeting place as soon as you’ve done a deal with the locals. But now we were waiting for someone. Maybe the local police.
Meanwhile, I scanned the shop to see if there were any side or back doors, then I went to the front door, opened it, and confirmed that our beer-guzzling lookout was still there—the tape was playing a nice guitar solo—and I closed and bolted the door. Not that the bolts or the old man were going to keep out the police, but they would give us a few seconds to react. I walked back to Sara, who was now looking at our new car. I asked her, “What’s going on here?”
“We’re waiting for someone.”
“Who?”
“I don’t know.”
“And who told Chico we needed a station wagon, and that I had a sense of humor?”
“Eduardo.”
But it wasn’t Sara who said that. It was Eduardo.
CHAPTER 42
So, Eduardo Valazquez was our man in Havana.
I had no idea where he’d been lurking—maybe the ba?o—and I looked at Sara, who didn’t seem overly surprised to see him. In fact, I wasn’t completely surprised myself.
He was wearing the same outfit I’d last seen him wearing on my boat—sandals, black pants, and a white guayabera shirt, but no gold cross, which would attract attention in Cuba.
He went to Sara and they embraced. “You look well,” he said to her. “Are you well?”
“Sí.”
Eduardo looked at me. “Have you been taking good care of her?”
“Sí.”
Eduardo walked over to the Buick and put his hand on the fender. “Beautiful. My father had an Oldsmobile.”
Those were the days. Well, Eduardo was beginning his walk down memory lane in Chico’s Chop Shop. He had apparently given Felipe the slip—or more likely, he just told Felipe to go sit in a corner. Eduardo was the boss. And, I guess, the brains behind all of this.
He lifted the wagon’s rear window and looked into the storage space. “This will be good.”
“For what?”
He didn’t reply.
I had the impression I wasn’t supposed to speak unless spoken to, and Sara, too, wasn’t saying anything. I get impatient with old people, especially if they’re screwing up my schedule and my life. It was almost 11 P.M., and about midnight Antonio would be knocking on Sara’s door with his woody, then he’d probably use the house phone to call her room and probably my room, then he’d get a manager to open Ms. Ortega’s door. Then he might call his police comandante. Or maybe he’d wait for Sara in the lobby, not believing she’d jilted him after all he’d done for her to get her out of Cuba. In any case, we needed to get on the road before we were the subjects of a police search.
Eduardo walked over to Chico’s all-purpose table and bar and poured himself a white rum, inviting us to join him. Sara and I declined. He then produced three Cohibas in aluminum tubes and gave one to me and one to Sara.
He took a lighter out of his pocket—a Zippo—and held it in the palm of his hand. He looked at me and said, “This is a gift to you from Se?or Colby.” He handed it to me and I looked at the lighter. It was indeed Jack’s Zippo. Yea, though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death, I fear no evil . . .
Well, apparently Jack—like Felipe—couldn’t keep Eduardo from jumping ship, and apparently, too, Eduardo told both of them he was going to meet us. I wasn’t happy when I’d learned he’d stowed away on The Maine, and I wasn’t sure I should be thrilled to discover he was our contact.
Eduardo said, “Perhaps not a gift, but a good-luck charm. He wants it returned to him when you meet in Cayo Guillermo.”
“I’ll be there.” . . . for I am the meanest motherfucker in the valley.
Eduardo uncased his cigar, but Sara and I said we’d save ours for the road. I lit Eduardo up with the Zippo. Just like old times on my boat.
He let out a stream of white smoke and said, “They taste better here.”
Actually, they tasted better in the U.S., where the cigars were illegal and we were legal. On that subject, I let him know, “I’d like to get moving.”
He stared off into space, then said, “Havana does not look as I remember her . . . She has gotten . . . shabby. And the people . . . Where is the joy I remember in Old Havana?”
I took that as a rhetorical question, but Sara replied, “It is gone. But the people’s hearts will come to life again.”
I had the impression they’d had conversations like this before. Not that I cared, but Sara and Eduardo, like all exiles and the children of exiles, romanticized the old days and the old country, which in the case of Cuba had been run by the most corrupt thugs in the Western Hemisphere. The current regime was long past its expiration date, but the damage had been done, and I couldn’t imagine what was next for this unblessed island. Nor did I care. Well, maybe I did.
Eduardo contemplated his cigar, then asked us, “How are things?”
I beat Sara to a response and said, “We had a little problem.”
He nodded. “Yes, I heard this from Se?or Colby.”
So Se?or Colby couldn’t keep his mouth shut about our meeting, or what was said there. Wait until I get my hands on his skinny neck.
Eduardo looked at me. “But you were not supposed to meet him.”
“Why not?”
“For reasons of security.”
“Excuse me, but you are the biggest security problem so far.”
He ignored that and continued, “But I’m happy he gave you—” He tapped my belly bulge, which must be a Cuban custom. “I was going to bring that to you.”
“He saved you the trouble.”
“So you had this problem with . . . your tour guide.”
“We’ve put that problem behind us and now we need to get on the road.” I added, “I assume you have the Camagüey contact information for us.”
He didn’t reply, and he was annoying me, so I said, “I hope you don’t think you’re coming with us.”