“Why?”
“Because I have a job to do in Cuba.”
“What job?”
“You don’t want to know. But we sail back to Key West together.”
Jack stared at me. “Are you outta your fucking mind?”
I didn’t reply, though I knew the answer.
Jack stood and got in my face. “Listen, sonny, your luck ran out when you got blown up. You got no luck in the bank. If you get involved with these crazy fucking anti-Castro—”
“That’s my decision, Jack. All you have to do is join a fishing tournament.”
“Yeah? And if the shit hits the fan, I’ll be trying to outrun Cuban gunboats with a bunch of wetbacks onboard.”
“We’re not smuggling people out of Cuba.”
“Then what are you doing in Cuba while I’m fishing?”
“I don’t know yet.”
He put his hand on my shoulder and gave me some fatherly advice. “If you say yes to this, I’ll rip off your head and shit down your neck.”
“I want to hear what they have to say.”
“No you don’t. And I’m not going.”
“Okay . . . but there’s a lot of money involved. More than thirty thousand.”
“Yeah? You need money? Sink this fucking boat and collect the insurance.”
“I missed an insurance payment.”
“Then rob a bank. It’s safer. And they don’t torture you here if they catch you.”
Carlos and the other two approached. The lady was wearing white jeans and a blue Polo shirt, and had long dark hair topped with a baseball cap. She looked about my age, mid-thirties, and she had a nice stride.
“Mac? You listening to me?”
“Yeah . . . look, Jack, they’re offering me . . . us . . . two million.”
“Two . . . what?”
“I said I’d listen and make a decision.”
“Yeah? And if you listen and turn it down, then you know too much and you could wind up—” He made a cutting motion across his throat. “Comprende?”
“Your share is half a million.”
Jack was uncharacteristically quiet, then said, “Make sure you listen good. ’Cause I don’t want to hear anything.”
“And they don’t want you to hear anything.”
Our charter guests arrived and Carlos said, “Beautiful boat.”
Jack and I simultaneously reached out to help the attractive young lady aboard. She had nice hands. I pictured us together in Havana.
CHAPTER 7
Carlos introduced his clients, Eduardo and Sara—no last names—and we shook hands all around.
Eduardo was a distinguished-looking gentleman, older and taller than Jack, and with better posture. He was dressed in black slacks, sandals, and a white guayabera shirt. A gold cross hung on a chain around his neck. Eduardo had a heavy accent and I could easily guess at his personal history: He and his family were rich in Cuba, they escaped the godless Communists with just the guayaberas on their backs, and Eduardo was still pissed off.
Sara, like Carlos, had no accent and she seemed a bit reserved and not overly smiley, but her eyes sparkled.
We made small talk for a few minutes and I thought that Carlos was trying to determine if Sara or I seemed interested in a trip to Havana together. Also, my customers were checking out Jack’s T-shirt, maybe wondering if he was crazy.
Carlos said, “Looks like it’ll be a good sunset.”
Time, tide, and sunset wait for no man, so I told Jack, “Cast off,” and I went into the cabin and started the engine.
Carlos and Eduardo made themselves comfortable in the fighting chairs and Sara sat on the upholstered bench in the stern, looking at me in the cabin.
Jack yelled, “Clear!” and I eased the throttle forward. Within ten minutes we were out of the marina, heading west toward the Marquesas Keys.
The smell of the sea always brings back memories of Maine, of summer in the family sailboat and lobster bakes on the beach at sunset. Good memories.
I ran it up to twenty knots and took a southwesterly heading. The sea was calm, the wind was from the south at about five knots, and the sun was about 20 degrees above the horizon, so we’d have time to anchor, make drinks, and salute the dying sun.
Jack came into the cabin, sat in the left-hand seat, and lit a cigarette. “Want one?”
“No.”
“They’re gluten-free.”
“Go set up the drinks.”
“Who are these people?”
“I told you.”
“Who’s the broad?”
“The lady may be flying with me to Havana.”
“Just fuck her here.”
“Jack—”
“If you go to Havana, you don’t want a pair of tits watching your back.”
“All I’m doing tonight is listening.”
“Who’s the old guy?”
“Your guess is as good as mine.”
“And make sure you understand how, where, and when the two million is going to be paid. For that kind of money, they’d rather kill you than pay you.”
“I’d rather kill you than give you half a million.”
He laughed, then said seriously, “If you decide to say no to this, I’m okay with that. And if you say yes, then I’m with you because I trust your judgement.”
“My judgement sucks, Jack. That’s why I hired you. But trust my instincts.”
We made eye contact and Jack nodded.
I said, “Go change your shirt. That’s an order.”
Jack went below.
I cut back on the throttle and stared out at the horizon. Jack Colby and I don’t agree on much, but we agree that after surviving frontline combat duty we were both on borrowed time. My former fiancée, Maggie, told me that God had another plan for me. I hope so. The last one didn’t work out so well. But to be fair to God, the combat thing was my plan. Man plans, God laughs.
I idled the engine and checked the depth finder. Lots of shoals out here and I didn’t want to drift onto them. I toggled the windlass switch to lower the anchor, then cut the engine.
I came out of the cabin and saw that Jack was wearing a The Maine T-shirt, and he’d set up a folding table with the bags of snacks, rum, Coke, ice, and five plastic tumblers with lime wedges.
Carlos did the honors, choosing the Ron Santiago, and made Cuba Libres for everyone. The alcohol rule for the crew is twelve hours between bottle and throttle, but Jack says you’re just not supposed to drink within twelve feet of the helm. I say never refuse a drink when you need one.
Eduardo proposed a toast. “To a free Cuba. Salud!”
We clinked and drank.
Carlos commented on the Cuban rum and said, “Those Communist bastards nationalized the Bacardi factory, stole it from the family, but it’s still good rum.”
In my infrequent dealings with Cuban Americans, I’ve learned that “Communist bastards” is one word. Well, I guess if the Conch Republic ever nationalized my boat, I’d be pissed, too. But I was still surprised at the depth and duration of the hate.
I glanced at Sara, who was looking out at the setting sun. She hadn’t said much, though Carlos said she’d be honest with me about the dangers of this trip to Cuba. But maybe she was thinking that I wasn’t the guy she wanted to trust with her life. I had the same thought about her.
Jack, picking up on the theme of Communist bastards, told our customers, “I killed a lotta Commie bastards in ’Nam.”