North of Havana

11

I watched the boy turn into the mouth of the alleyway as if to lead me. At a jog, I followed him into the darkness. Black stone walls on each side closing to form a passage not wide enough for a car. Back doorways blocked by garbage, cobblestones wet, glistening with sewage. One of those big city caverns, walls high above, that stank of uric acid… human waste… rodents that ambushed from gutters.

When I nearly slipped and fell, I slowed to a walk. My eyes wouldn't adjust. I took my glasses off, cleaned them on my shirt.

Glanced behind me. Narrow rectangle of light at the entrance.

Geis was gone.

Peered ahead. The boy had disappeared, too.

Stopped and listened. Heard a weary call in Spanish- Help me! It seemed to come from some far corner of the alley… a sound that echoed strangely, as if it originated beneath the cobblestones.

I began to move slowly toward it, fishing in the pocket of my cargo pants for some kind of weapon. I found the hotel key and I wedged it into my left fist, point protruding between my knuckles. I stripped off my leather belt and wrapped it around my right fist, small brass buckle with anchor facing outward. Picked up the pace, running, until I came to the alley's back wall.

I stopped and turned, feeling my heart pound, breathing heavier than I should have needed to.

Off to the left and right were narrow walk spaces between buildings, no light at all.

Which way?

Stood listening again.

Somebody… please!

The sound came from my right, way back in and from below. The subterranean sound again. Could the kid be stuck in a drain? I took several fast steps toward the walk space… which is when I felt big hands grab me from behind.

Heard: "Be smart, friend. Don't move." The guttural Spanish of a big man.

It scared the hell out of me… demolished the careful process of thought and self-perception. I was no longer the person who rushed to the aid of children. Instantly, I was a diminished creature… small, panic charged… I was prey. The abrupt adrenal fear squeezed at the anus. It buckled my legs and instigated the process of physical shock

… which, in the microsecond of its happening, I recognized… so it vanished.

I turned to free myself… but the man got his hands around my chest, holding me. I tried to ram him into the wall, feeling his breath in my ear, smelling him-tobacco smell and sweat and a sweeter odor like cologne or incense-but he swung me around like a big rag doll.

A very powerful guy. Stronger than me. He seemed quicker, too. The combination did not rally my confidence. Even more unsettling, he was still talking to me, very calm. "Why make it difficult, friend? It's nothing personal, why take it so personally? Or perhaps it's true"-His fingers found my windpipe, a sudden, numbing pressure-"that you are a man who enjoys the dance."

Christ, the guy was having fun.

Heard him say, "Dance with me now?"

I felt his whole weight on my back, riding me. I stumbled around, fighting to keep my balance. Got my hands under his wrist and pried the thick fingers free long enough to grab a bite of air… then his grip was on my throat again. I had enough thoracic pressure remaining to create gagged words: "Stop… no more…"

The grip relented. I began to breathe again in his deflated silence. "Ah-h-h-h, you learn too quickly, friend. So you agree? It's nothing personal."

I nodded, trying to buy myself some time, willing my brain to work; calculate how to deal with it. I said, "Right, of course. Nothing personal…"

"I can do it quickly, or you can make it difficult for both of us."

Do what quickly? What the hell was he talking about?

I said, "You want money? Let me go, I'll give you money. I've got a watch, too. A nice one."

He was still behind me, his arms keeping me under control. "Yes, the money. I will take the money. With men like us, it is business. But… it's like these whores say: If it's business, why is it so much fun?" Delighted laughter- tee-hee-hee-his heavy chest spasming on my back.

With men like us…?

I listened to him say, "As long as you understand."

Panic time again. This wasn't a robbery. He knew who I was, this guy with the freaky laugh, and now he was asking my approval before he murdered me. His tone, what he was implying was: We're in the same line of work, you and I.

I stood there trying to lock onto that cold place within me, the bell-hard conduit that was unblemished by emotion. No fear in there, no rage, no peace… just clarity. I had a fleeting picture of Dewey back at the hotel, then back in Florida, wondering why I'd never returned. I saw Tomlinson, those haunted eyes of his, meditating my disappearance away. No… Tomlinson would feel what had happened; he would know.

At least, he would convince himself that he knew…

I stopped struggling for a moment, let the man feel me relax. Gave it two or three seconds-both of us breathing heavily-before I twisted and drove my left elbow back into his abdominal triangle, the solar plexus.

I heard the air woof out of him hot on the back of my neck as I turned and locked his right elbow in the crook of my arm, twisted it abruptly, using my hip as a lever, and drove my fist, shielded by the hard brass buckle, into his throat. I hit him a second time on the bridge of the nose, then three more times in the throat before I released my lock on his elbow.

I heard a metallic gong on the cobblestones-he'd dropped something-as he fell to his knees, making a gagging noise. It was the sound of a dry pump sucking air. I stutter-stepped and kicked him in the ribs… positioned myself to kick him again, this time in the face, but caught myself. Stood there feeling a rage as strong as nausea move through me, a predatory fever that I knew to be part of me, but that I loathed. I waited, breathing heavily… felt the fever receding, receding, then, finally… it grew smaller and vanished back into its dark hole.

The man was on the ground in a fetal position, hands over his windpipe. Still making the gagging noise, but he seemed to be getting some air in.

I searched around on the pavement until I saw a chromium gleam. Stooped and picked up a thin shaft of metal that was spaded on one end, scalpel-sharp. It was something I'd seen before. An embalmer's tool. A trocar? I wasn't sure of the name. Slide it up through the throat and remove the brain.

He'd dropped it when he fell. I could hear him saying, / can do it quickly, as if he knew exactly what he was doing. Like he was an old hand who'd done it before.

I thought, Yeah. A guy who loved his work.

I tossed the shaft into the darkness and knelt beside him. 1 frisked him quickly as I said, "Who sent you? You were going to kill me-why?"

He rolled slightly to his back. He was looking up at me, but it was too dark to look into his eyes. Jesus, the guy was huge-had to be a couple inches taller than me, had to outweigh me by forty, fifty pounds.

"Tell me!" To threaten him, I grabbed his throat but immediately yanked my hand away-the feel of the fibrous esophagus and Adam's apple was all wrong… much too flat and soft. I'd done some serious damage.

I said, "Tell me why, I'll go get help," not certain I meant it.

His reply-a whistling tee-hee-hee-told me he was sure that I did not… and that he didn't much care. No fear at all in his freakish laugh.

I stood and looked toward the walk space from which I'd heard the child calling. Had there been a young boy in trouble? Or had it been a trick to lure me into the alley?

I began to move cautiously toward the walk space, keeping an eye on the big guy. I called toward the darkness, "Hey? Anybody in there?" with a voice that sounded much steadier than I felt. I hoped there would be no reply; no reason to continue on. Stopped at the entrance, listening. Heard a strange slapping noise, coming closer. It took me a long moment, much too long, to realize it was the sound of someone running; someone charging right at me. I was already backing away when a human figure materialized out of the gloom, sprinting as if to run me down… which is why it was so surprising to be hit with tremendous impact from behind.

"Blindsided" is the football term. Neck vertebra pop, the optic nerves transmit an explosive burst of white light. I went down in a heap; landed on my stomach in the slime. Immediately got to my knees and turned, crouching.

I heard: "What did you do to him?" in Spanish.

There were two men: dim silhouettes standing above me. One of them had something in his hand, a club maybe. I scampered back a few feet out of range, then got slowly to my feet, palms held outward and high-I surrender-as they approached. I said, "He tried to kill me. I had no choice."

I heard one of them say, "Wait… this isn't Rosario."

As if they'd mistaken me for someone.

They were approaching me cautiously. I heard the same voice say, "Are you the Yankee? We only want to talk to you."

I thought: Right.

As they neared, I tried to make myself look smaller. Tried to sag a little, as if I'd been hurt. Waited until they were in range… then dove toward their ankles and rolled, knocking their feet from under them. Came up and tried to run-almost always the best decision in any fight-but was immediately tackled from behind. Got to my knees, then got one foot under me for leverage and used my open palm to smash the nose of the man who had tackled me. Felt the hot-oil explosion of blood… then the other one was instantly on me and locked his arm around my throat. Held me there long enough, choking me, for his partner to get to his feet.

"Don't fight us!"

Through the gauzy, dreamy veil of strangulation, I watched the man stagger around until he found the club he'd been carrying.

He came back, still spitting blood, then kicked the soles of my shoe. "Are you an American?"

Ridiculously, I nodded.

"No more fighting! You come with us!" He sounded furious, as if he was the one who'd been wronged.

I watched him turn to stare at the massive figure of the man who had first attacked me. The man was on his hands and knees now; he seemed to be trying to crawl bearlike toward the alley's exit.

In my ear, I heard the man who was strangling me say, "Kill him."

I tried to twist and throw my elbow into his stomach; tried to lever his arm away from my throat so that I could explode away from him and turn-a wrestling move. The last thing I did was try to reach behind me; I wanted to get my hands on his face, my thumbs in his eyes… while slowly, slowly, the dreamy veil faded to gray… then all awareness vanished into darkness…

I had several brief flashes of consciousness… of being steered, like a drunk, through some dark place, my arms over the shoulders of a big man… of silence, silence then a guttural scream, an animal's scream, the horror of that noise instantly absorbed by the slap of my own shoes on wet pavement… of sitting heavily in slime, hearing the sound of rock grating against rock while the big man stooped in the shadows… of descending a ladder of iron rungs, then of slipping, falling, clawing frantically for a handhold as I spun into blackness, waiting to hit, waiting to hit… then of feeling a crashing impact and another explosive burst of white light…

Then… then, there were voices; voices fading in and out, blending with dreams. The voices of several men and at least one woman. One of the voices slowly separated itself from the others, became steadily louder and insistent… also, very familiar. I listened to the familiar voice say: "Doc? Hey, Doc-wake up!"

I knew that voice; had I been sleeping?

I listened to the voice say, "You die, it's no big deal. I'll just bring you back to life again. Hey… you hear me? Put my hands on your head, suck the death right out of you."

Yes… I could feel my head being cupped; a light pressure.

I heard, "Don't doubt it, man. I've got the inside track on that mortality bullshit, so you might as well wake up, save us both some energy…"

I opened my eyes to see a man's gaunt face, skin stretched tight over bone, a small, elongated burn scar on the left temple like two circles linked; an infinity symbol that reminded me of something… of a friend of mine who had been dead but… was connected to electroencephalogram wires? Yeah… wires that… that were struck by lightning…

Yes… I was beginning to remember things.

I saw arctic blue eyes, dirty blond hippie hair hanging shoulder length, a wild unkempt beard that I associated with crazed hermits or with certain orthodox religions. I said, "Tomlinson?" my voice sounding froggy, as if I had been sleeping.

I watched the face grin. Saw it turn away and heard, "I told you about this guy. To kill 'im, you'd have to cut his head off and hide it." Then the face turned back to me. It said, "How you feeling, man? I told my comrades you'd be fine, but you think these beaners would believe it?"

I ran my hands through my hair. Big bump on the back of my head, tender to the touch. "I… I've got a pretty bad headache. Somebody must've hit me-" Then I sat up quickly. Where the hell was I?

I looked around into a blur of shadows and flickering light. Patted my shirt pockets until Tomlinson pressed my glasses into my hands. Put them on and saw that I was in what seemed to be a cellar: rock walls, water stained, low ceiling, damp floor; large room with corridors leading out from either side. There were candles on rough wood tables, walls and ceiling stained with candle soot.

On one of the walls, someone had used the soot to write 8 A in huge figures.

Two men, one of them black, a' mulatto boy, and a Hispanic woman sat on oil drums, looking at me. The black man had his head back, holding a towel to his face. The towel was blood soaked. I thought: the guy I hit. I recognized the boy-he was the one who'd signaled me from the street.

Tomlinson had his hand on my shoulder. "When Valdes was bringing you down, you slipped and fell off the ladder. Landed right on your noggin-like about a ten-foot fall onto this shit." Meaning the slimy rock floor.

Valdes… the name was familiar.

I was on a table that had been cleared. I swung my legs over and stood. Felt a little shaky but not too bad. Turned to Tomlinson-he was wearing a baggy brown smock over his frayed jeans. The clothes hung on him, he was so skinny. He'd lost weight since I'd last seen him-over six feet tall but couldn't weigh more than one forty, one fifty.

All bone, beard, and Buddha eyes. I said, "Down where? Where are we?"

"Underneath Havana, man."

"In a basement, you mean."

Tomlinson's eyes had a familiar glow. "No, we're underneath Havana. In an old aqueduct these people found, runs beneath the old part of the city. Dug out of solid rock by Indian slaves then forgotten. Now here it is protecting us." The irony of that pleased him, I could tell.

It was starting to come back to me, what had happened- being lured into the alley, then jumped. I said, "These people are friends of yours?"

"As of Saturday, yeah. Friends, comrades. Partners in crime-you name it." Tomlinson was patting my shoulder as he said, "You know me, man. Couple of days, it's impossible not to do some effective karmic networking."

I was looking at them. The guy with the towel was busy trying to get his nose to stop bleeding, but the other man- tall, fast-twitch muscularity beneath olive-colored skin- gave me a little nod, withdrawn but friendly. I guessed he was Valdes, the one Tomlinson said had helped me down the ladder. The woman just stared at me. Shopping mall jeans, black T-shirt, attractive face, short hair, very dark eyes that didn't miss much. She had to be Rita Santoya. Not pretty but handsome, just as Jimmy Gardenas had described her. Outdoorsy, looked like she maybe did triath-lons; this modern Generation X girl sitting with revolutionaries in a rock chamber that had to have been dug three or four hundred years ago.

I said, "So if they're friends, why'd they try to kill me?"

Tomlinson said, "See, that's where you're confused-" before the woman interrupted, "Them? You're the one should apologize. They saved you. It wasn't for them, you'd be dead right now. You maybe broke Molina's nose and we need him." A little pissed off; a slight Hispanic accent combined with an Atlantic coast accent-New Jersey. Yeah, she was Rita Santoya. Talking about Molinas, the man with the towel. I had to think about it: Valdes and

Molinas; both of them names of anti-Castro leaders given me by Armando Azcona and Juan Rivera.

How had Tomlinson managed to hook up with them?

In Spanish, the tall man, Valdes, said to her, "What's he saying? What are you talking about?"

I spoke to him in Spanish before she could answer. "Up in the alley, you were the one who tried to strangle me. That's what I was asking her-why you attacked me. You really expected me not to fight back?"

Valdes gave me a very dry smile. "No, no I've never tried to strangle anyone." As if he found the idea of himself doing such a thing humorous, it was so unlikely. "That was another man, Juan Pablo. Juan Pablo told me it happened because he believed that you were a man named Rosario. Rosario was trained by the Russians to be very good at killing. He enjoyed it."

He used the Cuban slang for Russian-Bolas. Bolas meant "balls" and described the basketball appearance of many of the Soviets.

Valdes said, "With a man like Rosario, Molinas and Juan Pablo couldn't take chances. They had to attack first, ask questions later. On this island, among people who know about things, he is a very famous killer."

I said, "The big man who tried to kill me."

"Exactly. That's why our men were there. That's why there was so much confusion. They arrive in the alley- it's very dark-and they see one big man standing over a beaten man…" He made a gesture of dismissal-how were they supposed to know? "They assumed that Rosario got to you before they did. They assumed it was you who was trying to crawl off like some injured animal. Poor Molinas"-he nudged the man who held the bloody towel- "paid for the confusion with his good looks. See his nose? How crooked it is?"

Molinas removed the towel long enough to say, "You son of a whore, I'll kill you next time." Meaning me. Then he groaned, saying, "I feel like I may vomit."

To Molinas, I said, "I'm sorry. You took me by surprise."

Valdes gave me a very hard look-don't flatter yourself-before he said, "It's not what you did to Molinas's face that makes him sick. It's what he and Juan Pablo had to do to Rosario."

There was something else I now remembered-a sudden scream followed by a silence that resonated. Rosario's scream.

Valdes seemed shakier, far more upset about it than Molinas. He sat there looking at me, letting the implication settle, before he added, "Understand, we're not killers. Certainly not trained killers. We are… educated people who know something has to be done to save our country. Some of the things that have to be done make us sick to our stomachs, but we care enough to do them. And sometimes we make mistakes."

As I started to reply, he held a hand up, shushing me. "Please let me explain first. Earlier this evening," he said, "we received word that you had arrived in Havana. We were also told-and this came from a very good source- that Rosario had been assigned to kill you-" "By who?"

The hand again. "Please let me finish-" "I'm not going to let you finish because I have a friend at the Havana Libre who could be in trouble. If they're after me, maybe they'll go after her. I need to know-"

"They're getting Dewey right now, Doc. She's probably already on her way." Tomlinson had moved to the other side of the room and was standing beside the woman. He had his hand on her shoulder, very friendly, very familiar. "They sent a couple of people to get her, nice and quiet. I didn't even know she was coming to Havana, so it was quite a shock, man-not that I mind." To the woman, he said, "You're going to like Dewey. You two, you've got a lot in common."

I started to press for an explanation, then stopped. Valdes and I had been speaking in Spanish. Tomlinson, who could order food in a Cuban restaurant but not much more, had spoken to me in English. How had he understood? The way he was smiling at me now, same thing-like he knew what

I was thinking before I said it. I watched him shrug, still smiling at me; listened to him tell me, "Weird, huh?"

In Spanish, I said to him, "Don't pretend you understand, because I know you don't."

In English, he said, "Like a native, man, a damn native. Since like… two days ago when they had me eat a couple of peyote buttons. Can't speak a word, but, hey-they say it, I understand it. Call it intuition, call it cerebral osmosis, but, personally, I like to think it's a lifetime of good drugs finally kicking in. Like the book says: God helps those who help themselves."

Valdes said to me, "This is something we've wondered about. He says he never understood Spanish before."

About himself, Tomlinson had once told me that his whole life was like being asleep, dreaming, except for the two or three times he'd woken up just long enough to scream. To Valdes I said, "What Tomlinson does and doesn't understand has always been a mystery." I looked at Tomlinson-seven years of university, he had to have taken a language. Probably Spanish and now it was coming back to him a decade or two later, like an amnesia victim. I watched his smile broaden as I added, "To the best of my knowledge, though, he neither spoke nor understood. And I've known him for years."

"The crazy wisdom." Rita Santoya reached and placed her index finger on Tomlinson's burn scar, the small elongated infinity symbol. I realized, for the first time, that it could also be a lopsided figure eight, as Rita added, "He's been touched by God. It's what Taino said."

Taino?

Valdes-this articulate, educated man-said, "And Taino has never been wrong." He said it matter-of-factly, either with a hint of sarcasm or a hint of reverence, I couldn't tell. I wondered which it was he felt.

Tomlinson said, "Yeah, Taino. He's magic, man."