North of Havana

16

Geis said, "We either missed them or they traveled a lot faster than we did."

We'd spent the last two hours picking our way around the southern rim of the harbor: rain forest, then plowed waist deep through marsh-"Watch out for snakes; the bastards are thick in here"-then walked through a couple of clearings that had gone to weed until we came to a line of low CBS buildings, windows boarded, everything dark.

Pier Three, where they had loaded small boats with 120,000 refugees, was behind us. The narrow mouth of the harbor was off to our right, north, a couple of miles away.

Geis had kept his eye to the scope around his neck, a thermal sensor. Saw nothing. Just in case, he wanted me to call out the names of Valdes-Adolfo Santoya-and the boy, try to lure them in. I'd refused.

"You don't trust me? I won't shoot either one. Promise."

"That's right, I don't trust you."

Harsh laughter. "Every time we talk, I feel like we've got more and more in common. Hey, know what I'd like to do? Next time we sit down, I'd like to hear about the benefit program they had set up for you guys. For us, the government didn't do shit. We had to take the benefits where we found them. Still do."

Now Geis had the MP5 slung over his shoulder; stopped, leaned up against a doorway and lighted a cigar. "They're probably a couple of miles ahead, already on the peninsula. The question is, do we want to go barging in there now, have that Taino ready and waiting on us? Or do we want to give them some time to settle down?"

I checked my watch: nearly three A.M. Four more hours and the winter sun would be up.

Christmas Eve…

I looked across the harbor to Angosta Peninsula. No fires showing, everything dark; no boat lights out on the water, either… but one boat, way in the distance, under way and moving. A sailboat? Yes, a sailboat. I could see the delicate triangulation of its mast against the stars. Could hear the diesel pop-poppa-pop of its tiny engine straining against the tide.

I remembered Tomlinson saying that No Mas was in Mariel Harbor, anchored as if she were waiting for him. Remembered Adolfo Santoya saying the boat was ready, everything cleared.

Could it be?

To Geis, I said, "Maybe we should hike back to the road, have one of your partners drive us to Havana. You want to stop the Santoyas? You've got Castro's whole army to back you up. Surround the place, smoke them out, and arrest them."

Geis said, "Those aren't my partners; they're flunkies I hired. Pay them a few bucks, they'll do anything you tell them to do. Besides, you don't understand the situation or you wouldn't even suggest something like that. Surround the place?" Like I was being silly.

"Because of who you're after. He's too well connected." Maybe Angel Santoya was now so powerful, the only way to deal with his wayward grandson was through covert action. Geis acting alone.

"Adolfo? No one in Cuba is that powerful. Jesus, what bullshit story did those people sell you?"

"That he was a department head; in charge of shipping for Cuba. That Rita had come back to retrieve the family fortune-didn't say anything about being her cousin. Just that Angel Santoya's people were after her, wanted it all for themselves."

"Yeah, well… everything's true but the last part. Angel Santoya, the old son-of-a-bitch, died three months ago. I can see why'd they'd want people to think that, sure. They've got to explain being followed some way. But the only person after them is me."

"To save Castro. It's not the money."

"Damn right it's the money; it's got everything to do with money. What, you think I'm being patriotic? If there really is a family fortune, I want it."

"And you don't want to share it. That's why you won't have them arrested."

"Partly, yeah. Why make it a public matter? But mostly, I want to keep my crazy boss alive. If Fidel gets whacked, I'm out of a job. I've got a pretty nice life here. Beach house down on the Isle of Pines, my suite at the Havana Libre. No one knows who I am but everyone does exactly what I tell them to do. A month off a year to go anywhere I want to go, brush up my languages. That prostitute I told you about? It's true. She comes to the hotel for only one reason. One of the most beautiful women in the world.

"What, I'm going to go back and freeze in fucking Moscow? Or Montreal? Believe me, five years training in that place, dealing with those asshole Canucks, it was enough. You know what I'm saying. The rest of the world, having money just makes you rich. But in a place like Cuba, it makes you God."

I didn't want to hear any more. I wanted to be away from him. Was it that I found Geis so repelling… or just so uncomfortably familiar? I said, "Then let's talk money. I've got nine thousand, cash. I can get it for you tomorrow. You cut me loose now, I walk to the Santeria compound alone, get Dewey and Tomlinson, and we're out of here."

"You get back with Taino's people, you're not going anywhere. That's what you don't understand."

"They like Tomlinson. They think he's helping him; him and his psychic powers. They're not going to hurt me or Dewey as long as they think they need Tomlinson."

Geis said, "Oh?" letting me know that I was already providing information, whether I wanted to or not. Then he said, "Tomlinson's going to get all three of you killed. Tell me this, last night, when you went down that alley? Did some gorilla jump you, try to rob you?"

"He tried to kill me."

"There you go. A guy named Rosario. He used to do some stuff for us. That guy, Jesus, he'd sneak up on cows, neighborhood dogs at night, and cut their throats just to stay in practice. Rosario, he likes it. Now he works for the priests. Taino put him onto you. Taino would burn his own mother if he thought it would get him a little more money or a little more power. He's like the fifth or sixth most powerful priest in Cuba, and he wants to be first. So what's new?"

"Bullshit. Taino's people tried to rescue me. I'm pretty sure they killed the guy you're talking about."

"You think Taino would tell anybody? He has you popped, takes the money, his own people still think he's a great guy. What's he care what happens to you or anybody else. He's just like Fidel; all those power-hungry assholes. He's got a public agenda and a private agenda. What you better hope is, Dewey's not on Taino's private agenda." Geis puffed on his cigar before he added, "So you going to think it over, or are you going to help me?"

I stood there feeling sick; cornered. Finally said, "God damn it."

Geis said, "Good decision," then turned suddenly and kicked open the door of the building. He had the light of his rifle on, shining it around: some kind of old mess hall; a few cans of food sitting on shelves, dust everywhere, the tiny ruby eyes of rats looking out at us. Was this Point Lenin, the old special forces base? Geis said, "First thing we do, we get something to eat. Maybe sleep a little bit, too."

I was exhausted. When was the last time I'd slept?

Dewey and I had had a short nap at the Havana Libre- this after making love. But my last real sleep was… Panama City.

It seemed as if we had flown out of Panama City weeks ago, not the day before.

I said, "You don't have to worry. I'm not going to sneak off and I'm not going to try to take your weapon." Telling him that in advance so he wouldn't be tempted to tie me.

The man was looking at cans, holding them up to the light. Black beans; something else that might be spinach. "Damn right you're not," he said. "I'm your ticket out of here, your only way. That's why I trust you a lot more than you trust me."

When I awoke, the sun was casting dust streamers through cracks in the boarded windows. I'd folded some newspapers, old copies of Granma, into a pallet and had slept on the floor, my back to a wall.

I'd been dreaming about something… what? Something to do with Dewey; one of those anxiety-ridden dreams that suddenly lost detail as it collapsed then blended into a general feeling of dread.

Rolled, stood, checked my watch: seven forty-five A.M. I'd slept for less than three hours. I'd talked with Geis until first gray light, telling him what I knew about the Ochoas, what I knew about Rita Santoya. That she was looking for something that Taino wanted her to find, but her grandmother's directions were wrong. So they were now depending on Tomlinson's psychic vision to lead them to it. I told him the names of the villages I remembered, La Es-peranza and Candelaria, but that Rita had said she'd already spent two days in Candelaria and claimed she didn't find a thing.

Geis had asked, "You really think he's got those kinds of powers?"

"Tomlinson? No, of course not. It's nonsense."

"Total bullshit, I agree. What it is, I think someone's trying to buy time. They tell you what it is they're after?"

"Money for their revolution."

"That too," he had said.

"What else would it be?"

"Something a lot more important than money. At least, that's what the Santoyas want them to believe."

"Meaning you think they're intentionally misleading Taino."

"At least one of them is. If they knew where it was, they'd have it by now."

"Have what?"

"It's voodoo bullshit. Magic. That kind of crap. Trouble is, Fidel's gone so nuts he believes it, too."

Geis wouldn't explain. Told me, "If you need to know, I'll tell you. Standard procedure, right?"

I thought back to Geis's tour of Old Havana, the way he'd probed for a reaction, telling us things so he could read our faces, find out what we knew. I had a pretty good idea what it was they were looking for. But if he didn't want to come right out and tell me, I'd go along with it. He was right. Standard procedure.

I was having trouble reconciling my impression of the man I knew as Valdes with the man I was hearing about, Adolfo Santoya. Yes, I could see him arranging a meeting with Rita, trying to reunite with the estranged branch of his family. Could see him trying to rise above the reputation of his much-hated grandfather. He was that much of an idealist. Maybe could see him planning to assassinate Castro; whatever it took to save his country. But to intentionally mislead for profit? It seemed unlikely. Or I had misread him… not that I hadn't misread people before.

The last couple of years, it seemed, I'd been doing more and more of that…

But Geis had told me, "You may be right about Adolfo. He's a straight arrow. When he disappeared a week or so ago, went underground, people figured he was dead or something. But neither one of us knows the girl, right? That family's got a bad side; maybe she inherited the full dose." When he chided, "Wasn't it her father who pulled a gun on Fidel a few years back? At some baseball game?" I did not reply.

And that's the way he had left it.

Now I put on my glasses and looked around. Big abandoned cafeteria, a couple of signs on the wall in Russian. Geis's newspaper pallet was empty. I went outside, urinated. No sign of the man.

Geis was gone.

I walked down the beach looking out over the harbor: a trash line of plastic bottles and broken glass edging a breathing azimuth of dishwater gray. A few boats on moorings to the south, a few more across the harbor near the peninsula. The boats had a dilapidated look, like junked cargo trucks adrift. For a harbor this size to be idle illustrated Cuba's alienation; it was a dead spot in the mall of international shopping.

I decided to keep on heading south, see if No Mas was among the anchored boats. If Geis didn't appear, I'd just keep on walking. Go straight to the peninsula. Dangerous or not, I wanted to find Dewey. She was a tough woman, a powerful individualist in her way, but she was no more equipped to deal with the potentialities of a Third World country than I was equipped to deal with the social pressures of professional sports.

And that fuzzy dream had left me uneasy, worried about her.

I pictured Taino trying to bully her with one of his egocentric tirades; saw his expression when Dewey told him to go fuck himself-he spoke English; he'd understand. Or maybe Molinas. Molinas, with his broken nose, might try to use Dewey to get even with me. I pictured Dewey freezing him with those sled dog eyes of hers, telling him to get the hell away.

Yeah, she could probably handle it. A primary characteristic of successful women is their ability to deal quickly with the lingering stupidities of men. The smart ones accomplish it so effortlessly that they can drive a pin through the heart without bruising an ego. Dewey had spent a lifetime perfecting that.

Yet… there was a softness in her, particularly now. She had been attempting an emotional transition with an eagerness that approached panic-not uncommon for a wronged lover. More difficult for her, for anyone in her position, was the psychological transition she was attempting… inviting, really, for I was unconvinced that she was really driven to be anything other than the kind and decent person she was by nature. Her behavior of late was, at best, experimental and, at worst, a kind of controlled hysteria designed to distance her from the woman she had loved and who had badly hurt her.

Dewey was not at her strongest. No doubt about that. That was the woman I worried about. Worse, I, her friend, had been complicitous through my weakness every damn step of the way.

Ahead, at the narrowing base of the harbor, I could see mangroves hunched over a breach in an expanding mudflat: a river; the Rio Bongo on the chart I had once memorized. Could see several people, one man and some children, trotting along the bank of the river, animated; excited about something.

I picked up my pace; pretty soon was jogging.

What I was worried about was that Geis had found Adolfo Santoya, and that nice kid, Santiago.

But no…

No sign of Geis. The attraction was a West Indian manatee with calf, the two of them trying to fight their way upriver against a boiling tidal current. The man and the children were following along pointing, occasionally stopping to tug at something.

Even from a distance, I could see the whiskered nose of the female breach the water's surface, followed by the cetacean curve of her arched back-unscarred, rubber gray, tapered like a small boat-then out of the water she lifted the huge fluke tail… hesitated a moment, then soundlessly found purchase in the water-mass, the thrust of tail creating a circular slick as she submerged; a slick in which surfaced the calf, nostrils flaring to breathe. Her baby was the size of a very large stuffed toy. Couldn't have weighed more than forty pounds. The mother probably weighed close to nine hundred.

As I got closer, I saw that the man was holding a frayed length of blue nylon rope that was attached to a Styrofoam float. The working section of the rope extended into the river, bellied with the tide, then disappeared underwater in the direction of the manatee. My first impression was that the animal had gotten tangled in a lobster trap line. It is a common occurrence in Florida. Over the years, I have helped free several. They swim around dragging the float which, ultimately, gets tangled with something else-another trap or a mangrove limb-and the animal dies.

I stopped on the mud flat and watched the people watching the manatee. A father with his children, I decided. A tiny man with splayed feet and a four-day growth of beard. He had a cigarette rolled from a corn husk sticking from the corner of his mouth. His kids ranged from seven to maybe twelve years old. Two little boys and an older girl, all of them wearing nothing but ragged shorts; each with the toothpick legs and distended bellies that I have come to associate with malnutrition. He probably lived in the thatched roof palm shack I could see through the mangroves. Beachcomber junk lying around the yard, a camp-fire smoldering out front. Take a photograph from the right angle, use the photograph in some coffee table book with appropriate inspirational quotes, the shack could become someone's fantasy ideal of a simple life.

But simple lives are seldom ideal.

I watched the manatee surface again; watched the man dig his heels in the mud and give a tremendous pull. The line still didn't come free. Didn't he realize that he had to first give the rope slack? Allow it to untangle gradually?

The children were the first to notice me approaching. I startled the boys so badly they both sprinted for the trees. The little girl stood her ground, though; went shyly to her father and clung to his leg, which is when he glanced over his shoulder and saw me. For a moment, I thought he was going to run, too. He had a look on his face: nervous, frightened; a guy who'd taken some beatings. But he reconsidered, calling, "Sir, if you could spare a few minutes, is it possible that you could help me?" Very formal: a peasant speaking to his superior.

I took the rope from him; immediately allowed it to go slack as I began to explain that I might have to get into the water-the entire time, he was nodding eagerly-and that if he handled the rope more gently, it was a better way and that we would have more luck because he would not frighten the animal so much… and then I stopped talking.

The manatee was on the surface again, the calf nosing close beside her, and I saw for the first time the homemade harpoon in the mother's side, black blood blooming out into the gray water. A bamboo harpoon with a brazed steel head; the shaft of the harpoon fluttering in the tidal rip like certain elongated barnacles that cling to the backs of whales. I watched the animal list sideways, its mouth open wide; heard a gasping, grunting noise that I'd never heard a manatee make before, and it registered in my memory as the sound that this species makes when desperate and in great pain; my knowledge of biology expanded.

I stood there idiotically holding the rope, as the man said, "Yes, if you get into the water, perhaps you will frighten her to the shore. I cannot swim or I would offer… and lately, I have not been well. It seems as if I have lost my strength. But if I can get close enough, I will use my machete. I am still fairly good with a machete."

For the animal, he used the word manati, a name handed down from the original Spanish. He seemed very pleased that I was so willing to take charge.

"You eat these things?" I wanted to drop the rope and escape; get the hell away from this place, this world that kept trying to suck me back into its own dark vortex.

"Only when we are very lucky," the man said. "My wife and my children, it has been so long since we've had meat. This will be a wonderful-" He hesitated, realizing that he didn't know who I was. He stared at me with large brown eyes that were flecked with splotches of milky blue. Was I a tourist? Or was I some holdover Russian? "It will be a wonderful night," he finished lamely, but I knew he had intended to say wonderful Christmas.