North of Havana

Epilogue

On the first official working day of the first month of the new year, I was standing among the commercial docks and rusted warehouses that line French Canal in Colon, Panama; had been standing there for more than an hour because I was waiting to see an old friend.

Two friends, really. Two ladies…

I had no other reason to be in that nasty little city. No one in their right mind would want to spend time unnecessarily in Colon, because it is one of those drunken-sailor destinations: ratty bars and prostitute curb-stations and way too much traffic on broken streets that were never designed to handle the burden of what Colon has become-Central America's busiest, tackiest, and probably most dangerous duty-free seaport.

Which is why I was eager to finish my business and get the hell away from there. I wanted to catch my ride back to the isolated beach house I had rented east of Coco Solo. A nice little house up on stilts with a porch that framed its own seascape. Nothing behind the house but an ascending jungle canopy from which the wild cries of howler monkeys awoke me each morning at first light. Nothing to the sides but empty beach… and an interesting lagoon in which I had already begun to collect some unusual littoral specimens. I'd found some striped tunicates there, an interesting species because, unlike some other tunicates, they are solitary creatures. They clump on rocks or mounds of sea grass and grow there alone, feeding by filtering water and, as they do so, clean way more water than organisms that size could be expected to clean.

"The duality of design," Tomlinson had replied, when I told him what I'd been doing. He'd been speaking by phone from Dinkin's Bay; had reconfirmed that he and Dewey and Rita had made it to Key West safely… which is where he had left them to sail back to Sanibel. Then he had said, "This's going to sound strange, man, but guess what? I don't have a clue who you're with. And I didn't know where you were till you told me. I thought Castro, that asshole, might have you in prison. But Panama-far out."

Nope, not prison. I'd spent a day, a night, and part of the next day at the State Security complex in Havana, Villa Marista, hoping that Santiago's renown would spread quickly enough through Cuba to save me from the killing bluff at Mariel. The prospect didn't even qualify as tenuous hope. Castro being Castro, the idea was, in fact, an exercise in absurd optimism. If the Maximum Leader wanted me dead, no child wearing sacred medallions could stop it. Each time my cell door opened, I looked up expecting to see the face of my executioner. On a Thursday afternoon, though, the door opened and I was shocked to see a face so unexpected that I thought I might be hallucinating. After that, it was a matter of mustering political clout to negotiate my release.

But because I didn't want to burden Tomlinson with all the sensitive details, I had replied, "You didn't know I was in Panama? What's so strange about that?"

I could hear some of the old excitement in his voice. "It's because this whole last year, I knew things, man. I could look at you and I knew where you'd been. I knew where you were going, who you were going to meet. Not that I ever knew what was actually going to happen. But now… it's like I've lost my powers. Like maybe that whole gig in Cuba burned them all up. It was so damn heavy. You think?"

I'd told him, "If that means you're going to start behaving normally, then I hope so."

When he answered, his voice turned sad and a little wistful. "Me too, man. Seriously-the whole scene was getting to be a drag. The omniscient are friendless for a damn good reason."

So Tomlinson now knew where I was, but he didn't know whom I was with. That's the way I wanted it. It's the way it had to be; the only way it was possible to work out security and logistics. Which is why I had chosen the rental car that now pulled up and stopped at the curb beside me. Some kind of Japanese model; the chunkiest, safest, most nondescript rental car I could find. Its windows were tinted almost black. Tinted windows, very important.

I left my spot by the warehouse and was smiling involuntarily as I walked over to the car. I waited for the driver's window to open and then I leaned in and kissed the copper-dark lips, touched the raven hair, traced the handsome Indio face and cheeks of the woman with whom I'd rendezvoused clandestinely two days earlier and was now sharing my beach house. And then I stood and asked Pilar Fuentes Bal-serio, the sovereign of Masagua, a commoner's question: "All done shopping?"

Which earned me the regal smile. "I have everything we need, I think. Know what? I had a good time. I really did, Marion. It's fun acting like a woman again." Then she turned from me, studied the warehouse I had been watching, then looked back into my eyes.

The way her eyes bore in, the way she looked at me…

It was one of her many rare qualities; a gift that she seemed to reserve for me, just for me… a quality that I had never forgotten, that I would never forget.

She became serious. "Have they come out yet?"

"No. But they're in there. A buddy of mine knows all the shipping schedules, and her friend's name was on the manifest. They should be leaving anytime."

She had asked me before, now asked again: "Are you certain you don't want to speak to her; to let her know you're here?" Pilar wasn't pressing me, but was telling me that it was okay if I wanted to.

Three days before, Dewey had gotten my message from her service and dialed the number I had left. She had told me, "I need some time, Doc. In my way, I will always, always… care for you as a friend. But I need some distance. And I need some space to try to put all of this behind me. I hate to say it, but seeing you would bring back… too much."

I told Pilar, "No, I don't want her to know. I just want to see her, make sure she's all right."

"Then you'd better get in the car because the doors are opening. The warehouse doors-see? Better hurry."

I hustled around to the passenger's side, watching the double-wide barn doors slide away, and I ducked in beside Pilar and saw through tinted glass an old white Chrylser convertible pull out with Rita at the wheel, Dewey sitting beside her. It was a striking car; a classic that Geis would have treasured-a two-door roadster with red leather upholstery; the kind of car a famous writer could drive around Cuba while dreaming up stories about big fish and African beaches. I also noted that the car was sitting low on its springs. Nothing lead-heavy in the trunk, but things heavy enough. Things that, like the car, were probably very valuable and not too big to be hidden away in one of Candelaria's mausoleums.

I wondered: What else did shrewd Rita find?

Pilar looked at them a moment before she said, "She's beautiful. She really is. And Marion-her face… she must heal remarkably fast."

Dewey did look good. She had a blue scarf around her neck. I watched her tilt her head back and laugh, reacting to something Rita had said. Watched Rita look both ways, adjust the radio knob, then turn left onto the street and drive away from us.

I sat there in silence watching the blond hair and the fluttering scarf, thinking things that I, too, did not care to remember… until Pilar reached into the backseat, dug through some sacks, and dropped into my lap something that genuinely surprised me-a Rawlings Heart of the Hide catcher's glove; the Gold Glove series.

She said very softly, "It came with his luggage. This afternoon. He's already at the house waiting for us, and he says he wants to throw. It may be a little awkward at first. Are you sure it's okay?"

She wasn't talking about Gen. Juan Rivera.

I had turned my face away from her; I was looking at the glove. I looked at it for quite a while, then I put it on and tapped my fist into the pocket. I waited awhile longer- I couldn't trust my voice-before I said, "Sure. Anything for the woman who came to Cuba and rescued me."