Sin City Homicide

17

Bill James stepped off the plane in Havana, Cuba, and stood for a moment on the mobile staircase, inhaling the salty air. It’d been too long since he’d been here. Cuba had a way of freshening his soul. If only the damn Communists would go away, he could buy a home and retire there, then find a nice, young Cuban girl and have several children in his late sixties. Not having children had always been his biggest regret.

A car was waiting for him. It wasn’t a limo or even a Lincoln Town Car, but an old Buick that looked like as though it belonged in the 1960s. That was the thing about Cuba: it hadn’t progressed a single day since the revolution. The moment capitalism ended, so did its forward momentum.

“Hola,” he said to the driver.

“Hola.”

“English?”

“Si.”

“Is Salvatore meeting me in person?”

“Si.”

James nodded as he looked at the backseat of the car. For every meeting he had ever had with Salvatore, he placed his chances of surviving the encounter at around ninety percent. Right now, he wasn’t sure if his odds were that high.

He got into the backseat, and the driver pulled away from the tarmac. The vegetation surrounding the airport was something out of a jungle movie, and almost nothing obstructed the views of the city and mountains. The ocean wasn’t far off, and he looked forward to spending some time fishing. After reading Hemingway’s words about fishing in Cuba as a teenager, he’d been hooked ever since. When he finally had the opportunity to really do it, he wasn’t disappointed. The sea was calm, the beer didn’t stop flowing, the old fisherman he had chartered the boat from had fascinating story after fascinating story, and the sky was open and blue. It was, as far as he could recall, the greatest time of his life.

He pulled out a Graham Greene novel from the one suitcase he had brought with him and began to read. He glanced up after he had read five chapters and saw that they had arrived in downtown Havana. It was a unique city, where pristine churches that could’ve been torn out of the Middle Ages mingled with modern, pre-revolution office buildings and beautifully designed amphitheaters and hotels.

But there was another side to the city. James saw it in the eyes of its inhabitants as he rode past them. There was hatred there, and discontent, unfocused and wild, like a rampant energy shooting out of them. These people stood on the corners, much as their counterparts did in the States. They huddled in the filthy back alleys, fifty men waiting to rob anyone foolish enough to go down there alone. They sat on porches, hoping for jobs that would never come. They stood on sidewalks, watching people walk by, not out of curiosity, but because they simply had absolutely nothing else to do.

“You look good,” the driver said, turning at an intersection and nearly running over a man on a bike. “Skinny and tan.”

“Have we met?”

He laughed. “My name is Roberto. I was a child last time you were here. I used to shine shoes for Mr. Salvatore. Now I drive his cars. Soon, I will do more.”

“How old are you?”

“Seventeen.”

They pulled up to the front of the Santa Isabel. James had always thought it was not only the finest hotel in the city, but perhaps the finest building in the city. It was built in the eighteenth century and had required little renovation since. It overlooked the entire city and, more importantly, the Plaza de Armas.

James got out and walked through the massive double doors. He waved away bellhops and greeters. He knew where he had been summoned to go. The building had elevators, but he never trusted them. He avoided Communist workmanship at all costs, especially if his life was on the line. He remembered visiting the Soviet Union during the height of the Cold War. He was smuggling in grain at a four hundred percent profit. He’d asked one of his distributors there what life was like. “We pretend to work,” the man had said, “and they pretend to pay us.”

The climb to the top floor took a while, and about halfway up, he stopped and sat in a leather armchair in the stairwell, looking out gothic windows at the city below. When he had caught his breath, he continued to the top floor.

The suite took up almost the entire top floor. Of the floor’s twelve rooms, Salvatore was leasing ten of them on a month-to-month basis. James went all the way to the end of the hall and looked out the window at the fountain in the courtyard below before he knocked on the door.

A woman in a white tank top and white workout pants answered. Her bright blonde hair was pulled back. She was obviously American or British.

“I’m here to see Jorge.”

“You must be William,” she said, extending her hand. “I’m Celeste, Jorge’s wife.”

“Nice to meet you,” he said, shaking her hand, “and please, call me Bill.”

She turned and walked inside, and he followed, shutting the door behind him. The suite was massive, far larger than his suite at the hotel in Vegas. At least a dozen windows looked out in every direction, and a hot tub took up one of the smaller guest rooms to the side. The furniture was all leather, and fresh flowers graced every table. A breeze was blowing in through the balcony’s double doors. James could see Jorge on the balcony, sitting at a table with another man, arguing about something.

Jorge was wearing a white Polo sweater with white pants and leather shoes with no socks. Aviator sunglasses were pushed up into his hair. Though the outfit probably cost at least two or three thousand dollars, James thought he looked like everything else in the country: antiquated.

Jorge saw him and smiled. He curtly dismissed his other guest and waved for James to join him outside. The other man walked in, hat in hand, a defeated expression on his face, and averted his eyes from James.

Jorge stood up and hugged James as he stepped outside. He kissed James on both cheeks then offered him a seat across from him.

“How are you, my friend?” he said in his thick, grainy voice with the hint of a European education.

“I’m doing well, Jorge. How you been?”

“I apparently have an ulcer.”

“You’re kidding? You’re thirty-five, aren’t you? What are you doing with an ulcer?”

He shook his head. “This damn business. If it’s not my competitors, it’s the police. If it’s not the police, it’s the courts, the administrators, or the party chairs… the mouths you have to feed just to do business here never stop.”

“You’re rich enough. You could just hang it all up and retire to some beach somewhere.”

“You can never be rich enough. It’s always right there, right on the edge.” He snapped his fingers. “In a single moment, you can go from being a rich man to being a poor one.”

“I suppose that’s true enough. Congratulations on your wedding, by the way.”

“You should be getting the invitation in the next few months.”

“How’s your mother?” he asked, barely able to suppress a grin.

“She’s doing well. She talks about you sometimes. She says she made a mistake, and you should’ve been the one she married.”

“I can’t honestly say that I haven’t thought that same thing.”

Jorge took a deep breath and leaned back in the chair, looking out over the city. “What’s this I hear about the board not approving the acquisition?”

“It’s a minor setback.”

“It doesn’t sound minor.”

“It is. It’s one person on the board stirring up doubts in everyone else. If I can convince him-or more likely, pay him off-I think the rest of the board will fall in line.”

“What if you cannot convince him or, like you said, pay him off?”

“I will.”

“I have four hundred million of my family’s money invested in this, William. If this acquisition does not go through in time-”

“I give you my word, Jorge-it will go through.”

Jorge stared at him, unwavering. His eyes were cold and black. James had seen those eyes make heartless, calculated decisions as coolly as if he were ordering a cocktail. Jorge’s face finally broke into a smile.

“Okay, I trust you, William. I know you will take care of this for me.”

“I will.”

“Good. Now, you must stay in Havana tonight. I will get you women. We will go out on the town and get the best drugs and not sleep until tomorrow.”

James chuckled. “That’s a young man’s territory, and I’m not a young man. If it’s all right with you, I think I’ll just hit the sack early tonight and go fishing tomorrow.”

“Fishing?” He shook his head in disbelief. “You are only old if you act old. You know that, do you not?”

“Maybe. But I still really want to go fishing.”

Jorge stood, and James followed suit. They hugged, and Jorge kissed him again.

“Do not disappoint me, William. I am very fond of you.”

“I won’t.”

As James left the suite, a trickle of fear ran down his spine. I’m very fond of you. James knew it wasn’t a compliment. It was a message: you are expendable.