The Sniper and the Wolf

52

It was growing dark when Daniel Crosswhite landed at José Martí International Airport in Cuba.

The customs officer held the rubber stamp poised over his passport. “Quieres el sello, señor?” He was asking if Crosswhite wanted his passport stamped. Cuban customs officers were aware that Americans could get into trouble with the US government for traveling to Cuba — more specifically, for spending American money in Cuba — and they rarely stamped American passports because of it.

Crosswhite shook his head and smiled. “No, gracias.”

The official returned his smile and gave him the passport, welcoming him to Cuba. “Bienvenido, señor.”

“Gracias.”

Crosswhite bought a cheap cellular phone from a kiosk and then caught a cab in front of the airport. “Mercure Sevilla Hotel, por favor.”

Built in 1908, the Mercure Sevilla Hotel was famous for its Moorish architecture and ornate rooms, but Crosswhite barely paid the decor any attention, dumping his bag in the closet and heading back downstairs to the lobby. He found the doorman outside and slipped him a fifty-dollar bill. Most tourists used US currency in Cuba, though the euro was widely accepted as well. “Dónde puedo encontrar una muchacha, amigo — una muchacha buena?” Where can I find a woman — a fine woman?

The doorman was dark complexioned, in his early thirties. He smiled, answering in good English, “You can’t bring a girl here to the hotel, señor.”

A shadow fell over Crosswhite’s face. “What the fuck are you talking about?”

The doorman took him aside out of earshot. “This is the tourist section,” he explained. “Local woman aren’t permitted inside the hotels, so they take you to their homes.”

Crosswhite’s eyebrows soared. “You’re shitting me.” He began to dig around in his pocket. “What’s your name, amigo?”

“Ernesto, señor.”

“Ernie, I’m Dan.” They shook hands. “I’m gonna be here a few days on business. You gonna be around if I need you?”

Ernesto smiled. “Estoy a sus órdenes, señor.” I am at your orders, sir.

“Excellent,” Crosswhite said, slipping him another fifty. “Now, listen. I need to know if any other Yankees show up here at the hotel — military-lookin’ assholes like me. Comprendes?”

Ernesto continued to smile, enjoying the sudden intrigue. “I’ll keep my eyes open, señor. Rely on me.”

“I will,” Crosswhite said, giving him a slip of paper with the number to the cellular he’d purchased at the airport. “If you see anything unusual around here — any fucking thing at all — you call me. Comprendes?”

“I understand exactly what you need, señor. Do not worry.”

“One other thing: the last digit isn’t really a four — it’s a five. Can you remember that?”

“Sí, señor.”

“Bueno,” Crosswhite said. “Now, about the girl? I want her thin… early twenties… long, dark hair. You got one in mind?”

Ernesto grinned. “Paolina will be perfect for you, señor.”

“Paolina!” Crosswhite reached into his jacket for his smokes. “You and me are gonna get along, I think.” He shook loose a pair of cigarettes and gave one to his new friend.

“Paolina is a good girl,” Ernesto said, lighting the cigarette as Crosswhite held the lighter. “You have to be a gentleman. Her parents are very proper.”

Crosswhite’s mouth fell open. “Her fucking parents? Dude, what the fuck are you talkin’ about?”

Ernesto laughed. “This is your first time in Havana?”

Crosswhite took a drag. “I’m guessing you can tell.”

“I will take care of everything, señor. She will arrive here by taxi in twenty minutes. Then you can ride with her to her home. Her mother will cook you a nice meal.”

“Ernie, I don’t wanna meet her goddamn parents.”

“Relax,” Ernesto said. “You hired me, no? Allow me to do my job.”

Crosswhite pointed at him, a half grin on his face. “If this gets fucked up, Ernie, I’ll jerk a knot in your dick. I mean it.”

Ernesto smiled, exhaling a cloud of smoke. “You are going to love her. I swear it. You won’t want to ever leave Cuba after tonight.”

Paolina’s cab pulled up in front of the hotel a half hour later, and Ernesto opened the door for Crosswhite to get in with her.

The moment their eyes met, his heart melted, and he almost got back out of the cab. She couldn’t have been a day over twenty-one, and she was the very picture of innocence, with soft, dark eyes, brown skin and long, kinky black hair.

“Soy Paolina,” she said in a soft voice. “Mucho gusto.” It’s nice to meet you.

“Soy Dan. Mucho gusto.”

They arrived at her house in a poor neighborhood about fifteen minutes later. Paolina led him inside by the hand and introduced him to her parents — Duardo and Olivia Garcia — who stood waiting for them in the kitchen beside a table set for four. A television played cartoons in another room where a pair of small children could be heard romping around.

Crosswhite had never been more uncomfortable in his entire life, and he regretted having come, but he smiled at her father, who looked the same age as him, and offered his hand. “Mucho gusto, señor.”

Duardo’s grip was firm, and his gaze was steady. “Mucho gusto. Bienvenido.” He motioned Crosswhite into a chair and sat down across from him with a friendly smile as Paolina set about helping her mother to serve the meal. When the table was ready, she took the chair beside him.

No one in the family spoke English, so dinner conversation was entirely in Spanish. Early in the meal, Paolina’s mother excused herself from the table and went into the other room to settle a dispute between the children. Crosswhite had assumed the children to be Paolina’s siblings, but when one of them used the word abuela, meaning “grandmother,” he realized that at least one of them was probably Paolina’s. He had already made up his mind there was no way he was going to bed her with her parents right in the other room, so he didn’t see any reason not to ask a few personal questions.

Paolina admitted one of the girls was her three-year-old daughter and that the other was her four-year-old sister. Paolina’s father chuckled proudly, boasting that both little girls were beautiful and hot tempered like their mothers.

Crosswhite glanced at Paolina, trying to imagine such a meek girl being hot tempered. He smiled at Duardo, liking him, and asked what he did for a living.

Duardo said he worked as a gardener in a gated neighborhood, and the second he learned that Crosswhite had been a soldier in Afghanistan, the conversation turned to guns. It wasn’t long afterward that Duardo asked his wife to get out a bottle of seven-year-old Havana Club rum. The bottle had never been opened, and Crosswhite began to protest, but Duardo insisted, and soon both men were laughing like old friends. It grew late, and Paolina’s mother excused herself once again, saying that she needed to put the children to bed. As she left the kitchen, it was obvious she would not return, and Duardo got to his feet. He offered Crosswhite his hand and told him that he had enjoyed meeting him and followed after his wife, bidding Crosswhite good night.

Crosswhite stared after him for a moment and then turned to Paolina, saying that he should probably be getting back to the hotel. The atmosphere became immediately awkward, and he came clean with her, explaining that he had never been to Cuba before and that he had not expected to be received so kindly by her family or to end up making friends with her father.

She stared at him, and for a second he thought she was going to cry.

“No, don’t cry,” he said in Spanish. “I’m still going to pay you for your time and everything.”

Tears spilled from her eyes, and he realized he’d given offense where he hadn’t meant to.

“I’ll call the cab,” she said, getting up from the table. “I don’t want you to pay me. There’s no reason.”

He caught her gently by the hand, and she sat back down.

“Look, I’m not accustomed to girls like you,” he said softly. “You’re too… you’re too precious and sweet. I’m accustomed to women who are wild and reckless. Do you understand?”

She touched his face. “Tal vez es por eso que estás tan solo en el mundo.” Perhaps that’s why you’re so alone in the world.