The Cuban Affair Read online

  I imagine that Carlos knew that Jack was ex-military when he was searching for idiots to go to Cuba, and I also wondered if Jack would be up for a late-in-life adventure. Carlos said that Jack’s life would not be in danger, which was true regarding the fishing tournament, but not true regarding sailing out of Cuba with sixty million bucks onboard if Cuban gunboats were on our ass. If we made it that far.

  Well, we’d see what Carlos and his clients had to say. If nothing else, I had lots of experience calculating the odds of survival, and as we used to say, any odds better than 50/50 were too good to be true. And the biggest clue about how dangerous this was, was the money. They weren’t offering me two million dollars to walk into the Bank of Cuba with a withdrawal slip for sixty million.

  “What’s on your mind, Captain?”

  “Just thinking about the Cuban Thaw.”

  “They’re all fucking Commies.” He quoted from one of his T-shirts: “Kill A Commie For Christ.”

  “You been to Cuba?”

  “Hell, no. Place sucks.”

  “Could be interesting.”

  “Yeah. Like ’Nam was interesting.” He remembered something and said, “Hey, I saw a great T-shirt on Duval.” He smiled. “ ‘Guantánamo—Come For The Sun, Stay For The Waterboarding.’ ” He laughed.

  Jack’s life was becoming more and more informed by T-shirts. I guess if you don’t own a car, you can’t collect bumper stickers. But Jack might be onto something: The Book of Life was a collection of T-shirt jokes.

  I didn’t know much about Jack’s life after he’d left the Army and before he showed up on my boat, but he told me he’d stayed in Columbus, Georgia, after his medical discharge because of some local girl whose husband had been killed in Vietnam. He wound up marrying her, and I assume the marriage ended, because he was here alone, though he never mentioned a divorce. Maybe she’d died.

  As for my own love life, I was once engaged to a woman—Maggie Flemming—from Portland whom I’d reconnected with on one of my Army leaves. We sort of grew up together and my mother approved of the lady’s family, which was more important than approving of the lady.

  Long story short, my two overseas deployments and my stateside duty stations kept Maggie and me apart, and then my hospital stays and rehab put a further strain on the relationship. Also my head was in a bad place, and when you’re screwed up, you screw up, and that’s what I did, and I took off for Key West, where nobody notices. My mother was disappointed about the broken engagement, but my father didn’t comment. As for Key West, they both thought I’d be back soon.

  As for Portland, it’s a nice town of about sixty-five thousand people, historic, quaint, and recently trendy and touristy, with lots of new upscale bars and restaurants. In some ways it reminds me of Key West, mostly because it’s a seaport, though nobody swims nude in Portland, especially in the winter. The family house, a big old Victorian, is haunted, though not by ghosts, but by memories. Portland, though, was a good place to grow up and it’s a good place to grow old. It’s the years in between that are a challenge to some people.

  But maybe if I scored big on this deal, I’d give it another try. Maggie was married, and my parents were still crazy, and my brother had moved to Boston, but I could see myself in one of the old sea captain’s mansions, staring out to sea . . . I actually missed the winter storms.

  I finished my Coke, stood, and looked down the long dock, but I didn’t see my customers. It was possible they’d had a conversation and decided that Captain MacCormick wasn’t their man. Which would be a relief. Or maybe a disappointment, especially if no one else came along with a two-million-dollar offer this week.

  Jack asked, “Where are these Beaners?”

  “Jack, for the record, I think Mexicans are Beaners.”

  “All these fucking people are like, mañana, mañana.”

  “No one around here is good with time, either, including you, gringo.”

  He laughed.

  Jack’s world view and prejudices are a generational thing, I think, and he reminds me in some ways of my father, who grew up in what amounts to another country. Jack Colby and Webster MacCormick are unknowable to me because their screwed-up heads were screwed up in a screwed-up war that was different from my screwed-up war. Also, I had the impression from both of them that they’d like to go back to that other country. My generation, on the other hand, has no nostalgia for the past, which was screwed up when we arrived. In any case, as my father once said to me in a rare philosophical moment, “Memories about the past are always about the present.”

  As for the future, that wasn’t looking so good, either. But it might look better with a few million in the bank.

  I spotted my customers at the end of the long dock. Carlos, an older guy, and a young woman. “Our party is here.”

  Jack swiveled his chair around. “Hey! She’s a looker.”

  “Look at me—and listen.”

  He turned his attention to me. “What’s up?”

  “Carlos, the lawyer, has offered me thirty Gs to charter The Maine for the Pescando Por la Paz.”

  “Yeah? So we’re going to Cuba?”

  “I haven’t accepted the job.”

  “Why not?”

  “I wanted to speak to you first.”

  “Yeah? Well, I accept.”

  “You will be skippering The Maine.”

  “Me?”

  “Right. You sail to Havana for a goodwill stop, then a place called Cayo Guillermo for the tournament, then home. Three fishermen onboard, and—”

  “These three?”

  “No. Just shut up and listen. They’ll supply you with a mate. It’s a ten-day cruise. I’ll give you half.”

  “Yeah? I’ll take it. But how come you’re not going?”

  “I fly to Havana. Then meet you, probably in Cayo Guillermo.”

  “Why?”

  “Because I have a job to do in Cuba.”

  “What job?”

  “You don’t want to know. But we sail back to Key West together.”

  Jack stared at me. “Are you outta your fucking mind?”

  I didn’t reply, though I knew the answer.

  Jack stood and got in my face. “Listen, sonny, your luck ran out when you got blown up. You got no luck in the bank. If you get involved with these crazy fucking anti-Castro—”

  “That’s my decision, Jack. All you have to do is join a fishing tournament.”

  “Yeah? And if the shit hits the fan, I’ll be trying to outrun Cuban gunboats with a bunch of wetbacks onboard.”

  “We’re not smuggling people out of Cuba.”

  “Then what are you doing in Cuba while I’m fishing?”

  “I don’t know yet.”

  He put his hand on my shoulder and gave me some fatherly advice. “If you say yes to this, I’ll rip off your head and shit down your neck.”

  “I want to hear what they have to say.”

  “No you don’t. And I’m not going.”

  “Okay . . . but there’s a lot of money involved. More than thirty thousand.”

  “Yeah? You need money? Sink this fucking boat and collect the insurance.”

  “I missed an insurance payment.”

  “Then rob a bank. It’s safer. And they don’t torture you here if they catch you.”

  Carlos and the other two approached. The lady was wearing white jeans and a blue Polo shirt, and had long dark hair topped with a baseball cap. She looked about my age, mid-thirties, and she had a nice stride.

  “Mac? You listening to me?”

  “Yeah . . . look, Jack, they’re offering me . . . us . . . two million.”

  “Two . . . what?”

  “I said I’d listen and make a decision.”

  “Yeah? And if you listen and turn it down, then you know too much and you could wind up—” He made a cutting motion across his throat. “Comprende?”

  “Your share is half a million.”

  Jack was uncharacteristically quiet, then said, “Ma
ke sure you listen good. ’Cause I don’t want to hear anything.”

  “And they don’t want you to hear anything.”

  Our charter guests arrived and Carlos said, “Beautiful boat.”

  Jack and I simultaneously reached out to help the attractive young lady aboard. She had nice hands. I pictured us together in Havana.

  CHAPTER 7

  Carlos introduced his clients, Eduardo and Sara—no last names—and we shook hands all around.

  Eduardo was a distinguished-looking gentleman, older and taller than Jack, and with better posture. He was dressed in black slacks, sandals, and a white guayabera shirt. A gold cross hung on a chain around his neck. Eduardo had a heavy accent and I could easily guess at his personal history: He and his family were rich in Cuba, they escaped the godless Communists with just the guayaberas on their backs, and Eduardo was still pissed off.

  Sara, like Carlos, had no accent and she seemed a bit reserved and not overly smiley, but her eyes sparkled.

  We made small talk for a few minutes and I thought that Carlos was trying to determine if Sara or I seemed interested in a trip to Havana together. Also, my customers were checking out Jack’s T-shirt, maybe wondering if he was crazy.

  Carlos said, “Looks like it’ll be a good sunset.”

  Time, tide, and sunset wait for no man, so I told Jack, “Cast off,” and I went into the cabin and started the engine.

  Carlos and Eduardo made themselves comfortable in the fighting chairs and Sara sat on the upholstered bench in the stern, looking at me in the cabin.

  Jack yelled, “Clear!” and I eased the throttle forward. Within ten minutes we were out of the marina, heading west toward the Marquesas Keys.

  The smell of the sea always brings back memories of Maine, of summer in the family sailboat and lobster bakes on the beach at sunset. Good memories.

  I ran it up to twenty knots and took a southwesterly heading. The sea was calm, the wind was from the south at about five knots, and the sun was about 20 degrees above the horizon, so we’d have time to anchor, make drinks, and salute the dying sun.

  Jack came into the cabin, sat in the left-hand seat, and lit a cigarette. “Want one?”

  “No.”

  “They’re gluten-free.”

  “Go set up the drinks.”

  “Who are these people?”

  “I told you.”

  “Who’s the broad?”

  “The lady may be flying with me to Havana.”

  “Just fuck her here.”

  “Jack—”

  “If you go to Havana, you don’t want a pair of tits watching your back.”

  “All I’m doing tonight is listening.”

  “Who’s the old guy?”

  “Your guess is as good as mine.”

  “And make sure you understand how, where, and when the two million is going to be paid. For that kind of money, they’d rather kill you than pay you.”

  “I’d rather kill you than give you half a million.”

  He laughed, then said seriously, “If you decide to say no to this, I’m okay with that. And if you say yes, then I’m with you because I trust your judgement.”

  “My judgement sucks, Jack. That’s why I hired you. But trust my instincts.”

  We made eye contact and Jack nodded.

  I said, “Go change your shirt. That’s an order.”

  Jack went below.

  I cut back on the throttle and stared out at the horizon. Jack Colby and I don’t agree on much, but we agree that after surviving frontline combat duty we were both on borrowed time. My former fiancée, Maggie, told me that God had another plan for me. I hope so. The last one didn’t work out so well. But to be fair to God, the combat thing was my plan. Man plans, God laughs.

  I idled the engine and checked the depth finder. Lots of shoals out here and I didn’t want to drift onto them. I toggled the windlass switch to lower the anchor, then cut the engine.

  I came out of the cabin and saw that Jack was wearing a The Maine T-shirt, and he’d set up a folding table with the bags of snacks, rum, Coke, ice, and five plastic tumblers with lime wedges.

  Carlos did the honors, choosing the Ron Santiago, and made Cuba Libres for everyone. The alcohol rule for the crew is twelve hours between bottle and throttle, but Jack says you’re just not supposed to drink within twelve feet of the helm. I say never refuse a drink when you need one.

  Eduardo proposed a toast. “To a free Cuba. Salud!”

  We clinked and drank.

  Carlos commented on the Cuban rum and said, “Those Communist bastards nationalized the Bacardi factory, stole it from the family, but it’s still good rum.”

  In my infrequent dealings with Cuban Americans, I’ve learned that “Communist bastards” is one word. Well, I guess if the Conch Republic ever nationalized my boat, I’d be pissed, too. But I was still surprised at the depth and duration of the hate.

  I glanced at Sara, who was looking out at the setting sun. She hadn’t said much, though Carlos said she’d be honest with me about the dangers of this trip to Cuba. But maybe she was thinking that I wasn’t the guy she wanted to trust with her life. I had the same thought about her.

  Jack, picking up on the theme of Communist bastards, told our customers, “I killed a lotta Commie bastards in ’Nam.”

  Eduardo smiled and drank to Jack.

  Carlos, warming to the subject, asked, “Did you know that Cuban Communists participated in the torture of American prisoners of war in the Hanoi Hilton?”

  Jack replied, “I heard about that.”

  Carlos continued, “What most people don’t know is that about twenty American POWs were taken to Havana’s Villa Marista prison and subjected to brutal interrogation experiments, including mind-altering drugs and extreme psychological torture. They all died in Cuba, but they are listed as missing in action in Vietnam.”

  Jack said, “Commie bastards.”

  Carlos was obviously psyching up the troops to hate the inhuman enemy. But when you do that, you also run the risk of frightening the troops. Havana wasn’t looking so good to me.

  Sunset cruises are supposed to be two or three couples getting romantic, and I had great mood music, like Bobby Darin singing “Beyond the Sea,” or if my customers are younger I put on one of my Adele CDs or Beyoncé. But this group wanted to hear “Onward Christian Soldiers.”

  To change the subject I asked my customers, “Do you know about the green flash?”

  They didn’t, so I explained, “When the sun dips below the horizon, there is sometimes a flash of green light. Some people see it, some don’t. But if you see it, it means you’ll have good luck.”

  Carlos, being a lawyer, said, “People will lie.”

  “If you lie,” I told him, “bad luck will come to you.”

  Carlos had no comment, but Sara said, “I’ve heard it told differently. If you’re already blessed and chosen, then you’ll see the green flash. Those who are not favored will not see it.”

  I said, “I’ve heard that, too. But I assume all my paying customers are blessed.”

  She smiled.

  Eduardo produced five Cohibas and said, “Made in Cuba by slaves, but still hand-rolled in the traditional way.” He passed them around and Sara also took one.

  Jack had a Zippo lighter and lit everyone up. He showed his Viet-era Zippo to his fellow septuagenarian, and Eduardo read the engraving: “ ‘Yea, though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death, I fear no evil, for I am the meanest motherfucker in the valley.’ ”

  Jack and Eduardo got a laugh out of that.

  Well, Jack had a new friend. The cultural divide narrows when you hit seventy.

  We smoked our contraband cigars and drank our contraband rum. I got my binoculars out of the cabin and scanned the horizon. To the south I saw what appeared to be a Coast Guard cutter. Also, I’d seen at least two Coast Guard helicopters overhead.

  The Straits of Florida between the Keys and Cuba are well-patrolled waters.
The Coast Guard and the Drug Enforcement Agency are on constant alert for drug smugglers, human smugglers, and desperate refugees from Cuba trying to make the short but dangerous sail to freedom.

  If you live in the Keys, you know that thousands of Cubans set out each year in homemade boats and unseaworthy rafts—the balseros, they were called. The rafters. They prayed for calm seas, favorable winds, and no sharks, and put themselves into the hands of God.

  Of the thousands who attempted the crossing each year, I don’t know how many made it, how many drowned, or what happened to those who were caught by Cuban patrol boats—but I did know that under the current refugee policy, if the U.S. Coast Guard picked them up at sea they were considered “Wet Foot,” and returned to Cuba. But if they made it to land in the U.S. they were “Dry Foot,” and allowed to stay. Which seemed to me to be a cruel and arbitrary process, an affirmation that life is randomly unfair.

  I and most of my fellow charter boat fishermen agreed that if we ever picked up a balsero at sea, we’d take them ashore.

  I passed the binoculars to Sara, and she, Carlos, and Eduardo scanned the horizon to the south, consciously or unconsciously looking for their countrymen.

  Carlos said, “The sea is calm, the winds are from the south, and there will be a moon tonight.”

  Everyone understood that this was a night for the rafters.

  Carlos freshened everyone’s drinks and asked me some questions about The Maine. He then mentioned the Pescando Por la Paz and said to me and Jack, “I hope you’ll consider that.”

  I didn’t reply, but Jack said, “I hear I’m skippering The Maine.”

  “Yes, if Captain MacCormick agrees.”

  I said, “We can talk about that later.”

  Carlos asked us, “Do you have passports?”

  Jack replied, “Yeah. Issued by the Conch Republic.” He laughed.

  Carlos didn’t get the joke, but said, “You can both get an expedited passport in Miami. I can help with that.”