Part 13 (1/2)
”Smells good,” she said.
”And suddenly I'm not very hungry.”
She slapped at me. ”After . . . our last time, you swore you wouldn't have any energy for a week!”
”You know how we gringos love to lie.”
She plopped herself down at the little booth. She wore dark-blue Dolphin running shorts and a baggy s.h.i.+rt, sleeves folded up to her elbows. ”Well, at least feed me first. I might be skinny, but this Hispanic body of mine won't run on air. And, if you don't mind, I'll take a small gla.s.s of that dark beer you just opened for yourself.”
It was a good day, a rare day filled with sun and jokes and love and tanning oil measured out by the handfuls on naked bodies; a day marred only by our anchorage in that dismal harbor with its acid smog and the atmosphere of desperation perpetuated by the loud amplified drone of the Cubans' calling various boats to Pier Three where they would be loaded with their human cargo.
One time I caught the sadness in Androsa's eyes as she listened to it.
”Were they calling us?”
She shook her head, startled out of whatever it was she was thinking about. ”No, not yet. But you never know. I guess we should keep the radio on just in case.”
I should never have done it; never let her turn on that static reminder of why we had come: VHF 16 with its endless Spanish dialogue of anger and desperation, interrupted by the Castro regime every four hours to list the boats that were about to be loaded. But it happens that way sometimes. All your instincts tell you no while your reason thinks it knows better.
I should have followed my instincts.
But I didn't. And there was no way of knowing that the radio call would mean the loss of the woman I was just learning to love. . . .
13.
The call came at about four p.m.
They must have repeated it a couple of times, because it took a while for even Androsa to hear it. But there it was: blasts of static, and then, ”Atencin, atencin-embarcacin Sniper.”
We were stretched out on the high privacy of the flybridge, both of us stripped to the waist, baking in the sun. She used my stomach as a cus.h.i.+on for her head. I used one of the heavy commercial-grade life jackets. We had spent most of the afternoon like that. I had brought up a small cooler filled with ice to keep the beer and a few cans of fruit juice cold. It was a good place to talk, to touch occasionally, and to read. I was rereading Peter Matthiessen's very fine book Snow Leopard, and I had entrusted Androsa with one of my favorite and very finest books: the 1912 first edition of H.M. Tomlinson's The Sea and the Jungle. It is a rare book and, like the Snow Leopard, the kind you want to share only with the rarest of people. I had offered her first Papa's The Old Man and the Sea, but she had declined immediately, saying that it always made her cry-not only the story but because he had captured Cuba the way she remembered it as a child. So, before placing it securely back in the big watertight ammo box which guarded my s.h.i.+p's library, I opened the front cover and read the loved inscription for the thousandth time: This is the best I have to offer, Old Timer. And it's yours.
It was a good way to spend the afternoon. Fine books. Cold beer. Warm sun. Time enough for Androsa to write a letter or two. And antic.i.p.ation of the evening's love. I had made up my mind to corner her that night; to work my way into her confidence and then tell her exactly what both our jobs were in Mariel Harbor.
And to try to convince her that our jobs were over.
Fact: Storm Nest, the trawler which had transported the three CIA agents to Cuba, had been found bullet-riddled in American waters. True, the agents were not aboard-but neither was General Halcn, the Cuban crossover. And common sense dictated that, if someone was going to steal the boat and try the crossing, he, as the director of security in Mariel, would certainly have the first opportunity.
But he wasn't on the boat. Why? According to Norm Fizer, things were getting hot for the Hawk.
Maybe things got too hot. Maybe Castro and his people put two and two together and decided that Halcn was a bad apple-and gave him a carbine trial. So, who was left to rescue?
Fact: One of the CIA agents, Ovillo Gomez, was now one very dead man, resting thirty feet beneath water and mud and my very own Sniper. If he and his two friends had really set out to b.u.mp off Castro, what in the h.e.l.l was he doing trying to swim to my boat? No, it seemed more likely that they had, indeed, been s.n.a.t.c.hed by Castro's people. But how had Gomez found out that Androsa Santarun was on my boat? Coincidence, maybe . . . yeah, coincidence.
Bulls.h.i.+t, MacMorgan. You're supposed to be the big man who prides himself on his personal honesty. Now you're trying to conjure up some pretty d.a.m.n weak evidence to convince yourself that you should hustle that pretty woman back to Key West, out of harm's way. A day ago it didn't make any difference to you-you told yourself that if she wanted to bait the tiger trap, it was her decision. Now, after sharing her bed, you're suddenly h.e.l.l-bent on calling the whole thing off. You know this mission hasn't been resolved. Too many missing links. Too many abstract facts that don't add up. And if you do convince yourself, you can bet that one Stormin' Norman Fizer is going to tell you in pretty rough language just what a fool you've been once you do make it back to Key West. . . .
So I was locked in that personal struggle when the VHF beckoned.
Androsa lifted her head off my stomach. ”Did you hear that?” And then: ”They're calling us, Dusky.”
She hurried down the ladder below. I heard the conversation, m.u.f.fled, fast, and very d.a.m.n short. When she was finished, she poked her head up over the flybridge deck.
”So what's up, lady?”
”Nothing important. I'm supposed to go into Havana and use the government phone so I can call my father and apprise him of the situation.”
She was very calm and cool; but it was a businesslike cool. And I knew that she wasn't telling me the whole truth.
”You're sure he really wants to go to America? Maybe he's just clam-happy over here working for the dream of socialism?”
She smiled at me and winked. ”Maybe. But I have to try. I'm going to change and flag down one of those government taxi boats that keep going by. Apparently there are a few tiendas up harbor at Pier Two where they sell beer and food and stuff, and a government bus leaves there every hour for some hotel-I think it was called the Triton-where there are phones and the immigration people have offices.”
”So I'll just slip into my good s.h.i.+rt and pants and play escort-”
”No!” The firmness with which she said it surprised even her. ”I mean, I'd feel terrible if you went off and left your boat unguarded and something happened to it.”
”Are you still trying to give orders?”
She reached out and ran her short fingernails down my thigh. ”For now. How about it, ya big lug? Stay here and mind the store while I go into the city for an hour or so. Believe me, I'll hurry right back.”
She said it like some peroxide blonde in a 1930 detective film, and I had to laugh.
”You play a bad Harlow with that Spanish accent of yours.”
She wiggled her finger, telling me to come to her. When I did, she kissed me lightly, then harder, and even the breaking away held promise. ”Keep that for me until I get back, okay?”
”It's a tough job, but somebody has to do it.”
She smiled, cupping my chin in her small hand. ”You're something special, Dusky MacMorgan. Very special.”
”And so are you, lady. So are you. . . .”
The moment her taxi boat disappeared behind the first shrimp trawler, I started looking for a taxi of my own. She had left in an old confiscated Woodson trihull painted bright red with a muscular Cuban at the wheel. He wore small black bikini trunks, and he gave me a dirty leer as I waved goodbye to Androsa.
That's right, fella. She's mine. And don't forget it.
By the time I'd flagged down a boat, she was halfway across the harbor, and I knew I'd have to hurry to catch her. When the skiff pulled up, I thought about locking Sniper-then decided that would probably be the worst thing to do. If the Cubans wanted to search her badly enough, they'd just bust in to do it. So, still zipping up my pants and trying to slide into my Topsiders, I swung down onto the waiting skiff.
There were two men aboard. One was obviously the government driver. He wore the standard baggy green pants, cut off at the cuffs instead of hemmed. He was about forty, haggard and unshaven, and a stub of cigarette b.u.t.t grew from the corner of his mouth. He looked bored and uncommunicative.
”Quanto dinero?” I asked him.
He held up a spread palm. Five bucks, American.
I shoved a ten at him. ”Tu hablas ingles?”