Part 15 (1/2)
”Ah, the poor little b.u.g.g.e.r. Ate some of th' food here, no doubt.”
I followed O'Davis through the crowd of people. He was obviously no stranger to the place. Cuban-American men singled him out, greeting him heartily in enthusiastic Spanish. While he stopped to talk with a couple of them, I worked my way up to the plank bar.
”Dos cervezas, por favor.”
The skinny vendor squinted at me, turned without a word, and took two Hatuey beers from the trough of ice behind him. I handed him a five, and he handed me back a one.
”Hold it there, Yank!” O'Davis came ambling up beside me. ”The little snit short-changed ye.”
He wheeled on the Cuban, barked an abrupt command. The vendor glared at him momentarily, then laid two more ones on the counter.
”O'Davis,” I said, ”I'm trying to figure out what goodness I've done in my life for G.o.d to send me my very own guardian angel.”
”Hah! Hardly an angel, Yank. Hardly that. Ye've been around some, I kin see that, mate. That scar on yer face didna come from disco dancin', I'm thinkin'. An' you've used them knuckles o' yers for more than itchin' yer own nose. But you've never been to a place as nasty as Mariel Harbor, Yank.” He looked at me for a moment, then smiled. ”But then again, maybe ya have.”
”Maybe,” I said. ”Even so, I was d.a.m.n lucky to run into someone as foolish as you.”
He raised his eyebrows in mock offense. ”Foolish, am I? Well, let me tell you, Mr. Dusky MacMorgan American citizen, I'm the fool what jest got some very important information fer ya.”
”And that is?”
He took me by the arm and pulled me away from the crowded outdoor bar. Down the dirt road, people ate beans and rice from cardboard containers. Guards stood at the one-lane exit gate, and men crowded around a crate while a Cuban vendor washed down a wild-eyed fighting c.o.c.k with Aguadiente, a cheap fusel rum. We made seats out of beer crates in the shadows.
”The information is this, Yank. Forty-five minutes ago was the last time one of their b.l.o.o.d.y buses left for Havana. An' the next one isn't due for fifteen minutes. One of me chums told me.”
”So the woman's still around here someplace.”
”Unless they carted her off in a government jeep-or never brought her here in the first place.”
”I hope you didn't ask your friends if they saw the woman, because you never know-”
”I'll not even dignify that question with an answer, if ye don't mind.”
”Sorry.” I thought for a moment. If she was still in the area, where would they be keeping her? There were a couple of wooden, tin-roofed buildings by the exit gate: some kind of guard quarters, probably. There was a light on in the smallest of the two, and an armed soldier stood outside. O'Davis seemed to read my mind.
”Could be, Yank. Might be keepin' her there till the next bus comes along. Or they might jest take her down the road a piece to Pier Three.” He hesitated, then asked, ”Ya know, Dusky, I might be able ta help ye more if ya told me why they took her. What is she, some kinda b.l.o.o.d.y spy or somethin'?”
I kept my face blank. ”Guess you're right, Westy. Fact is, I'm not really sure why they took her. Something to do with her American citizens.h.i.+p papers not being in order or something.”
He chuckled softly and said nothing.
”And what's that supposed to mean?” I said.
”Yank, it's a bad liar ye are. Too much Scotch blood in ye an' not enough Irish, I'm thinkin'. No, don't argue with me. I'll not ask ya any more questions.”
”Good. I'm going to hold you to that. And I'm also going to hold you to your promise to get the h.e.l.l out of here once I know my way around. I know my way around, O'Davis. And it's time for you to leave.”
”So you kin do what?” He said it too loud, and he immediately lowered his voice. He crouched over, sticking his red face in mine. ”So you kin stroll up ta that wee bit of shack, knock on the door, an' tell'em to turn your woman loose? They'll shoot ya down, Yank. I've seen two men killed in this blasted harbor already, an' I'll not let me new mate play the fool for the likes o' them!”
”O'Davis, you're big and tough and bullheaded, no doubt about that. But G.o.ddammit, believe me when I say that you're going to be in over that Irish head of yours if you don't start listening. You're out of your league, O'Davis. Now, dammit, get the h.e.l.l out of here before I show you just how tough you really are!”
Offended, he took on an air of burlesque aloofness. ”Out of me league, am I? Well, tell me, Yank-jest what do you plan to do?”
”I plan to sit right here, wait on the next bus, and see just who gets on it.”
”An' if she's not among 'em, then what?”
I shook my head wearily. ”O'Davis, were you born stubborn, or do you have to work at it? If the woman doesn't get on that bus, then I'm going to find out where she is, snake her away from the Cubans, then head my boat for American water just as fast as I can. It's going to be messy, you Irish fool, and some people are going to end up pretty d.a.m.n dead-and I don't want you to be one of them! There, have I made myself understood?”
”Ah, ye have, ye have.” He stood up as if to leave.
”But I appreciate your help,” I said quickly. ”And the invitation to visit me in Key West still stands.” I stuck out my hand as a final sign of friends.h.i.+p.
He looked at me, looked at the outstretched hand, confusion in his face. ”Why, ya doon't think . . . I'm not leavin' for good, Yank. Jest stood up to stretch me legs and get us a coupla more beers.” He stuck out his palm, as if testing for rain. ”Sure, 'twas an interestin' little speech ye give me. But it's a fine soft night and, if you doon't mind, I'll stick around for a while longer and join ye in conversation while ye wait.”
He moved as if to go to the bar, then turned back to me. ”I've taken a likin' to ya, brother MacMorgan. After twenty-two days o' sittin' round this h.e.l.lish harbor, I'm not about ta miss me one chance for a little excitement. Besides, I've luck enough for six men, an' I'm a-thinkin' yer goin' to need all the luck you kin get. . . .”
I didn't even see them coming. I was doing one of my little stunts. Cute little stunt, MacMorgan. Let your concentration sag for a moment, and watch your new friend die. . . .
The bus for Havana came and left. Big Spanish-made bus, all chrome and steel, looking totally out of place alongside the wooden-wheeled cart that followed it in, bored donkey and bored driver clip-cloppa-clipping along the dirt road, hauling a fresh load of beer for the tiendas. The donkey was gray with a white blaze on chest and forehead. Sweat lathered around its harness, and it wore a straw cane cutter's hat, holes for pointed ears, implying some affection on the part of the somnolent old man who was driving. The donkey pulled to a rolling stop in front of the beer trough without a word from its owner.
Sitting on my crate seat, I watched the bus make its hydraulic pee-e-esh as doors opened and Cuban-Americans began to unload after their trip to the Triton Hotel in Havana. A guard stood at the door of the bus checking their packages as they exited. The Cuban-Americans accepted the indignity of being searched with a remote indifference that sent a strange surge of pride through me. Here they were in their native land, seeking only to help their loved ones, and yet the Castro regime was treating them like criminals. But they were Americans, an immigrant people who had fought before for their selfrespect, and they weren't about to give the guard the satisfaction of reacting to his slights. One by one they filed off, somber-faced, but filled with the strength of their own dignity.
Once the bus was empty, the driver came off, lit a cigarette, and sat on the bottom step while a ludicrous pipe-organ version of ”On Top of Old Smoky” came tinnily through the speakers of the bus.
People began to line up outside the door of the bus, waiting patiently to pay their fifteen dollars for the return trip to Havana.
I felt my shallow breaths and my heart pounded heavily in my ears as I waited for the door of the little guard shack to open. A light was on inside, and a silhouette moved before the window: a hugely fat man, cheeks hanging as slack as empty balloons.
No doubt about the man's ident.i.ty: one general Halcn, code name Hawk.
For once in your life, Stormin' Norman Fizer, you lied to me. You told me Halcn was one of the good guys. You told me he had defected, pledged his new allegiance to America and to the destruction of the Castro regime. But he's the one who took my new love; the one who slapped her across the face as if she were some disobedient dog. You were wrong, Storm in' Norman. Wrong, wrong, wrong, and only Halcn's corpse will atone for the lie. . . .
The driver threw his cigarette onto the ground without snuffing it and called for the people to board. ”On Top of Old Smoky” had changed to pipe-organ calypso. The new group filed on, heads held high, and I waited for the guard-shack door to open; waited for them to shove Androsa out and onto the bus so I could follow along and, with luck, mark the room at the Triton Hotel which would become her final prison.
But the door never opened. Halcn's ma.s.s pa.s.sed once more before the window, then was gone. The doors of the bus pee-e-eshed closed, and then it powered back through the exit gates in a cloud of dust and invisible diesel exhaust.
”So it's not ta Havana they're takin' her, eh, Yank?”
O'Davis stood before me, two beers in hand, watching the bus disappear.
”Nothing to do but wait,” I said.
He read the quality in my voice. ”Cheer up, brother MacMorgan. Cheer up, lad. All across America there are folks a-rottin' their brains before the television tubes on this fine night, waitin' ta die, while we're down here, fine men with the courage of a plan, jest waitin' to take life by the throat.”
I looked at him and couldn't help but smile. ”Do you realize, O'Davis, that you are eye deep in bull-s.h.i.+t?”