Текст книги "Cuba Straits"

Автор книги: Randy Wayne White

сообщить о нарушении

Текущая страница: 2 (всего у книги 17 страниц)

In his lab, Ford dropped three brine shrimp pellets into an aquarium while speaking to Tomlinson, who had an ice pack bag on his knee and a pitcher of beer on his lap. There had been a collision at home plate, but just bruises.

Ford said, “Rivera is smuggling Cuban baseball players into the U.S. He didn’t admit it, of course. He came up with another story—a bizarre one you’ll like—but I’m sure that’s what he’s doing. Now the heat’s on in Cuba and Rivera wants me to go along, probably as a beard. Or who knows, with him.”

“How bizarre?”

“The cover story? Just so-so, by your standards. He says in the late fifties, three American ballplayers buried their motorcycles and some guns the day Fidel Castro came to power. You know, rather than have their valuables confiscated. Thompson submachines, presentation-grade. But let’s stick with the smuggling thread and I’ll fill you in later.”

Tomlinson moved the ice pack, fidgeting. “Were the bikes Harleys? If they were Harleys, the story is bullshit. No ballplayer would bury his Harley.”

Ford took a patient breath. “Anyway . . . the U.S. has loosened sanctions, but Cuban players still need legal asylum from a third country before Major League Baseball will sign a contract. Most escape through Mexico. The drug cartels handle everything—boats, papers, even sports agents. But now Rivera has set up his own cut-rate version through contacts in Masagua. Or could be Nicaragua. Pretty much the same political players both countries. Oh—get this—for start-up money, he’s been smuggling Cuban hard goods: cigars, paintings, historical items. Anything he can sell on the Internet while the Castro regime collapses.”

Wind slapped waves against the pilings, sifting odors of saltwater and iodine through the floor. Tomlinson was still wearing baseball pants but had traded his spikes for Birkenstocks. He adjusted the ice pack and wiggled his toes as if they were cold. “For a while,” he said, “I thought you were talking about the Juan Rivera I know—big guy from Masagua, a pitcher with a decent slider? The famous general. It’s such a common name.”

“That’s him. You were pissed because he wouldn’t give you a uniform when we were down there, then almost hit one out. That was more than, what, ten years ago? Now Rivera’s caught in a squeeze between the Cuban government for stealing players and the Mexican cartels for horning in on their business. That’s why he wants help, I think.”

Tomlinson smiled, gave a sideways look. “Naw, you’re messing with my head.”

“Ask him tomorrow when he shows up. If he shows. We’re supposed to help him find a shortstop who wandered off this morning.”

“You’re serious.”

“After all your cracks about my lack of imagination, what do you think?”

That clinched it. Tomlinson placed the beer pitcher on the floor—a man trying to control his temper. “You’re telling me that Juan Simón Rivera, the Maximum Leader of the Masaguan Revolution . . . the generalissimo of the goddamn People’s Army . . . is smuggling ballplayers and selling shit on eBay—”

“On the Internet . . . Yeah, he admitted that much—”

“And profiting from the flesh trade? Gad, that’s freakin’ human trafficking, man.”

“Well, depends on the ballplayer, I suppose.” Ford thought that might get a smile. It didn’t. “I could be wrong. Like I said, he gave me that story about motorcycles and machine guns. I can tell you the rest now or wait until we drive in to look for his missing shortstop.”

Tomlinson didn’t hear the last part. He got to his feet, chewed at a string of hair while he paced, limping a little. “That bastard. Is there not a shred of Euro socialist integrity left in our leaders? A feeding frenzy of mobster behavior—that’s what’s happening. Even to advance Utopian goals, it is totally bogus.” He cringed and sighed. “Thank god Fidel and François Mitterrand aren’t alive to see this day.”

Ford, attempting subtlety, replied, “A lot of people would agree.” He flicked on the aquarium’s lights and noted movement among clusters of oysters at the bottom of the tank that had appeared lifeless but were now coming alive. “Watch this. It took only two days to condition the stone crabs—see that big female creeping out? Lights mean it’s feeding time. At five days, even the barnacles started to respond.”

Among the oysters, a mini-forest of lace blooms were sprouting, robotic fans that sifted amid a sudden flurry of crabs—dozens of crabs—most of them tiny.

Tomlinson said, “There you go—a feeding frenzy. I rest my case. Living entities perverted by the system to hide from the light—at least until some poor, innocent shortstop walks into the money trap. Now I understand why Rivera didn’t have the balls to look me in the face tonight and say hello. Which is why I assumed it was a different guy.”

Instead of pitching for Ford’s team, the generalissimo had remained in the main stadium but was gone by the end of the game—a game they might have won if, in the ninth inning, down by two runs, Tomlinson hadn’t tried to steal home. By all standards, a truly boneheaded play.

Ford asked, “Are you mad at the general or still mad at yourself?”

“Sure, rub it in. I didn’t buy a plane ticket to fly back here and lose. Be aggressive—that’s just smart baseball.”

In October, Tomlinson had sailed his boat, No Más, to Key West for the Halloween freak show known as Fantasy Fest. That was three weeks ago, but he couldn’t resist returning for a tournament that attracted teams from around the country, games played day and night at the best fields in South Florida.

“Stealing home with two outs? Down two runs?” Ford tried to sound neutral.

“Surprised everyone but the damn umpires, didn’t I? Dude, spontaneity, that’s just who I am.” Tomlinson looked into the empty pitcher. “You’re out of beer, Doc. Hate to say it, but I warned you this morning. Me sleeping outside in a hammock takes at least a six-pack—and that’s before I knew we’d be searching for some poor dugout refugee from the slave trade. What’s the shortstop’s name? Just from how the name flows, I can tell you if he’s any good.”

Ford, walking toward the door, replied, “The 7-Eleven’s still open, if you’re desperate. I’ve got to find my dog.”

•   •   •

FORD’S LAB was an old house on pilings in the shallows of Dinkin’s Bay, just down from the marina, where, on this Tuesday night, people who lived on boats were buttoned in tight but still awake, watching monitors that brightened the cabins along A dock.

The dog was there, curled up next to the bait tank, probably tired from swimming all day. A picnic table allowed a view of the bay. Ford sat, opened his laptop while explaining to the dog, “I didn’t renew my Internet service because it’s so damn intrusive. And I don’t want to be there when Tomlinson sneaks a joint. Or comes back with more beer.”

The dog’s eyes sagged open. His tail thumped once. He went back to sleep.

“People say you need Internet for research? What the hell’s wrong with going to the library? I like libraries—or used to.” Ford, using two fingers, banged at the keys. “Next time—I mean this, by god—Tomlinson is getting a hotel room and he can either ride his bike or call a cab. What kind of grown man asks to do a sleepover? His exact word: sleepover. Then bitches at me about not buying enough beer.”

More hammering on the keys before he scanned the boats, some held together by epoxy and tape, others expensive yachts. “Crappy reception out here. You’d think one of these people could afford a decent router. Hey”—he was speaking to the dog—“Hey, if I’ve got to sleep in the same house with him, you do, too. Your too-tired-to-walk crap isn’t going to fool me twice. The way he snores, I get it, but I’m the one who needs sleep.”

Ford zipped the laptop into its case, loaded the dog into his truck, and drove to Blind Pass, telling himself he would cast for snook along the beach on the good outgoing tide despite a waxing moon.

From the parking lot of Santiva General Store he could look across the road to the beach and colorful cottages of The Castaways, red, green, and yellow, although they appeared gray at eleven p.m. on this breezy night.

From the back of the truck, Ford selected a spinning rod—an intentional deception. All the cottages were dark but for one where a woman, opening the screen door, said, “I was hoping you’d stop by.”

•   •   •

SHE HAD YET to request or offer an exchange of last names, or personal histories, which created a vacuum of protocol that, to Ford, felt like freedom.

He asked, “Need any help?” No lights on, the woman was in the bathroom, searching for something—a towel, it turned out.

“Not with you around. Wasn’t it obvious? That was a new one for me.”

“It seemed natural, just sort of happened.”

The woman, voice husky, said, “I wouldn’t mind if it happened again,” and came back into bed.

Maggie, that was her first name. Whether it was her real name or short for “Margret” or “Marjorie,” he hadn’t risked inquiring. Intimacy with a stranger was a cozy tunnel untethered to the past, open at both ends. Secrets, if shared, would necessarily vanish at first light.

Seldom had Ford felt so relaxed.

Later, they talked some more. Him saying, “I know the Cuba idea sounds far-fetched, but it’s an actual business proposition. Usually, I’d put it down on paper, a list of pros and cons, instead of bouncing it off you. You mind?”

Without using names, he had condensed Rivera’s unusual cover story.

Maggie started to ask “What kind of business are you . . .” but caught herself and opted for a safer option. “Machine guns and motorcycles, huh? I guess we’re all Huck Finn at heart. I’ve always wanted to go to Cuba—not that I’m fishing for an invite. I’ve got this place booked through Sunday.” She tested the silence for awkwardness, then added, “Havana is beautiful, from the pictures. Have you been?”

He dodged that. “There are direct flights from Tampa now. That would make it easier.”

“But is it legal? And, once you get there, is it safe? I read an article about an antiques dealer—he’s from Miami, I think—that he’s in jail, accused of stealing documents from the Castro estate. Paintings and stuff, too. And this other man who tried to smuggle in electronic equipment. Almost four years he’s been in prison.”

Ford’s attention vectored. “Which Castro?”

“Well . . . I’m not sure, but they’ve both been sentenced to death by firing squad. Not the Castros, the men I’m telling you about. Or sentenced to life. Some terrible punishment. I’d have to find the article.”

Ford settled back. “It wouldn’t have made the news if it was true.”

“You mean it would have made the news.”

Too late to correct his slip. “Could be. You hear all kinds of rumors about that place.”

“What I’m saying is, you need to confirm with your friend that what you’re doing is legal. If he is a friend . . . or she is a friend. Either way.” Her hand found Ford’s thigh. “Sorry, none of my business. Tell me the rest.”

He did, paraphrased a summary he’d written on a legal pad earlier in the lab:

On December 31, 1958, three American pitchers playing for the Havana Sugar Kings were delayed by extra innings and accidentally trapped when Castro’s army came to power. The players—two from the Midwest, one from the Bronx—weren’t politically savvy but knew it was dangerous to return to Havana until things cooled down.

They were cautious for good reason: Cuba’s recent dictator, flaunting Caribbean League rules, had personally signed their contracts after bribing them with cash and presents. Bribes included new Harley-Davidson motorcycles and three gold-plated Thompson submachine guns, each personalized and engraved LOYAL BEYOND DEATH—FULGENCIO BATISTA.

At the end of seventeen innings, when news about the coup circulated into their dugout, that inscription took on a darker meaning. Fulgencio Batista was the recently deposed dictator.

Everyone in Havana had seen their hot rod Harleys and gaudy rifle scabbards. No denying that. So the three Americans waved good-bye to the team bus, mounted their bikes, and lay low in western Cuba for a week. Ultimately, they swore a blood oath and either hid or buried their valuables before returning to the United States. Because of the embargo, they never went back.

Ford ended the story, adding, “My friend has a contact who claims to know where the stuff is. It would be fun, I think. Not for the money—if we recover anything, it should go to the players’ families. That part we haven’t discussed. Problem is, my friend might have invented the whole business just to lure me down there so I can help with something else.”

Maggie, rather than ask the obvious, decided to have fun with it. “They buried their motorcycles . . . my god. That sounds unlikely. Probably hid them, don’t you think? Even if they didn’t, you should go. Adventure for its own sake. We get trapped in ruts, doing what’s expected instead of what we really want.” She squeezed his hand. “I don’t mean to sound maudlin, but I’ve wasted too many years afraid to step off the high board.”

Ford, loosening up, said, “Might be fun. There’s a species of turtle down there I’ve never seen. Occasionally found in Cuba anyway. A Pacific Ridley. Not that I’m an expert—you were wrong this morning. So yeah, why not? As long as I don’t have to spend too much time with this guy. He can be a lot of work.”

“Then your friend is a man.”

“Times two. I thought I made that clear.”

Maggie—if that was her name—lifted the covers and sprawled atop him, her breath warm. “Good. I don’t care what happens tomorrow, but tonight—I’ll admit it—I’m glad you’re not going with some ballsy woman.”

“Jealous?”

“Envious,” Maggie replied, “of any woman with that much nerve. This is my first vacation without training wheels”—she was repositioning her hands—“and, so far, I like the taste of freedom.”

In the morning, the retriever followed Ford past the marina office, where Mack, behind the counter, read the sports section as fishing guides fueled and iced their boats. No rush. Fog had displaced the wind with a stillness that dripped from the trees. Poor visibility required a late start.

Mack called out the window, “Were you there when police showed up at the stadium?”

Ford was on his way to the beach. “What do you mean?”

“That Senior League tournament. You had a game last night, didn’t you?”

“Yeah . . . ?”

“Says here there were gunshots, but it could have been a car backfiring. That a locker room was robbed and a couple of cars. Must have been quite a game.”

“You’re kidding. Cars were stolen or just broken into?”

“During a brawl,” Mack replied, and resumed reading until Ford was inside. “Says here it started because a batsman scored four home runs in two games, which somehow caused a fight.” He peered up through his bifocals. “Is a four-over considered a century? Or is it called a round-tripper?”

Twenty years since Mack had immigrated from New Zealand, but he still confused baseball with cricket. Ford approached the counter. “Mind if I see that?”

There were two stories about a game and resulting incident at an old Grapefruit League complex, Terry Park in east Fort Myers, miles from the Twins stadium, which Ford explained.

Mack, although disappointed, looked on the bright side. “I suppose there are enough ugly rumors about this marina, so I’m glad you weren’t involved. Particularly”—he motioned in the direction of Tomlinson’s mooring buoy—“you-know-who.”

Ford scanned the newspaper for familiar names and zeroed in on yesterday’s box scores. In the afternoon, a shortstop named F. Casanova had hit three home runs playing for the Dallas BMW Bandits. Last night, pinch hitter F. Casanova, playing for the Tallahassee Orthopedics, had beaten the Dallas team with a solo shot in extra innings.

Thus the brawl.

Was F. Casanova “Figueroa,” the general’s missing shortstop? More likely it was “Frank” or “Felipe,” some baseball stud who sold his services to the highest bidder. It happened. Interesting, though, because the locker room and two vehicles had been damaged by forcible entry during the game. It brought to mind Rivera’s missing briefcase.

There was something else: F. Casanova had vanished by the time police and the news reporter arrived.

Ford, after asking Mack’s permission, tore out the page. “Tomlinson will want to see this. Is he around?”

“I sure as hell heard him when I got up to check for water in the rentals. Snoring. Before sunrise, even with this fog, I knew it was him from a hundred yards away. If sleep apnea didn’t kill His Holy Weirdness, I suppose he went to breakfast. Did you check the rack for his bike?”

Ford went out the door, the dog at heel but jittery when a gaggle of pelicans parted to clear a path.

•   •   •

TOMLINSON’S BEACH CRUISER, with fat tires, AC/DC stickers, and a basket stolen from Fausto’s in Key West, was outside Bailey’s General Store, intersection of Periwinkle and Tarpon Bay, a quarter mile from the marina. Only a few vans and lawn service trucks in the lot. Ford sat on a bench near a bulletin board, watching men exit with coffee and breakfast in Styrofoam containers.

Not Tomlinson. Two bananas, a bag of scones, and a six-pack of Corona for him.

“Damn it,” he said, “forgot the limes.” Then looked up from the bag in his hand. “What happened to you last night? I got up to piss around four, you weren’t back. But I smelled coffee before sunrise.”

Ford replied, “I actually got some sleep,” and handed him the newspaper. “Keep an eye on the dog while you read. I’ll grab limes while I get breakfast.”

“You’re welcome to a mango scone.”

“Bottom of the page about a brawl,” Ford said, “the teams from Dallas and Tallahassee. Oh”—he waited until Tomlinson had found the article—“the name of Rivera’s missing shortstop is Figueroa Casanova. Take a look at the box scores.”

“Is it ‘Figueroa’ or ‘Figgy’? That makes a difference.” Tomlinson stroked his beard while he read. “Geezus, the dude hit four dingers?”

“Could be a different Casanova.”

“Not if his name’s ‘Figgy,’ it couldn’t. That’s what I meant, just by the rhythm. A ‘Fran’ or ‘Floyd’ or ‘Federico’ couldn’t hit his weight, not playing shortstop. And sure as hell wouldn’t be my choice to pinch-hit with the game on the line. Yeah, gotta be ‘Figgy’ . . . ‘Figgy Casanova.’ What do you want to bet?”

Ford had refused a scone but decided to try one. “What I’m curious about is, the locker room was broken into. Did you get to that part?”

“Don’t pressure me, Doc. It’s too early for speed-reading. Besides, not all illegal immigrant shortstops are thieves. That is semi-racist.”

“Spare me your guilt-ridden lectures,” Ford replied, then explained about the missing briefcase. “Rivera said Casanova isn’t smart, but he’s loyal. When he wandered off, he left his street shoes and other stuff but took Rivera’s briefcase. I’m projecting, probably no connection whatsoever, but see what I mean? Because that’s what he’d been told to do: watch the thing.”

Tomlinson liked that. “A position player you can trust, plus he hits for power. What do you think he’d charge to play for us?”

Ford, walking toward the electronic doors, didn’t remind him their team had been eliminated after a misguided attempt to steal home. When he returned with a salt bagel and coffee, Tomlinson was still reading, but less enamored with the missing shortstop. “The dude went and double-crossed Dallas. He’s nuts. You don’t screw a team from a state that fries killers before the judge’s truck is out of the parking lot. Why would the generalissimo trust Casanova with anything valuable?”

“Rivera said the briefcase contains some letters, personal stuff, nothing worth much. But it wouldn’t be the first time he’s lied to me. The man’s tricky. He’s got a very nasty edge—don’t let the charm fool you.” No reason to add that, during Masagua’s first revolution, Rivera had put a bounty on Ford’s head—ten thousand córdobas, dead or alive. But then, a few years later, at a baseball tournament in Cartagena, he had greeted him like a long-lost friend.

The generalissimo’s team needed a bull pen catcher, turned out.

“He claims he doesn’t have a cell phone and wouldn’t say where he’s staying. So we’ll have to wait until this afternoon—if he shows. I’ve got work to do in the lab anyway.”

Something else Ford intended to do was check for articles about items stolen from the Castro estate.

Tomlinson had folded the page to “Senior League Tournament,” “Today’s Games.” “Dallas is playing the Long Island Starbucks at ten a.m., Terry Park. A clash of cultures, man, in the loser’s bracket. You know how grueling that shit is. Two or three games in one day and both teams desperate for players who can still walk. I think we’ve got a shot at starting.”

Ford, fussing with the dog’s collar, shook his head.

“Your call, man. You going for a run?”

“To the Island Inn and back, hopefully eight-minute miles or better. Then pull-ups. I need to start pushing myself.”

“Sure. Pain is a lot more fun than baseball,” Tomlinson replied. “If I can get my van started, I’ll let you know how things shake out.”

•   •   •

IN 1921, a baseball-loving farmer donated cattle pasture east of Fort Myers in the hope of attracting a major league team to spring training. Connie Mack’s Philadelphia Athletics obliged. Although teams changed through the decades—Pittsburgh, then the K.C. Royals—the baselines of the main diamond had not moved an inch since 1925.

Tomlinson loved that about Terry Park. He sat in his van, windows open, soaking up history while the morning sun baked the fog away. Senior League games didn’t attract fans, so players’ cars were clustered behind the stadium but not on the grass near the gate. That’s why Tomlinson had chosen this spot, out here in the Bermuda flats, close to the old clubhouse, but not because the locker room had been robbed. He was a man who valued solitude for practical reasons—such as lighting a joint after amping up Springsteen’s “Glory Days” until the bass vibrated in his heart. Then held his breath so long he had to relight the joint, which was okay, because he also valued ceremony.

Next up, Tomlinson decided, he’d play Warren Zevon, with the Stones on deck and Jimi Hendrix in the hole. No . . . Buffett was a better choice to hit cleanup. Captain Jimmy prolonged the amperage of a buzz; he sort of took the tiller until mist cleared unto another fine day.

This was a bold move that required a lineup change. Which is why Tomlinson was pawing through a box of CDs when a man, his face obscured by a towel, appeared in the van’s mirrors. The man was barefoot and shirtless, all skin and muscle, built low to the ground, maybe five-five on a tall day, with baseball spikes slung over his shoulder and wearing a towel like a hoodie.

Tomlinson sat up straight, cupped the joint, and let his paranormal powers assist his eyes.

Hmm . . . were those Santería beads hanging from the guy’s equipment bag? Yep. Beads of red and black. They hinted at the man’s identity despite the towel over his head. If true, this was one ballsy finesse, attempting to sneak onto the field this morning after causing so much trouble last night.

Tomlinson made a clucking sound of approval and used a boney hand to motion the stranger closer. “Aquí, amigo,” he called. “Over here.”

The little man tilted his head to sniff the air, sniffed again and appeared interested. Then started toward the van—which is when two sheriff’s deputies exited the locker room and scanned the parking lot. An instant later, an equipment bag banged through the van’s window. The little man followed, small and agile enough to land curled up on the floor like a cat. With his hands, he urged Get moving.

Tomlinson smiled down from the steering wheel. “Dude . . . I love your act already.”

“My brother,” the man replied, “that pitillo, it smells fine, but not so fine in jail, huh? Let me hold that thing while you drive.”

“You’re from Cuba, aren’t you? A shortstop, I’d wager.”

Figueroa Casanova formed a V with his fingers and accepted the joint with a smile.

•   •   •

WHAT FIGUEROA couldn’t understand is why, after only five days in America, so many angry men had chased him, some with bats, but one with a pistola, and now police were after him, too.

“I come here, all I want to do is play baseball. In Cuba, we play all day, all night if there’s no cane to cut or I’m not in jail. Why is such a simple matter so crazy? Amigo, my ears hurt, those men yell at me so loud.”

Tomlinson pulled into the old armory, no cars around, just seagulls sunning themselves and shitting on haggard Humvees beyond the wire. The symbolism won him over, so he put the van in park. “Wait until your first iPhone, pal. Hell, or even a laptop if your ears are ringing now. The social media thing, Twitter and Facebook, they jackhammer into your skull. They’ll infest your privates and suck your soul dry. In terms of decibels? S and M—social media, I’m saying—the shit’s a relentless banshee scream that no silver bullet can silence.”

Casanova had no idea what Tomlinson was talking about, so continued with his story. “General Rivera, he says to me, ‘Figuerito, I promise all the baseball you want,’ but then leaves me—although in a fine hotel, it is true. Two days, do I play baseball? Three days, same shit. I bounce the ball in the parking lot. I sit on my ass in that room with cold air. Then bang-bang-bang at the door—it’s a bandito with this thing over his head—like a sweater with eyes, you know? A damn pistol pointed, so I grabbed my shit and ran. Brother, I have been running ever since. Well”—Figueroa paused to accept a freshly rolled joint—“not yesterday, when I hit three home runs. I trotted the bases out of, you know, respect for the pitcher. But those big gringos last night, when I hit a fourth, they chased me anyway.” He reached for the lighter. “What’s the name of that town where their team lives?”

Tomlinson was opening his cell. “Dallas, Texas,” he replied, then left another message on the phone in Ford’s lab. For half an hour and one fat joint they’d been talking, just driving and taking it slow to see what they had in common. There was Juan Rivera and baseball, now they were getting down to the nitty-gritty. This was the first Tomlinson had heard of an armed man breaking into Casanova’s motel. It sobered him. “Any idea who it was? From his voice, or maybe you saw his car.”

The shortstop was admiring the van’s spaciousness. He shook his head. “A man sticks a pistola in my face, all I think about is, run. He wanted something, kept yelling at me, but how the hell do I know?” His eyes did another scan. “This thing’s roomy, man. Last night, I slept on a bench outside ’cause of what happened. A golf course, I think. It was a field with flags.”

“What do you think the guy wanted?”

“The bandito? Whatever he could get. That’s why I left my money and shoes in the room. Nice shoes, and almost twenty dollars American. But guess what? Didn’t matter. That man chased me, too.” He went into detail, saying he didn’t know where Rivera was staying, and that he was afraid to return to his fine hotel, the Motel 6 on Cleveland Avenue, so he had nowhere to stay. Then, peering through the windshield, asked, “Which way is Texas?”

Tomlinson pointed west.

“Let’s don’t take that road,” Figueroa said, frowning.

“No way in hell, so don’t worry. But help me make sense of what’s going on here. The friend I told you about, Doc—his name’s really Marion Ford—he knows Rivera a lot better than me. He thinks Rivera’s tricky. And, from personal experience, I know he’s dangerous.”

“Who?”

“The general.”

“No, the other one. His name is Doc?”

“Marion Ford, he’s my neighbor on Sanibel.”

“Oh. Of course. All generals are dangerous. Why you think I ride a boat to Florida from Cuba?” Figueroa let that sink in for a moment. “Yes . . . what you say is interesting. The general has a bad temper, this is true. And always on the phone whispering. Secretive, you know? I think he is running from something, or afraid.”

“Rivera gave you a briefcase to hang on to, according to Doc. Is that true?”

The shortstop patted the equipment bag at his feet, an oversized model carried by catchers, to indicate the briefcase was inside. “The general, he trusts me.”

“Maybe that’s what the robber was after.”

“The case? Could be, yeah. I don’t know ’cause I couldn’t understand what he was saying.”

“That’s the confusing part. Your English is excellent—thank god or we’d need sign language. Or was it because you were so scared?”

Figueroa gave him an odd look. “Man, I don’t speak English. What makes you say this crazy thing?”

Tomlinson tugged at a strand of hair and reconsidered the joint he had rolled. “You’re shittin’ me.”

“Just Spanish. What you think we’ve been talking this whole time?”

“I’ll be damned. You actually understand me?”

“Except for all the crazy shit you say. Smoke some nice pitillo before a game, yeah, I need it to slow me down. But too much”—he shrugged—“guess we all different. You a pitcher, huh? Left-handed, I bet.” Talking, he reached, unzipped the equipment bag, and removed a briefcase.

“This is so freaking cool,” Tomlinson murmured. He located his own eyes in the mirror, decided there were untapped worlds behind those two blue orbs. Among them, a cogent intelligence that might decipher why his new best amigo had been assaulted by a bandit.

The briefcase drew his attention. It rested in Casanova’s lap: antique brass buckles, and leather of waxen brown, all handsomely sewn. “Hey . . . that’s what that bastard bandito was after. What Rivera told my friend was a bald-faced lie, I think.”

“Yeah?”

“Rivera claimed there’s nothing valuable in there, but my cognitive senses reply, ‘Bullshit.’ Yes, a lie . . . a blanket deception designed to cover his ass—and all the more plausible because Rivera gave the briefcase to you. Why didn’t the general hide the thing in his own room? That’s the question. Dude . . . I can only think of one reason.”

“’Cause the general knows I’m honest.”

“That, too—or because it’s dangerous.” Tomlinson looked from Figueroa to briefcase.

The shortstop didn’t want to believe him. “This?”

“Damn right, Figgy. Dangerous, sure, to have in your possession.” Tomlinson bent to see a logo branded into the leather flap . . . no, three letters, one bigger than the others, but all too small to read until his nose had damn-near skewered the brass lock.