Текст книги "Cuba Straits"

Автор книги: Randy Wayne White

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Текущая страница: 8 (всего у книги 17 страниц)

Thursday afternoon, after landing at José Martí International, the Russian drove Vernum Quick to a party on a ship recently docked in Mariel. Vodka-crazed men in uniforms and chingas from the bowels of Havana. The chingas only made Vernum hungrier because his damaged face disgusted even them. So he drank too much and passed out in Kostikov’s old Mercedes that, the next morning, delivered him to the farming village of Plobacho.

Home: fifty square kilometers of even smaller villages, bananas, thatched huts, tobacco, valleys between cliffs, cane fields, dull women, and roads dotted with oxen shit.

I can’t survive here much longer, Vernum thought—not for the first time. For five years, rumors about a demon in the cane fields had been spreading.

At two p.m., Kostikov texted via a satellite phone he had provided Vernum—but not in Spanish, of course. Translation required an old textbook from the Fidelista days.

The pizda arrived Cojimar, told police defector dead. Briefcase drowned. Stay your home.

Figuerito Casanova was the defector, so pizda had to mean “hippie”—or did it? Nor was it likely a briefcase could drown.

Vernum pumped cold water over his head, then drove his 1972 Russian Lada past the wooden baseball stadium to the square, where chickens scratched under tamarind trees. In the park, three old men sat on the rim of a fountain that hadn’t worked in years, a marble bust of José Martí nearby.

“Pizda?” Vernum inquired as he approached. “You speak Russian. What does it mean?”

“‘Kiss my ass,’” one of the men replied, then tried to ignore him.

“That’s the translation? ‘Kiss my ass’?”

The men laughed, but one grumbled, “Leave us in peace, you evil turd. If a Russian called you a pussy, he’s smarter than most of those savages.”

Pizda—it made sense, then, but a Santero couldn’t ignore an insult like that, even from an old pig who still wore his medals from the Angola war. “Do you know what this is, Oleg?” Vernum produced a leather pouch from under his white guayabera. “It’s what will be left of your balls if you don’t apologize to the saints, especially Changó . . . Oh, and an offering of twenty pesos for my trouble.”

Oleg just grinned. “Pizda—I bet Vernum swallowed the Russian’s cigar to earn a name so sweet. Look at how his face was beaten when they made hot oil.”

More laughter. The men returned to their gossip while sweat beaded on Vernum’s forehead. From the pouch, he mixed a gram of powdered bluestone with turpentine gum and coconut, indifferent to their discussion until he heard the name Marta Esteban, then something about Marta’s daughters. To which Oleg insisted, “They returned early this morning, but it can’t be true. No Americano would do a good deed, then disappear. Set cats on fire to burn our fields, the CIA, yes. Then leave in a fast boat—but not after rescuing children.”

Vernum looked up, wanted to ask Rescued the daughters from what? but decided it was better to wait.

Nothing more to be learned, though, when the men realized he was eavesdropping, so he carried his act through: dabbed a pigeon feather in the goo and placed it on the head of José Martí with the quill pointed at Oleg. “In the morning, your pinga will be soft like an oyster and your piss will burn. I warn you for the last time . . .”

“Tell me something I don’t know,” Oleg roared. “Vernum must have watched through my toilet window. I thought he only peeped at schoolgirls.”

Hilarious.

“Vernum-ita, instead of defacing General Martí, why not stick that feather up your ass?”

It went on like that, the three men trading jokes, each trying to top the other, while Vernum stalked away. One option was to go to his room and return with the last drop or two of poison he’d harvested from the Montblanc pen. Instead, he relied on Kostikov’s bad temper and sent a text: A gossip saw me in your car. Russian savage, he called you. I want to kill him.

The response was in Spanish, thank god: He suspects?

Vernum typed: Old man, big mouth.

Response: Close mouth, do not kill.

Vernum felt a glow in his abdomen. He approached Oleg from behind, snatched his cane, and broke it over his shoulder, then hammered him in the face when he was on the ground. Lots of blood, and teeth scattered among the tamarind leaves, as well as a war medal that had pulled free of its ribbon.

Vernum retrieved the medal and lobbed it toward the old man’s legs. “If anyone asks, a savage Russian ordered me to punish you,” he said, and left in his ’72 Lada, with its dents and broken antenna, red paint peeling.

•   •   •

ON HIS WAY out of town, opposite the baseball stadium, was a mansion with boarded-up windows that was mossy with age and neglect. The last of the Casanovas lived there, a scary old shrew of a woman whose only grandchild was that mental midget Figuerito. She was a recluse, did nothing, yet lived alone in that huge place, which proved she had political connections. Vernum despised her for it. Staring at the house, he stopped and configured his fingers into devil’s horns, touched the bandage over his eye, then continued on his way.

Hopefully, it was true the fool was dead. One eyewitness down, one to go.

He sometimes saw Marta Esteban in the village but didn’t know exactly where she lived. Somewhere in the country. Twice he had to detour and ask directions. I hear she has some small problem, Vernum, the Santero, explained each time.

Unlike Oleg and a few other old fools, people in the countryside were believers. Women especially. This was how he learned that Marta had sent her daughters on a raft to America. It was a dangerous secret, an insult to the government. Such an act stigmatized family members who stayed behind, but it was safe to confess to a Santero dressed in white, even if his face was swollen with stitches.

“No wonder Marta has been in hiding,” a neighbor said. “She lives alone, you know. Her husband ran off, so it was just her and those girls. Maribel and Sabina . . . Sabina, even as a baby, she had a snake for a tongue. Even so, Marta must be out of her mind with worry.”

“Marta Esteban didn’t satisfy her husband?” Vernum asked. Peasant women enjoyed flirting with a Santero, but he didn’t overdo it. “Perhaps a love obeah, or a dab of salt oil, for this wife who can’t keep a man happy. What do you think?”

Giggle—these scrawny peasants always covered their mouths rather than show their bad teeth. From the pouch, he gifted the neighbor with a cowrie shell, eyes painted on it. “Eleguá,” he promised, “will bring steel to your bed tonight.”

More giggling, more talk, before he said, “I’m confused. In the village, I heard a rumor that the daughters returned this morning. Something about an Americano. Is this true?”

“My husband met the same drunken fisherman. He claimed he saw a fancy boat before sunrise and only Americanos can afford such things. But how can it be? Three, four days ago, perhaps more, those girls left forever. I think it is good that Marta has reached out to the saints for help. There are so many liars and gossips who care nothing for the pain of others.”

It was good for Vernum, too. Why would a mother send her daughters away unless she had reason to hide them? It was a large province with bad roads, and even a Santero couldn’t keep track of every peasant girl under the age of thirteen.

And if the daughters had returned? He would deal with it.

Marta’s house was on a hillside around a curve and beyond a wooden bridge that crossed a river. Almost fifteen kilometers by road from the village with a small school nearby, so no wonder he seldom saw the Esteban family in town. Marta, with her Indio eyes and body, had caught his attention almost two years before, but she’d been frosty, almost threatening, the way she referenced a husband in the military. No different a year later when Vernum followed the woman out of town but lost her on the moonless night. This was before he’d bought a car that was faster than a bicycle, so his hunger had sent him hunting near the school, where cane grew tall along the road. There was a playground there. Luck, or Changó, was with him, and three restless girls had appeared, out for a walk beneath the stars. One girl had escaped through the darkness. The others did not.

Maribel and Sabina, the neighbor had said. It had to be one of them.

Vernum, when he saw the Esteban shack from the road, thought, Got you.

•   •   •

HE HAD PLANNED to knock on the door and use his authority as a Santero to charm Marta when she answered.

Not now.

He took his time, scanned for nosey neighbors, then parked in a shady place that couldn’t be seen from the bridge. The river was dark and deep here, not wide, but walled with vegetation. Where the river turned seaward was a path, a few fishing boats tied up, but no one around on this hot morning, with dragonflies and mosquitoes. When he was opposite the shack, he climbed the embankment. Foliage provided cover until he was so close he could smell beans cooking, and see into a window with curtains that were actually feed sacks but neatly pressed.

He moved to get a better view. Marta kept the yard swept, too. There was a chicken coop with fat white hens; mangoes and sour orange trees; and clothes hanging in sunlight: towels, sheets, a woman’s panties . . . and two flowered dresses that only young girls could wear.

Vernum felt a slow pounding in his chest, and sat back, thinking, It’s true. Somehow, the daughters had been returned—as a good deed by an unknown American, according to Oleg, a CIA agent possibly, but Oleg was an old fool whose brain still lived in the time of the Fidelistas.

How the girls had been returned didn’t matter. Nor did it matter which daughter had escaped the cane field. With Figuerito dead, killing the girls—Marta, too, if he was lucky—would feed his hunger for a month or more, and also eliminate the last living witness.

Vernum circled the shack. Marta’s bicycle was under the rain cistern, but no sounds or signs of movement inside. Those beans smelled good, though, and peasants couldn’t afford to waste a meal. If they weren’t here, they would return soon to eat.

He kept moving while his mind worked. Did the house have a telephone? No . . . there was no phone line, only electric, which, in this region, seldom worked.

The windows beckoned. Even as a teen he’d liked to watch females who didn’t know they were being watched. But was a few minutes of pleasure worth the risk? No . . . it was wiser to come back tonight. After five minutes, though, he lost patience and moved to get a better angle, dodged his way through a jungle of banana leaves, then froze before exiting into the yard.

A girl was there, stood with her back to him, busy feeding a chicken or some kind of animal in a cage. She was tall, shapeless, had ribbons in her hair, and wore coveralls and cheap tennis shoes, which was typical of girls nearing thirteen. And too focused on the cage to hear the bushes rustling, so Vernum crouched and watched, thinking, Thirteen . . . the age is about right.

It wasn’t a chicken, it was a rabbit she was feeding, and humming a song, too, a gringo tune. Clipped to the bib of her coveralls was a tube of bug spray, or something similar, that also suggested contact with an American. So maybe Oleg wasn’t such a fool after all. When Vernum had the girl to himself, she would tell him fast enough, and that would be very soon.

First, though, where were the mother and the other daughter? Better to wait rather than ruin what, so far, had been an afternoon gifted by Changó.

Or was it?

Vernum’s good sense battled the fever building inside his head and argued both sides.

They’re in the house, fool. Grab the girl while you can.

No . . . sweeter tonight when the three are alone. No witnesses left. You can take your time, man, and do it all.

As the battle raged, the door of the shack opened and Marta appeared, calling, “Come eat or I will throw it away!”

The girl replied, “Yes, Mama,” and ran like a deer across the yard and disappeared inside.

“Dumbass.” Vernum retreated, muttering to himself. “Damn Russian is right—I’m a pizda, a weakling pussy, to miss such a chance.”

He stumbled through the banana patch so mad he thought he was hearing things when a child’s voice ordered, “Stop your swearing or you’ll burn in hell. Who are you?”

Vernum spun around. It was an identically dressed girl, but a different girl, this one short, not tall, with legs like saplings, and barefoot, which was typical of younger children. She was on a footpath, the two of them shielded from the house, here in the shadows alone. A stalk of raw sugar protruded from the girl’s pocket—a treat stolen from the nearby cane field, he guessed.

“Changó.” Vernum smiled. “I will give you something nice for this, man.”

The girl had a fierce little face with nostrils that flared. “Who are you? You don’t belong here.” She drew the cane stalk in a threatening manner and placed a hand on the tiny canister clipped to her coveralls.

He knelt, laughing, so they were eye to eye. “Don’t be afraid, child. I bet you like chocolate. Do you like chocolate?” The girl backed a step when he extended his hand. “My car is near the river. Come with—”

“You’re a trespasser,” the girl interrupted, “or a thief. If you’ve come to steal our stuff, I’ll . . .” She raised the stalk, then lowered it. “What happened to your face?”

The stitches. He’d forgotten. “Some evil fool attacked me. I don’t like evil men, that’s why you’re safe with me. It’ll just take a minute to walk to my car.” Again he offered his hand while the girl stared, puzzled by the stitches in his mouth and eyebrows or as if making up her mind about the chocolate.

No . . . she was making up her mind about him. “You have a snake’s face and mean eyes,” she said. “Go away or I’ll hit you with this.” Raising the cane stalk, she stepped back and, for some reason, unsnapped the little canister from her coveralls.

Vernum’s expression changed. “You arrogant little puta. Someone should teach you manners.”

“Stop your damn swearing,” the girl said. “Don’t come near me or I’ll—”

Vernum lunged, slapped her to the ground. That’s when Sabina, looking up, used the canister of mace, aimed for the eyes, just as Marion Ford had taught her.

Friday morning, after cleaning branches, leaves, and other river debris from his boat, Ford paid cash for a slip at Marina Hemingway, west of Havana, then sat in the shade reading until customs agents were done with their search.

Dr. Archie Carr’s The Windward Road, a book about sea turtles, meshed with what agents found aboard, so he was soon able to make a bed on the casting platform. Cozy there beneath the bow shield. He paid 750 euros for a hundred gallons of fuel, ate roast chicken at El Aljibe in the embassy district, then again fell asleep to the rhythm of marimbas and waves.

Government offices opened at nine. He took a cab to a complex near the University of Havana and applied for research permits as Marion D. North, Ph.D., the name on his fake passport. Receipts for the permits, stamped on official letterhead, would be enough to satisfy the coastal cops. Even so, he couldn’t rationalize another stop at the home of Marta Esteban—not while the sun was up. To associate with an American was dangerous in itself, which is why he’d done only a quick stop-and-drop that morning after navigating two miles of river, hadn’t spoken to the mother, and was gone before sunrise.

Ford told himself, The girls will be able to explain, yet the subject nagged at him. Maribel had witnessed a murder, but it was not a typical crime. A serial killer was on the loose in her rural district, and gossip about the girls returning would travel fast through the countryside. Was Marta Esteban savvy enough to understand why he had given her daughters money and the name of a hotel—the Hotel Plaza in the old city—and instructed them to book rooms for a few nights? Or would she fear a setup?

No way to contact Marta. Like many homes in rural areas, there was no phone.

Ten-year-old Sabina, with her fierce temper and tongue, was the focus of Ford’s worries. That puzzled him because Maribel was the obvious target. It was irrational.

Intuition, Tomlinson would have said.

•   •   •

AT AN AFTERNOON GAME, near the bull pen in Havana’s Grand Stadium, Gen. Rivera said to Ford, “That is a dangerous subject here. Even now. Every Cuban has heard the same rumor, but few believe because, well, they don’t want to believe.” After relighting a cigar, he amended, “Every Cuban born before the days of JFK, anyway.”

What Ford had said was “Some myths die hard,” an oblique reference to a fact: Fidel Castro had never played baseball. Not even high school baseball. Yet, the legend he had been offered a contract by the Pittsburgh Pirates and Washington Senators was still parroted by U.S. writers, broadcasters, even historians.

Ford replied, “The world doesn’t know or care about old lies—not that it matters now. You were talking about an incident, something about Americans who played here in 1959—”

“It matters,” the general insisted, but kept his voice down.

“To a few crazies, maybe, but not the rest of the world.” Ford was taking in the spectacle. There were a thousand people or so in the stands, cops patrolling every section. Nice field; the scoreboard missing some lights, but he liked that. “Big egos a long time ago when baseball was important,” he said. “I can see why it pisses off someone like you, but let it go, General.”

“Latinos aren’t gringos,” he snapped. “It will always matter to the movement, to Fidel’s legacy, and to the new government that is already going to hell. Never underestimate the power of superstition and baseball in Cuba.”

Ford, who had just arrived, wanted to push through the pleasantries, end this talk of sports and find out what was important. Any news about Tomlinson? The Castro letters—how had Rivera gotten them? More importantly, who wanted them? But the generalissimo was a stubborn man. “Juan, you see things from a different aspect. Here, particularly, I know it’s better to talk in generalities. Being offered a major league contract”—Ford smiled at the thought—“he wasn’t the first man to lie about that.”

“If you knew history as I do, you wouldn’t take it so lightly. The Revolution interrupted the most important baseball series of that era: the Havana Sugar Kings against the Minneapolis Millers, champions of the American minor leagues. Cubans were furious. To hell with politics, why were these games canceled? National pride, even racial pride, was at stake. There were riots that threatened the Revolution. So Fidel became an instant champion of the game, created his own team, The Bearded Ones, while his propaganda people spread a lie—a brilliant lie that U.S. magazines printed. The world still believes Fidel sacrificed a major league career to save Cuba. That’s why the subject is dangerous to discuss. There is an old saying: Disprove one nail in the cross and religion becomes mere fairy tale. I was once a believer,” Rivera said. “No more.”

Ford looked around before warning him, “Yes. Dangerous, as you said, to use certain names.”

The general ignored him. Nodded toward the field where the Industríales—the equivalent of Cuba’s New York Yankees—and Pinar del Río were tied in the fifth inning, playing before a good crowd that seemed sparse in a stadium that seated seventy thousand. Rivera started to say, “Havana’s Sugar Kings were a Triple-A team for Cincinnati in those years . . .” but his attention shifted to a group of men coming through the nearest tunnel. They were noisy, with drunken, florid faces, among them a giant who was older but looked fit, yet had to weigh over three hundred pounds. A former athlete, fluid in his movements, but with a sour attitude; indifferent to the men he was with.

“Russians,” Rivera said, suddenly uneasy. “Do you recognize the large one? His name’s Kostikov.”

Ford knew a great deal about Anatol Kostikov, was surprised to see the man here, but asked, “What about him?”

“I expect to be followed, but it’s never been like this. We shouldn’t meet for a couple of days.” Rivera attempted to stand but sat back when Ford pinned his arm.

“General, don’t make it so obvious. Maybe he came to see the game. But”—Ford had to think for a moment—“just in case, let’s get the important stuff out of the way. Do you know if Tomlinson is here?”

A nod. “Don’t contact him, he’s being watched. Friends say he arrived in Cojimar, but without the briefcase. That might be the problem. Figuerito drowned. Something about a freighter hitting them, but his sailboat survived.”

“Geezus. The shortstop? Why the hell would he—”

Rivera pulled his arm free. “Not now. On the Prado, in the old city, there’s a restaurant not far from the seawall, La Científico, an old mansion with apartments downstairs. We can meet there tonight for drinks if—”

“What about Tomlinson?”

“Yes, yes, he’s fine. I’ll tell you later.”

“What are you afraid of, Juan? You’ll only attract attention if you leave now.”

“Don’t be ridiculous.” The man pretended to watch a hitter for the Industríales take a called third strike. “Curve ball,” he said, but his smile was forced. “Almost as good as mine.”

Ford focused on the big Russian who was scanning the bleachers while the younger men filed toward seats. “You’ve been smuggling Cuban ballplayers and selling contraband on the Internet. The Russians are back. You’re surprised they’re interested?”

“If he was sent to find me, yes. Kostikov was KGB, now the FSB—Federal Security Service—but you know about that. A very high-level talent, if you understand my meaning. Ruthless. You’re sure you’ve never heard the name?”

Ford waited while the Russian’s eyes swept past them, no hint of interest, before the man turned and exited. “It’s okay, old buddy. You can breathe again.”

Rivera dismissed that with a laugh and settled back with his cigar and seemed to relax in the noise of a thousand cheering, stomping fans. Two hitters later, he spoke again, but without turning his head. “We’ll discuss Tomlinson and the briefcase at the place I mentioned. La Científico. A great scientist once lived there—Cuba’s second president.”

“You are scared.”

“Only careful, until I figure out what is happening. My contacts here, even the powerful ones, are behaving oddly.”

“How long since your last visit?”

“Three weeks, almost four.”

“Did you actually bribe the warden to get the shortstop out of jail? Or did you help him escape?”

“What does it matter? No one cares about Figuerito. Something else has happened. Something important enough to change how an important person like me is treated. That’s what I don’t understand.”

Ford, looking at the Russians, who were drunk, said, “I wonder what.” He asked about Rivera’s friend, the woman who had been hospitalized with uranium poison. She was dead. He asked for specifics. How was this trip different? Then brought it back around, saying, “You’ve spent your career reading powerful men. What’s your best guess?”

“It might have to do with the briefcase,” Rivera conceded. “And what we were talking about—the year of the Revolution.”

“What do a bunch of personal letters have to do with the Revolution? I can’t imagine them—you know who I mean—writing to a mistress about political secrets or—”

“Hear me out,” Rivera said. “The winter of the Revolution, the Sugar Kings were one game away from beating the Americans in what was called the True World Series, but Fidel’s army put an end to it. Do you understand? After decades of being treated as inferiors, this was Cuba’s first chance to prove its team was as good as any team in the major leagues.”

Ford asked, “The games were played here?”

“All but the fourth game and the final seventh, which was under way, and tied in extra innings, in Pinar del Río. The Minneapolis Millers had great players, such as Carl Yastrzemski and Orlando Cepeda. The Kings had American players, too, from Cincinnati’s farm system. Lou Klein broke the Latin League home run record; Luis Tiant was rookie of the year, plus the three American pitchers I told you about. A great deal of pride was at stake.”

“And money,” Ford said. “Are you sure about those names?” The timing seemed a little off.

“No, but the money, yes. Havana’s casinos were run by Meyer Lansky and other Mafiosos. The betting was international. Batista knew he was losing control of the country. He would have paid any amount to have won that game.”

Ford said, “And stayed in power,” but was thinking, Rivera is after more than just motorcycles and machine guns. What the hell is in those letters?

The general signaled a passing vendor and bought two empanadas, which he shared. “As an example, take Nicaragua’s last revolution. Nineteen eighty . . . was it eighty-four? No, nineteen eighty-five. When Daniel Ortega came to power, the first thing he did was order the execution of the former dictator’s best pitchers and his cleanup hitter. That was—what?—only thirty years ago. To most Americans that would seem absurd, but you know it’s true. Personally, I understand the demands of politics, but to do such a wasteful thing shows contempt for the game.”

Ford nodded because it was true. “Better to draft them into your army,” he suggested.

“Exactly. Same with lying about a contract offer from the major leagues. Contemptible. Three perfect games I have pitched and many no-hitters, yet I have never shown disrespect for the scouts who didn’t have the balls to sign me.” Rivera ate the last of his empanada. “They were biased fascists, of course.”

“Intimidated by your stature, more likely.”

“No doubt, but I never asked a scout to lie for a story in Sports Illustrated, unlike . . .” Rivera touched his chin, meaning “The Bearded One.” “There is a book written by a Yale professor—”

“The Pride of Havana. I read it.” Ford knew where this was going.

“The professor searched every box score in every Cuban newspaper published during Fidel’s teens and twenties and found only one mention—a softball game when he was in law school. That man was my hero. You know that. Yet, you now ask why it is important?”

Ford glanced over while the generalissimo stared into space. “I’m surprised you let yourself believe something in a book.”

“I didn’t until I checked with certain sources. I got drunk the night I learned it was all true. Shitty softball, not even the real game. Fidel pitched, his only appearance on a Cuban mound, and he lost. My god”—Rivera tossed the empanada wrapper into the aisle—“I would prefer a bullet in the ass to losing a slow-pitch softball game. That book is banned here, of course, because the legend must be protected. Especially now. As you say, people wouldn’t believe it anyway, and proof died with one lying baseball scout. No . . . Cubans would never believe the truth. Cubans would have to hear the truth from Fidel’s own dead lips.”

Rivera festered over that—a man whose political and baseball careers had been lost in the shadow of the Castros—but paid attention when Ford said, “Lips . . . I thought that’s what you were worried about. A lip-reader.”

The general’s reaction: Huh?

Ford shielded his mouth with a hand. “I thought that’s why you got upset when I brought up the subject. In the press box—someone with binoculars. They’re watching us. I assumed you knew.”

Rivera said, “Pendejos,” and made a show of searching for something at his feet. “Is it Kostikov?”

Ford, getting up, said, “Don’t say the name of the restaurant again. I know the place. Are you staying there?”

Rivera’s head moved imperceptibly. “Come around ten. You’ll have time to check into your hotel. Marion—make sure you’re not followed.”

•   •   •

FORD DIDN’T LEAVE. He waited inside the stadium, drifting among fans, where meat sizzled on makeshift grills mixed with tobacco smoke, a cavern noisy with maracas and guitars, until Kostikov appeared, a foot taller than Cubans who parted to create a path. Kostikov with a liter bottle of beer in his hand; rude, not making eye contact with those he brushed aside, on his way somewhere, no interest in the game.

Ford followed, but, first, pulled on a green baseball cap he’d just purchased. He had seen photos of the Russian as far back as . . . ten, fifteen years ago. Had the Russian seen photos of him, an American who sometimes went by the name Marion North?

Better to find out here than later on a dark street.

He had bought the hat at a kiosk that sold diapers and aspirin—typical in a stadium that served many government needs. Ford had played ball here years ago, remembered exiting the field into a room of young mothers, some nursing babies, while a doctor lectured on hygiene and birth control.

“Wrong door,” the doctor had said, as if she’d said it a thousand times to men wearing spikes. She probably had.

Through another wrong door: people wove mats while a man read to them from the works of José Martí.

Bizarre. The Grand Stadium—Estadio Latinoamericano, the official name—was a catacomb of tunnels and disjointed intent. But Anatol Kostikov seemed to know where he was going, plowed a straight furrow while people scattered, even a cop who looked away when an old man stumbled into a domino collision that tripped him and two others to the floor, both children, who got up fast, but not the old man.

A cane of oiled wood lay nearby, and his hat. Ford retrieved both and got a hand under one boney arm, saying, “Let me help you, patrón.” Patrón, a noun that granted respect and deference to a man who hadn’t had either for a while, judging from his clothes. His temper, however, hadn’t aged.

“Clumsy hippo,” he hollered after the Russian. “Come back here—I’ll teach you manners.”

Kostikov, if he heard, didn’t slow, pushed onward while people stared, but not the cop. The cop recognized authority without being told, so he went the other way, but only after warning the old man with a glare.

Ford asked, “Are you hurt?”

“That coward. Twenty years ago, I would have boxed his ears. I would have”—the man looked more carefully at his cane—“Damn . . . he broke the tip off. That dickless snake. Do you still see him?”