Havana (35 page)

Captain Latavistada set it up very nicely. He stationed men for blockade duty at each end of the block on Zanja Street. He infiltrated four more men around back of the whore's building and even got two on the roof. He himself, with Frankie and the Indian, waited down the street, out of the glare of the Shanghai's orange lamps, beyond the Bambu, as these brave young men maneuvered into position.

He watched, ever the military commander, through binoculars, over the hood of the car.

“He's not so smart,” he said.

“I never said he was smart,” said Frankie, who was next to him. Before them at the angle, its facade caught and made shadowy in the orange glow, lay the apartment building at 162 Zanja, pastel green, a kind of standard Havana structure fallen into bad repair, over-ornate in the Spanish fashion, of stucco, around a courtyard onto which it opened, proud yet at the same time a dump.

“Look, it's no place to hide,” said Latavistada, pointing to the window known to be apartment 205, Esmerelda's. “It's too far to jump to the street. There's no balcony, so he can't swing to another apartment or climb to the roof. There is only the one door as a way in or out, and the one little window. He should have done better.”

Frankie was tense. This guy was slippery, he had to be crushed. Tonight would end it for good.

“You sure this information is fresh? I don't see nothing going on in there.”

“No, that is it. That is where both mamasita and her girls from down the street say Esmerelda lives. Number 162, Calle Zanja, 205, second floor. That's it. He's there, he has to be.”

“Shouldn't we just do this goddamn thing? He knows he can't be there forever. Sooner or later he's going to make a move and we don't want to lose him. Not in this mob.”

Taxis, old cars, even the odd Cadillac wandered up and down Zanja Street. The whores lingered on the street corners. Men crowded into the Shanghai, and also at various loud arcades along that side of the street. There was the Bambu as well, next to the Shanghai, and its tables were full of smokers and drinkers and laughers. It was the human race, gathered to fuck for just a few pesos, here on Zanja Street.

“They start a new movie soon. The crowd will die. Then we move.”

He leaned forward, peering hard into his binoculars.

“Yes, two men are on the roof. Yes, they are in position. Yes, let me check, down the street, yes, down the street the other way. Yes. Frankie, are you ready?”

Frankie made sure his tie was tight, his hat was low. He had the Star machine pistol and this time he knew how to run it good. He'd practiced. It was locked and loaded. A little twitch of the trigger and it was jitterbug time. Plus, he had his two .45 Colts.

The captain made a last check on the Mendoza 7mm, then hefted it. The corporal had a sledgehammer; there was nothing to check. Being methodical, he checked it anyway.

The captain rose from behind the car and nodded to the man at the nearest traffic blockade. That fellow spoke into a radiophone to the other car at the other end of the block, and then he and his partner hauled the sawhorse into the street and halted traffic.

Latavistada led. The three men crossed the street and loped along it, each festooned with his heavy weaponry. They stayed steady with the last knot of cars emptying the street. But then they reached the building and ducked inside, down a central corridor that smelled of garbage.

That passageway yielded to the courtyard, which was encircled by the building's two levels of balconies. They headed up the wooden steps to the first, turned left and went three doors to no. 205.

That was all. There was no ceremony or ritual of preparation. They reached the door, the corporal recoiled with the sledge, then put his massive strength behind it and unleashed a blow: the door blasted open, its locking mechanism shattered.

Frankie was in first, knowing exactly that he owned whatever lay beyond. He moved like a ranger, remembering stuff. He remembered to pinch off the safety so the machine pistol was alive, like a dangerous snake. He remembered to move swiftly in a straight line, as he hunted. He knocked over chairs, he ducked around corners, with the gun always pointing, ready instantly to unleash a burst.

But there were no targets. Or, rather, there was no Earl Swagger. No, there was only a fat gal swaddled in blankets, on her knees in a devotional position before a candle which itself was under a painting of the Virgin. She looked up in horror as Frankie bore down on her with his war face on, his mouth clamped tight in savagery, and she made no attempt to evade or cower as he kicked her in the face, knocking her to the floor so as to continue in his crusade.

But then he realized it was pointless: other than the praying gal, the apartment was empty.

He remembered to put the safety back on the Star so he wouldn't drill himself, set the gun down and returned to the central drama, which had already begun: Captain Latavistada and the woman.

She cowered. The captain yelled at her in Spanish, the full force of his magnificent manhood engaged. He was like a vulture, his wings spread and flapping, his eyes glaring, the beak hungry for blood. When she would not answer, he struck her hard, in the face, knocking out her teeth, which Frankie saw were dentures. The Indian righted her by her hair, and she spat at Captain Latavistada, though he was quick enough to avoid the slow-moving gob, and he repaid her with a terrible blow to the face. He beat her methodically for a few minutes, asking no questions, while the other policemen gathered in the doorway, watching the master at work. He worked her body, her nerve endings, her spine for maximum pain. She bucked spastically in the grip of the Indian as the captain had his way. Finally, he stood back, and the Indian dropped her. She fell in a heap to the floor.

Gently the captain knelt. He cushioned her and drew her upright, soothing her pain and fear, cooing to her.

Esmeralda faced him and spoke.

She spoke in pride and love. She spoke in nobility and triumph.

Latavistada looked over at him.

“We are too late, my friend, I am sorry to say. Half an hour ago, a man and three negro sailors came. The
norteamericano
went with them. Esmeralda understood that their destination had to be the harbor. If he is there, he is lost. Alas, if he is on a boat, he has escaped.”

The frustration rose like a steam in Frankie's mind, scalding him. He wanted to crumple in agony, the pain was so intense. So close, yet so far. Not quite fast enough. Never had a chance. That fucking guy was always ahead of him. He was a slippery motherfucker, he was—

“Wait,” said Frankie, as inspiration struck. “I have an idea.”

“It's too late.”

“For most men. Most men'd get on that boat and take off and not look back. Not this one. I know what'll bring him back.”

“Frankie, my friend, you speak in riddles.”

“Come on. And bring the woman,” Frankie said. “And your scalpel.”

With each step, each turn, each new smell, his sense of lightness grew more intense. They walked, tightly knotted, down Zanja Street toward the Capitolio, and no one paid them any attention. They were just another knot of men, five of them, two whites and three negroes, tightly clustered, pushing their way through the throng under the gaudy bright lights of the clubs and the bars.

“You see, two men hurrying along together, people might notice. So I brought these fine negro men and we are a crowd, a mob, tribal and instinctive in our lust for pleasure and freedom, sailors or tourists or soldiers, who would notice?”

Skirting El Capitolio, they entered the crazy streets of Old Havana, with its latticework of vivid neon overarching the narrowness, its grottos of tiny bars and bodeguitas, its cobblestones and crowds. They plunged down Lamparilla, straight toward the harbor, and soon a breeze full of sea smells reached them.

They ducked under an arch, and broke out of buildings proper, and the docks were before them. Tankers floated serenely, and huge freighters, like skyscrapers on their sides. Cranes towered above, reminding Earl even in the dark of preying birds, their hungry wings outstretched. Garbage was everywhere; nobody cleaned up the docks.

“Up here. It's not far.”

And it wasn't. In a gap between ships there was a smaller dockage for smaller craft, and they headed toward it. Dozens of fishing boats and pleasure craft—some spiffy, some old wrecks—bobbed at the ends of spidery piers that shot out into the serene harbor. It didn't take long to find a scow called the
Day's End,
with its one mast, its twists of netting, its low waterline.

“I can't let you belowdecks. There's sensitive equipment there. You understand.”

“I don't give a shit what you have aboard. You can listen to the squids all day long, for all I care.”

Two more blacks lounged aboard the
Day's End,
and waved as their comrades approached. A white officer with a grave face came on deck. He didn't look happy.

“He don't like Americans, that one,” Earl said.

“It's his training, that's all. He'll do what I say. He admires me. He thinks I'm a hero, the young fool.”

“Dumb kids.”

“We'll drop you at Key West by tomorrow afternoon. Then you're on your own.”

“Much appreciated.”

“Don't mention it. Though I must say, you owe me for one perfectly fine handkerchief. That was one of my favorites.”

“I'm a little short on cash. You'll take a check, won't you?”

“Cash, check, pesos, rubles, pounds, lira, I'll take anything, old man. A fabulous shot, by the way.”

“I was to kill him and wound you.”

“Why didn't you do it, Swagger? Look at the trouble it's caused you.”

Earl merely smiled.

They reached the craft, and leapt the foot of space between it and the dock. Earl landed, felt a tremble as the craft vibrated under his weight. He looked back and saw nothing but blackness, in the distance a blaze of light from Old Havana.

“That way, Swagger,” said the Russian, pointing across the water.” By motor we run that passage out of the harbor, between the Presidential Palace and the Morro Fortress. It's a small thing, and we are done, in open waters. Nobody can stop us. You go home. I guess I'll find a place to go. Too many people have noticed me. Your girlfriend was able to find me, so it's time to move on.”

He wore a linen suit coat over a peasant's white shirt and pants, and a pair of ropey sandals. His face was brown from all that time in the mountains, and he was still sinewy, lithe, quick, peppery and full of laughter. He turned.

“Orlov, let's put out. No point in waiting.”

Orlov nodded and shouted orders. The crew scampered to unlash the mooring lines and the boat floated out, three, four, five, then seven feet from the dock. Orlov started a motor, it coughed, spat the odor of smoke and gasoline, then ever so gently began to propel the boat ahead, gliding across the black water, while the men hurried to this or that task.

No one told him what to do, so alone Earl went up to the prow, settled against some kind of crate padded in netting, and lit a Camel. The craft seemed to pick up speed as the young lieutenant navigated it across the black water, and skillfully followed channel markers until reaching the narrows. At a certain point, two men unfurled the sails, which filled with a breeze, and the boat scooted ahead, knifing the water.

Then Cuba itself closed in around them again, until it was but a hundred yards off on either side. But no one hailed them, no lights came on, no sound arose. The country rushed by in perfect darkness.

Earl looked left and even at this late hour the Presidential Palace blazed brightly, lit up, its columns proclaiming a grandeur that really didn't exist now, if it ever had. More menacing were the forts that guard the harbor entrance and bulked up on either side of the channel, military structures with heavy walls and openings for guns to protect against invasion. The Morro was the most imposing of them.

But then the forts slid past and the open sea beckoned, black against the inky blue of the night sky. The sea was empty, unmarked by lights signifying other ships upon it. The sky vaulted huge above them, smeared with crazed pinwheels of stars that radiated enough light to glint on the black surface. The bite of air was fresh and cold and nothing tainted filled it, no stench of garbage or fuel or human pathos.

Someone settled next to him; it was, of course, the Russian.

“We'll run hard to Florida, north by northeast. As I said, by midafternoon. It's a short trip across. Key West, and you're home. What will you do?”

“Nothing. Catch a bus back to my farm. Be with my wife and my boy. Do my job.”

“Don't mix with these fellows or in these matters again. Everybody's clever, nobody believes, nothing's what it seems. It'll be the death of you, I swear.”

“I've learned my lesson, believe me. Smoke?”

“Yes, thanks.”

Earl got out his Camels and snapped out a butt, which the Russian took. Earl pulled out his USMC Zippo and leaned forward, cupping the flame, and the Russian inhaled to draw on it, the flame flared, the cigarette glowed red, and the Russian settled back to enjoy the pleasure of the tobacco.

“You know,” he said, “you Americans make a good cigarette, that I'll say. English cigarettes, shit. The French, they could learn a thing or two from you but still, not too bad. Cuba for cigars but America for—”

But he saw the American was not listening.

Instead he peered intently over the Russian's shoulder, back to land.

The Russian turned, and saw only the dark escarpment of the Havana seawall, above it the great avenue called the Malecon where a surprising amount of traffic coursed back and forth and all the restaurants and bars still glittered, for the city never really slept.

“What is it?” he asked.

“I walked all over Havana,” Earl said. “We just passed Manrique, which intersects Zanja Street just down from the Shanghai Theater.”

“And?”

“And I saw a gumball.”

“What?”

“A police light. Blinking red. Way up Manrique, maybe all the way to Zanja. It's only a few blocks. It had to be at her apartment.”

“Her? Who are you talking about?”

“There was a cop car at Esmerelda's.”

“Oh. The whore.”

“Yes.”

“Police cars go to Chinatown all the night long. It is the nature of police cars to—”

“This boat, it has radio gear? Sophisticated radio gear, for overhearing conversations?”

“Swagger, I—”

“You know it does. You can listen to Havana police frequencies then.”

The Russian looked at him queerly.

“What on earth are you getting at? What possible difference can it make? All that is behind you now. You go to America, Orlov will drop me in Mexico and I'll find the soft route home. It's finished, the Cuban adventure.”

“Mr. Vurmoldt, please. Have the young officer monitor the cop frequencies. This late at night, all the boys chatter. I know, I do it myself. Tell me what you hear. Tell me what is going on.”

“Swagger, you are truly insane.”

“Mr. Vurmoldt, it's important. Please.”

Wearily the Russian rose. Swagger heard conversation behind him, some disagreement, and then the younger man turned the wheel over to a mate, and vanished beneath decks. The Russian followed.

 

Earl smoked and brooded. He sat alone at the prow of the boat and watched the horizon pitch this way and that. Sea spray hit him, and he wondered what to do.

Then the Russian found him.

“Well, I have the whole story. What do you want to know?”

“Everything. She helped me. She didn't have to. I knew I shouldn't have left.”

“One does what one must.”

“What happened?”

“There was a raid. The story is not pretty.”

“She's dead?”

“They shot her.”

“Oh, Christ,” he said.

“Eventually.”

Earl waited a second or two, but he had no choice in the matter, so he asked the next question.

“Eventually? What does that mean?”

“It seems her screaming got on their nerves after a while.”

“What do you mean.”

“He cut her eyes out. The secret police officer called Ojos Bellos, Beautiful Eyes. And his American chum. After she ran up and down Zanja Street screaming, the American shot her. She's still in the street.”

Earl was surprised how hard it hit him. He wanted to puke, but the pain went red into rage a few seconds later and when he came back to earth everything was clear again.

“Turn around.”

“Swagger, you are a fool.”

Earl yelled past the Russian to the young officer, “Turn this tub around, goddammit. I have business.” It was his command voice, dead and powerful and undeniable.

“Swagger,” said the Russian, “I am a man of the people. But I am not a man of persons. This is a person. It is very sad but what happens to persons is of no consequence.”

“I got her killed.”

“She was a whore. Havana is a whore town. Tonight, as on any night, five thousand whores were fucked by twenty thousand men. Fifty of those whores were beaten because men beat whores. Of the fifty, one died. This night it was this whore. Thus is it eternally in the wickedness of the world. The death of one whore? It has nothing to do with the forces that control history and political destiny. It has nothing to do with systems, yours or mine. It has nothing to do with—”

“Fuck all that shit, mister. Do you have a gun?”

“God, Swagger. Truly unbelievable. You would go unarmed otherwise. Against men who wait for you.”

“How do you know?”

“I heard the cops talking. They do not like this Beautiful Eyes very much, but also they fear him. They wonder what game he plays. He would not let them move the body. He sits there with his American friend and an Indian, heavily armed, waiting at the Bambu. Waiting for what? We know what he is waiting for, don't we, Swagger.”

“It don't matter.”

“And what would it prove?”

“It don't prove a goddamn thing except maybe I still have some gun speed left.”

“Swagger, what a red guerilla you'd have made.”

“Fuck all that shit. Here's where we are: you wouldn't have come across Havana without a gun to help a hunted man. You have a burp gun somewhere too, I know.”

“Back in the hold of the tanker
Black Sea.
The tiny pistol I used in prison was the bribe I used to get
out
of prison.”

“You wouldn't have come across Havana without no gun. You're too careful and too salty. You're an old Texas Ranger in this game and so you're packing big heat, I know you are.”

The Russian turned, nodded to the young officer, who shouted orders, and the boat began to come about.

“Truly amazing,” the Russian said, turning back to Earl. He shucked off his coat and slipped out of something heavy, handing it over to Earl.

“Where would one get a gun in Havana in a hurry?” he asked rhetorically. “I could only think of one place, a certain museum to imperialism, protected only by the charisma of the American empire. And so yes, I helped myself.”

It was a basket-weave shoulder holster of ancient, much-burnished leather. Earl pulled it on like a coat, sliding a shoulder into each of the loops of the strap, which was held in place by a leather X-piece at the back. Then he tied the holster down tight against his belt, reached up, slipped out the weapon it concealed, feeling how quickly the holster yielded its grip.