90 Miles to Havana (21 page)

“They'll let me take this on the bus, right?” I ask.

“No problem. I've gotten even bigger things past the bus driver. Just smile as you go by,” Tomás says as we pull it up the hill and then walk to the gas station to buy ice.

“By the time you get there, the Tomás-ade will be nice and cold,” Tomás says as he carefully packs the ice around the jugs in the cooler. Then he shakes my hand and wishes me luck. I wobble down the road, each wheel insisting on going in its own direction.

The bus stop is just a few steps away when a dark sedan drives by really slow. Inside the car, two men in black are scanning the empty lots in between buildings on either side of the road. I can feel their eyes behind the dark sunglasses raking over me. I wonder if that's Ramirez, the cop who drives around picking up runaway kids.

I jerk my cart into the high grass on the side of the road, lay it down and then crawl under it. My junky old table
should blend in with the trash in the empty lot, but I'm thinking that they're going to hear my heart, beating as loud as the squawking of a police radio. When they stop by the bridge, one of the men gets out and looks downstream in the direction of the boat. Finally he gets back into the car and they drive off. I wait under the table until I'm sure they're not coming back. I dust myself off, then bump my table and cooler back on the sidewalk. As I walk toward the bus stop, I'm wondering why the man looked down the river. Was he looking for Tomás's boat? Angelita is the only one at the camp that knows I'm here.

By the time I reach the bus stop I'm sure that Caballo somehow made Angelita confess and now Ramirez is looking for me.

When the bus door wheezes open I lift my table up the steps, climb in, and then drop two dimes into the clinking counting machine. Sliding past the driver as smooth as I can, I walk to the back of the bus, my eyes glued to the ground so that nobody can identify me.

At my stop I walk to the back door of the bus and check one more time for the black sedan. The coast is clear so I drop my cart onto the sidewalk.

Angelita and I walked down this street on the day that I ran away from the camp. That was a week ago and already the street looks very different. In place of the building they were tearing down there is a Tinkertoy steel frame rising for a new one. The one they were working on at the other end of the street is finished, and now draped with banners
and signs announcing its grand opening. The mannequins are still in the store window but now they're wearing clothes. If it weren't for the bikes and the new paint smell I wouldn't be so sure that I was on the right street.

I set up my table behind the bicycles, far enough from the street to be hidden, and still keep an eye out for Ramirez's car.

The businessmen scurrying by on the sidewalk are too busy to stop. The tourists squint at my crooked handwriting and then walk by. I'm wondering what I'm going to do with my warm, watery Tomás-ade when a woman wearing a feathered hat stops in front of my table. Her white poodle sniffs at my knee as she opens her purse. I pick up a cup to pour out my first drink but she shakes her head.

“You poor thing,” she says and then drops a dollar bill into my cup.

“Poor thing?” Before I can ask her what she means, she yanks on her poodle and then walks away.

“I think poor means
pobre,”
I say out loud to the stream of people flowing around me in their hats and flowered shirts. Across the street in a store window, the boy in the dirty T-shirt and crumpled shorts just stands there holding his cup. I wave at the reflection, and it waves back.

“Hey kid, you selling drinks or posing for pictures?” A construction worker asks as three of his buddies grab cups from my stack. “Is this self-serve, or you pour?”

“I no poor!” I say indignantly.

“OK, kid, you're not poor. Don't get huffy, we've all been there!” The man laughs. A group of guys in dusty yellow hard hats crowd in and start pouring themselves glass after glass of Tomás-ade. I don't even have to ask for money; they keep dropping dimes and quarters into my cup, as they stand around my table telling jokes and looking at the pretty office girls walking by.

When their coffee break is over, both of my jugs are empty, and my cup is full. They pat me on the back as they head back to work and make me promise to come back tomorrow.

I pack up the cooler and the table as quick as I can, check for Ramirez, and then roll across the street to cool off in the big department store.

I pull my squeaking cart down an aisle crowded with car parts, lawn furniture, and clothes—mostly things that I've never seen before. I can't even read the labels so I just let my eyes swim across the shelves, but when I spot the big colored chalks, I stop. They look like the ones that my mother gave me in Cuba. There are twelve colors inside. I turn the box over and over thinking that one dollar and thirty-nine cents is a lot of money, but then I remember Lucia and the tourists throwing money into her cup. I'm sure I can get them to throw just as many coins in my cup.

As I walk to the beach I'm thinking about what I'm going to draw: palm trees, boats, blue skies, and clouds or maybe El Morro, the fort at the entrance of Havana Harbor.

I cross the boulevard and find a shady spot where there are plenty of people walking by and the sidewalk is not too rough. I open up my box of chalks, tip my head, and then pace around the square of sidewalk.

A vague and familiar shape is rising out of the gum spots and soda stains on the cement. Kneeling down, I draw my first line. It curves into a circle, and there is the nostril of a horse. I flesh out his muzzle, then flash along the arc of his neck all the way to the flying tail. I make my way back along the belly, up and down the legs. Now the horse is running. I erase the bumps and shapes that don't look right and then fill in the muscles that I do know. I put the bit in the horse's mouth and follow the reins to the boy's hand, to the arm, chest, and then the neck and the head. As I color in the patch of blue sky and puffy clouds behind the rider, coins start raining down around me.

When I finish I scramble around the sandy feet in flip-flops collecting quarters and dimes, smiling up at the
turistas
at the same time. I'm reaching for a dollar bill when the tip of a black shoe pins it to the sidewalk. I tug hard, but the shoe won't let go.

“¡Mi peso!”
My dollar, I yell at the man on the other end of the shoe. I wonder why someone would be wearing a black suit at the beach? How could I be so careless? I glance up and see the badge and a name tag pinned to his lapel. It says, Officer Ramirez. I'm in trouble.

“¿Como te llamas?”
Ramirez asks and takes out a little notebook.

“Uh—uh, Jorge?” I mutter.

“Jorge?” he asks and then lifts his foot.

I fold the bill into my pocket. “
Sí
, Jorge.”

“And where do you live, Jorge?”

I hesitate for a moment “The foster home on Tenth Street,” I say, hoping I got it right.

“I know that place. I'll bet you came with Pedro Pan, right?”

“
Sí, sí,
that's what it said on the name tag.”

“What's your last name Jorge?” he asks.

But I can't think of a name. He taps on his notebook with his pencil.

“Last name?” he says patiently.

“Ra-Ramirez. I mean Gonzales,” I mumble, I can feel myself turning red.

The other man in the dark sedan parked at an odd angle to the curb calls out, “Hey, Ramirez, I'm hungry!”

Ramirez snaps his notebook shut, and then waves it at me. “
Muy bien
, Jorge Ramirez-Gonzales. I'll check this out.” Ramirez is halfway back to the car when he turns around and lifts up his sunglasses so I can see his eyes. “
Cuidate, Cubanito.
”

Ramirez-Gonzales? He caught me by surprise. I should have had it all worked out. But I guess it doesn't really matter what name I give him. When he checks at the foster home he'll know, and then he'll come looking for me.

As I pull my cart down the road I tell myself that next time I'll be ready. I'll see Ramirez before he sees me and
then dump the cart and run. He'll never catch me. But it's a shame that I won't be able to come back here. Just one picture and I have enough money to make two phone calls, with some left over for Tomás. The only place that I can think of where it'll be safe to draw is the hotel. Maybe if I talk to the monkey man he'll let me draw by the pool.

As I walk to the bus I duck into the first phone booth I pass and try my father's office number. The man who answers the phone recognizes my father's name but then he announces that the only reason he knows the name is because it's printed in gold on the door.

“Do you know where he could be?”

“How could I know where he is? I never met the man!” he says and hangs up.

The next number on the list has been disconnected. I've made three calls and nothing. This is a lot harder than I thought it would be.

I climb up the ladder and find the deck littered with wires and greasy engine parts.

“We'll turn her over as soon as I get this nice and tight,” Dog yells from inside the engine compartment. He's tightening the four bolts at the bottom of the carburetor. Tomás is standing by the wheel. “
Hola
, Julian,” he says.

Dog looks up with a lopsided smile creeping across his face and I notice that his canines are very pointy. They're too long for a human, or even a dog, but not for a wolf.

“What are you looking at?” he grunts at me.

“Oh, nothing.” I must have been staring.

“Pass me that wrench by your foot,” he says.

“What are you doing?” I ask as I kick it over.

“I got Tomás some new parts for his engine,” Dog says.

“Dog, you know as well as I do those parts are used,” Tomás yells back.

“Almost new,” Dog barks.

Tomás turns toward me. “He thinks just because he puts them in boxes he found in back of a garage, I'll pay him for new parts.” He laughs. “I wasn't born yesterday, Dog.”

“Now that we're on the subject,” Dog says as he climbs out of the engine compartment, “I got to get out of the river before the tide changes. If you've got my money . . .”

“Sure, I'll go get it,” Tomás says, then steps into the cabin.

I watch Dog walk to the wheel. There's something about him that I don't like, something that I don't trust. He's checking out Tomás's compass, I hear him say under his breath, “This is a mighty tight piece of equipment.” Then he leans in to study the bolts holding it in place.

He must have sensed that I was watching him because he whips around and locks me in his yellow wolf eyes. “Why you looking at me like that?” He growls low so that Tomás can't hear him. “If I were you, I wouldn't go around sticking my nose where it don't belong.”

Just then Tomás comes out with the money can and starts counting out a handful of bills.

“Now, this compass was bought new. Right?” Dog says changing his tone.

Tomás hands him the money. “That's my pride and joy.”

“Must a cost a pretty penny, too!” Dog comments as he
slowly inspects it from its shiny dome down to the four bolts securing it behind the wheel.

“I can still count on you for the trip? We leave on the eleventh.”

“Sure, Tomás, as long as you can pay me, you can count on me.”

I wait for Dog to start up the outboard motor on his skiff to ask Tomás, “Why do you trust Dog?”

“Why not?”

“I wouldn't trust that guy. I don't like him.”

“I don't have to trust him, Julian. You heard him; I just have to make sure I can pay him.”

“I saw him checking out your compass—what if he steals it?”

“Julian, I've been around boats all my life and I've met a lot of guys like Dog. I know he's not my friend, but he's not a crook.” Tomás sounds angry.

“Sorry, Tomás, but I have this feeling.”

“You can't go around calling people crooks, just because you have a feeling.”

“There's just something about him. I would never trust a guy like that; he looks like a wolf to me.”

“Oh, I see, now. It's because of the way he looks.” Tomás is laughing at me. “Just pass me that wrench please.”

We stayed up late trying to put in the new-used parts. When I finally tumbled into bed, I was so tired that I didn't even bother to wash up. Why wash up if you're just going to get dirty again? As I drift off I can hear Tomás
still tinkering with the carburetor up on deck. He's determined to get the engine started tomorrow.

I wake up to the roar of the engine; the ribs and bones of the boat are shaking; the bunk is vibrating.

“All hands on deck!” Tomás yells.

When I stumble out there's a cloud of exhaust hanging over the deck, but the engine is quiet.