Assassin's Honor (9781561648207) (38 page)

The carriage slowly made its way through the crowd, turning west on Eighth and disappearing from view. But no one went
home. They were too excited to leave. Soon the entire mass was chanting in unison two words, louder and louder each time. Feet began stamping as the cry was repeated. I noted the time—eleven o'clock.

“
¡Viva Martí!
”

Maria was as enthused as the rest. I could hear her shouts, the accent quite distinctive among the Cuban Creole accents around her. Her Spanish was a mixture of Castilian, the dialect of the ruling elite in Madrid, and Ladino, the dialect of the Iberian Jews known as the Sephardim. Though her family spoke Ladino among themselves, Maria had received her education in Madrid and her voice had taken on its sounds as well.

And then the inevitable happened.

Someone yelled, “
¡Abajo con España! ¡Abajo con los peninsulares!
”

Down with Spain. Down with the peninsulars.

“Peninsulars” was the term for the people in Spain, and in Cuba it referred to those who ruled over the Cubans. Martí never used that kind of divisive language; he abhorred it and urged just the opposite. He believed all the people of Spanish heritage should be brothers and stop shedding fraternal blood. But Martí wasn't atop the steps and in control anymore. No one was. The officials, including Ybor, had left in carriages also. The factory lights were dimmed. There were no policemen in sight. It was late and the crowd was thinning.

Most didn't echo the shout, and looked with contempt at the rabble-rousers. But there were a few, perhaps half a dozen, who did echo the shout, and began looking around for cohorts. It was only a matter of seconds before they would start looking for targets.

I glanced at Rork, who had moved in closer, and said, “We need to get her out of here, right now!”

We threaded our way across the jammed street, stemming the flow heading south on Fourteenth. I called out to Maria and saw her look around. Just then, an older woman near Maria
asked brashly in Cuban Creole why she was there, since she was obviously a rich lady from Madrid. Maria hesitated. The old woman called out to her friends a Spanish spy was in their midst, pointing to Maria.

One of the toughs started running toward Maria. He was three paces from her when I dropped him by turning to the right with an elbow to his throat. As he clutched his crushed windpipe, I completed the turn, putting my left index and middle fingers in both his eyes, pushing his head down into the street, then walked to Maria. It took seven seconds, unregistered by most around us, but the old woman noticed and screamed a threat.

Ybor City, Florida
Friday evening
16 December 1892

Rork was not idle during this. He grasped Maria's arm and pulled her into the candy shop ten feet away. The owner was in the process of closing up and was visibly alarmed when they burst open the door, followed by me. I closed and locked the door behind me as Rork propelled Maria past the shopkeeper and out the back of the store. Not a word was exchanged with the dumbfounded man the entire time.

We emerged in the open lot in back and headed diagonally across the lot to Eighth Avenue. Seeing no pursuers, I told my companions we could walk easy for a while down Eighth until we got to the Pedrosos' house. Two seconds after saying that, I heard the old woman's raucous squawk, shrieking that the
Spanish murderers were getting away on Eighth.

When Rork heard the word
asesinos
he shot me a questioning look.

“He's not dead, Rork. He's blinded and choking, but not dead,” I explained.

Some of the tough's chums rounded the corner behind us at a run.

Seeing a fire station across the avenue, I told Maria and Rork, “Get in there!”

The main fire engine barn doors were closed but the pedestrian door was unlocked and we rushed inside.

“Rork, lock the door!” I commanded.

A measured voice behind us said accented English, “We do not lock that door. I am Captain Puglisi and in command of Company Two. Can I help you?”

A stern-looking man stepped forward from the shadows, tall and muscular in light blue trousers and dark blue shirt, and the bonneted helmet of the fire brigade. He had crossed brass nozzles on his lapels.

“Captain, there is a mob outside after this lady because she is from Spain. We need to lock the door immediately.”

Captain Puglisi didn't reply at first, but strode to the door and locked it. Then he asked in a guarded tone, “Who are you and why are you in Ybor tonight?”

“I am Peter Wake, this is Maria Maura, and Sean Rork. We are friends of José Martí and we went to hear him speak at the cigar factory.”

The lock was being tried from outside, to no avail, followed by pounding on the door.

I ignored it. The pounding got louder. The captain, still standing by the door, shook his head at me. “That was over a while ago. Where were you going just now?”

“Martí asked me to meet him after his speech at the Pedroso home.”

Puglisi still doubted us. His hand was near the lock. I heard
other firemen coming down a stairway cursing in Spanish about the drunks outside ruining their sleep.

The captain tilted his head to the left, a sign of disbelief, and asked, “And do you know where that is?”

“Yes, sir. Thirteenth Street, just south of Eighth, on the east side of the street.”

The men outside began arguing with each other, and I heard something about the back door.

“And their first names?” asked Puglisi.

“Paulina and Ruperto. Look, can you help us, Captain? We need to get out of here,” I said, understanding his hesitancy, but getting exasperated by the delay. “This lady has done nothing wrong, but those thugs outside your door threatened her just because she is from Spain. And I know for a fact José Martí does not condone that sort of thing.”

He didn't respond to me, however, to one of the firemen, the captain said, “Lock the back door and do not open it until we leave in the engine.” He instructed another, “Rig the team and turn the engine around. We're going out the back to the alley.”

After that he turned back to me, his tone still dubious. “Mr. Wake, the Fire Department will give you a ride down the alley behind us to the Pedroso house, and if Ruperto agrees to let you enter his home, then we'll leave you there. Otherwise, we will take you to the police station.”

I heard pounding on the back door. A fireman yelled for them to go home and sleep it off.

The captain handed me a heavy coat. “You all will wear a coat and helmet.” He paused, frowning at Maria's yellow and white dress and jacket. “That is the best I can do as far as making you look like one of us. Now get on the back of the engine.”

The engine wagon had been turned around and faced the rear door of the main barn room. Sensing action, the pair of gray horses was snorting and pawing the floor. One of the firemen looked askance at us, then questioningly at his captain.

Puglisi told him, “Consider this a drill run. These people will ride on the back.”

We three climbed up onto the back platform behind the steam pump engine and held on to the handgrips. Captain Puglisi climbed up in front beside the driver and calmly said to a firemen near the double barn doors, “Open up!”

In a flash, the brass bell of the engine began clanging, the doors were flung open, the horses leaped to their work, and we were lurching out of the brightly lit station and turning right into the dark alley. The three of us hung on for dear life as the wagon leaned over in the turn, then straightened into a westbound course.

Three young men near the back door stood there silently as we galloped past them. My final glimpse showed them walking toward the front of the station.

Seconds later we were hurtling past the Teatro Ybor and approaching the end of the alley, where it met Thirteenth Street. The driver swung the entire rig into a hard right turn and screeching stop in front of the house where I'd tried to get someone to answer the door twelve hours before.

Inside the house, every window showed light with human shadows. Several men were seated on the porch, more standing in the yard. In each group red dots pulsated as cigar smoke and serious toned discussions filled the air. Other men by the street stood with arms akimbo, obviously on guard duty. The three-quarter moon overpowered the racing clouds to show me that all the men at the house watched our arrival with concern. This was a serious place, and I had no doubt that many were armed as well as Rork and I.

Captain Puglisi jumped down and spoke to the men in Spanish while pointing at me. His Spanish had an Italian flavor to it, as his name would imply. “Any of you know a Mr. Peter Wake? He is the one on the left there, in the back of the wagon. Does he have permission to see Señor Martí?”

A chorus of “No's” came back from yard and porch. Puglisi cast me an I-warned-you look as he climbed back aboard. Rork grimaced and glanced at me for guidance. I had no bright ideas
right then, but Maria, who had been quiet for some time, tried to help.

Presumably to hide her
Madrileo
accent, she spoke in English to the men surrounding us. “Gentlemen, Peter is an old friend of Señor Martí from Washington and New York.”

Her attempt lost a lot of its validity because of our ridiculous appearance, especially hers. She seemed to suddenly realize that and unburdened herself of the heavy fireman's coat and helmet, then repeated herself, this time in her Castilian Spanish. This got attention—she was the only woman in view—but no action. The standoff remained for several awkward seconds more.

Just as Puglisi told his driver to head for the police station, the front door of the house opened and a man stood there, silhouetted against the light inside. His spectacles glinted in the reflection as he emerged. Without a word he quickly crossed the porch and stood in the yard, staring at us with incredulity.

I had to laugh. We did present quite a sight. It was Mario Cano.

Rork and I took off our firemen coats and helmets and I said, “Mario, would you please explain to Captain Puglisi here that I am welcome at this home and with Martí?”

“This is a most incongruous turn of events, indeed. Why are you all firemen tonight, Peter?”

“It's a long, stupid story, Mario. Just tell the captain our names and I am a legitimate friend.”

To Puglisi he said, “They are Mr. Peter Wake and Mr. Sean Rork and Doña Maria Maura y Abad. All three are friends of mine, and the two gentlemen are longtime friends of José Martí. They are all very welcome here, Captain. Thank you for bringing them. I will let Señor Martí know of your kind assistance.”

Puglisi evidently knew Cano—which surprised me and indicated the lawyer was far closer to Martí and the Ybor community than I had known—for the captain immediately changed his attitude and helped us down off the wagon, smiling the whole time.

Cano shook our hands heartily and bade us come inside and relax, saying José Martí would be free to see us soon.

Ybor City, Florida
Late Friday evening
16 December 1892

Inside the tiny parlor, we met the owners of the house. Paulina Pedroso was a short, dignified black woman in her late forties with a no-nonsense manner who was clearly in charge of the scene and everyone within it. In that respect, she reminded me very much of my mother. Ruperto was an older black man who looked us over in silent scrutiny. He invited us to sit on the tattered divan, a tight fit for the three of us, and brought coffee once we did so. The room had three other men in dark suits sitting there on well-used bent-cane chairs, none of whom spoke or were introduced. They sat there staring at us, particularly Maria, as we sat there gazing at each other.

I wanted to ask Maria why on the world she had attended the speech, but that was not the time nor place. Since Cano had disappeared somewhere out of the room, there was nothing to say or do but sit there, with the absurd sensation in my mind
of waiting to see the headmaster. I could not see or hear Martí, and presumed him to be upstairs, an appropriate location both literally and figuratively.