Bird Brained (22 page)

I didn’t have to look in order to know that the humidity had caused my hair to revert to its natural state of frizz. I was so worried about my appearance that I nearly walked past the window with its colorful painting of a puffin, a cigar jauntily stuck in the side of its tangerine beak, giving it an uncanny resemblance to Groucho Marx. The image was set in a circle with the puffin’s wings popping out to point at the words
100% HAND ROLLED, 100% NATURAL
. There was no question that this was Ramon’s store,
PUFFIN CIGARS
.

As I was on my way in, I collided with a human freight train barreling out. The locomotive was none other than Phil Langer, who leaned his hulking frame against the door.

I took a step back, and gave him the once-over. “Sorry. I almost didn’t recognize you without the dead bird.”

His mouth twitched into the sliver of a smile. “Why, Agent Porter. I would never have taken you for a cigar aficionado.”

“You’re right about that,” I replied.

“That’s too bad. And you were just about to rise a notch in my estimation.”

I sighed. “I’ll just have to learn to live with that.”

“So what brings you here? Rumors that tobacco leaves are being tortured in the back room?” Langer mocked.

Since it was an innocent question, I filled in the answer. “I’m just here to visit the owner.”

Langer’s eyes blinked behind their Polaroid shades. “How is it that you know my neighbor, Ramon? Nothing personal, but you’re not his usual type.”

I found it hard to believe that was the best the man could come up with. I’d received better jabs from my own grandmother.

“He’s developing better taste these days.”

Langer let the remark float by. “Too bad you haven’t developed an appreciation for cigars. Ramon makes the best in the business. But you still haven’t told me how the two of you met.”

“Through a mutual acquaintance.” Alberto’s mangled form flashed in my mind. “Someone with a fondness for Cuban cigars.”

His lips pulled back tightly. “Then you’re obviously referring to a person with a complete lack of moral character. Some people are just too weak to resist temptation. Then there are those who love to flaunt their disdain for the law—there are deviants in our society who take pleasure in breaking the rules. The next thing you know, the press picks up on this issue and blows it out of all proportion, making the public believe there’s actually a demand for the damn cigars.”

Jeez—who put a nickel in his slot and got him going? I couldn’t resist a dig. “Do you honestly expect me to believe that a connoisseur like you has never tried a Cuban cigar?”

Langer’s features hardened. “I guarantee that one has never passed my lips. We’re at war with Cuba, Porter. In case you don’t know, there’s something called the Trading with the Enemy Act. That makes the purchase of Cuban cigars tantamount to treason.”

I couldn’t help but laugh. “Treason? You’ve got to be joking.”

Langer bridled. “You work for the government, Porter; you, of all people, should know better than that. Or do you consider our laws to be some sort of joke?”

Langer was turning out to be even crazier than I had imagined. “Oh, come on. It’s not as if smuggling Cuban cigars is the same as giving away military secrets.”

“As far as I’m concerned, it’s nearly as bad,” Langer snapped. “That kind of attitude is what supports a dictatorship, Porter. You’re helping prop up Castro’s regime anytime one of his cigars is sold.”

“If the Bay of Pigs, numerous assassination attempts, and an embargo of nearly forty years haven’t dislodged Castro, do you really think boycotting cigars is going to hurt him?” I scoffed.

Langer glared at me like an angry bulldog.

“There are more important things to spend our manpower on—beside the fact that it’s nearly impossible to keep people from bringing in cigars.”

“You want to know how you stop people?” Langer’s eyes warned against any wise-ass response. “You set an example. The punishment should be death. Fry a few of the bastards, and you’ll see the market in Cuban cigars dry up fast enough.”

Any impulse I had to laugh had vanished. “You can’t be serious.”

The look Langer gave me could have frozen the sun. “There’s much more at stake here than cigars, Porter. If you don’t know that by now, you’d better learn fast.”

I watched as he stiffly walked away. Now I knew who the guy reminded me of—Schwarzenegger, in the first
Terminator
movie.

I walked into Ramon’s shop, where a pretty Cuban girl stood behind a display counter showcasing a wide variety of cigars. A scoop-necked, skintight dress highlighted her wares. A small gold crucifix dangled, nearly lost, between two mounds of flesh.

She smiled at me, though her heart wasn’t in it. “May I help you?”

I’d felt like something out of a Sears store before walking in. Now it was down to Kmart. “I’d like to see Ramon. You can tell him Rachel Porter is here.”

The girl flashed me a sympathetic glance, kindly letting me know that I didn’t stand a chance, then sashayed into the back room to get him.

I gazed down at the glass counter to catch my reflection, and a familiar titillation nipped at the nerve endings under my skin. I knew Ramon couldn’t be far away. I didn’t move, but silently waited until his image hovered over me in the display case, like a Cuban missile coming in to land.

“Raquel! I’m so happy that you took me up on my offer!”

His voice poured over me like hot fudge on an ice-cream sundae. He paused, letting me melt, before dropping the proverbial cherry. “I can’t tell you how much I was hoping that you would come.”

He took hold of my hand and raised it to his lips, where his mustache softly brushed against my skin, the ensuing tickle his very own personal art form. His eyes locked onto mine as they drew me into a tango, his gaze slowly bending me back in a visual dip. Then his breath sensuously stroked my palm, followed by what I could have sworn was the faintest touch of the tip of his tongue. I couldn’t believe the hot moves on this guy. I would have decked him if I hadn’t been enjoying it so much.

“Let me show you my cigars.” Ramon’s fingers were as hot as five embers where they rested on the crook of my elbow, the rustle of his linen pants a confidential murmur as he guided the way.

“Creating a premium cigar is much like producing a fine wine. It’s all in the soil and seeds.” Ramon’s voice was as soothing as a bedtime story. “I’ll tell you the real secret though,” he whispered in my ear. “It’s that each leaf is hand-chosen personally by me.”

He opened a door to display a room that was lined with red cedar. The fragrance cocooned me as Ramon softly closed the door behind us.

“This is what I call the marriage room.” The words were said like a reverent prayer. “It is here that the various flavors in each cigar marry and age. This is the room where I put them to bed.”

I shot a suspicious glance his way, but he appeared to be totally serious. The room contained bundles of cigars, each labeled with a person’s name.

“What do the names stand for?” I questioned.

Ramon smiled, pleased with my interest. “That tells me which of my six rollers made those particular cigars, along with the types of tobacco used, and the brand. Here, I’ll show you.”

He picked one of the cigars up and held it lovingly in his hand. “This one I call the Churchill. See how long and thick it is?” His fingers danced along its length. “Yet it burns mild with a full-bodied taste.” Ramon held it out toward me.

I didn’t know whether to touch it, or slap him.

He smiled and moved on. “This is the Torpedo. True, it is wide at one end. But look how nicely it tapers where it fits in your mouth.” He brought it up to his nose and took a deep whiff.

Though my face burned, I didn’t say anything, playing it cool, deaf, and dumb.

Ramon picked up a cigar that could have passed for a miniature dachshund. “This one is called the Old Style, because at seven and a half inches, it is the biggest of them all. Though not everyone can handle it, this is the cigar that is desired by the true… aficionado.”

Okay—it was time to put the brakes on, before the innuendos skidded out of control. “Thanks, Ramon. But I’ve learned more than I’ll ever need to know.” I turned to leave the room.

Ramon’s hand shot out, pulling me close. “Raquel, wait! Just one more.” He picked up the last cigar. “This one is called Passion. It’s slimmer than the Churchill, and not as long as Old Style. But when it burns, it ignites a craving that very few others can fully satisfy. Its smoke is deep and long and smooth. This is the cigar for someone like you. Here. I want you to have it.”

As he placed the roll of tobacco in my hand, it took every ounce of control I had not to throw the thing away. I left the room feeling as if I’d been seduced and bedded without even knowing it.

“That was very educational, Ramon. But I don’t want to take up your time, and I do have some questions,” I said.

“Raquel, please be patient.” Ramon held up a long, tapered finger and slowly brought it to rest on my lips. “You will truly hurt me if you will not allow me to show you how my cigars are made.” His eyes smoldered through me, searing my T-shirt to my skin.

My feet moved as if under his control, as my libido put a stranglehold on what little was left of my reasoning. Who was this guy, Svengali?

We entered a room where six elderly Cuban men sat on long wooden planks, hunched over their work.

“These are my master rollers,” Ramon said with pride. “What you are watching is a dying art.”

One old man folded three different types of long leaf tobacco together, placing the finished product inside a large wooden mold.

We walked over to another elderly man, who gave me a wink.

“This is Armando. He takes each cigar that has been pressed and nestles it inside still another leaf of tobacco, which is called a wrapper,” Ramon explained.

Armando’s fingers were as brown and wrinkled as the tobacco. He sealed the final leaf closed with a touch of vegetable glue, laid the tight roll on a guillotine-like contraption, and released the blade, chopping off the cigar’s end.

“Do you sell any cigars other than those that are made here on your premises?” I asked with wide-eyed innocence.

Ramon smiled at the question. “Now, why would I do something like that when we make the best cigars in the world?”

“Even better than Cubans?” I questioned, opening my eyes a little wider.

“No. Cuba is the only place that can produce a cigar which is better,” Ramon solemnly admitted.

I brought my voice down a notch lower. “You wouldn’t by any chance happen to have a small stash of Cuban cigars here, would you? Believe me, I have no official interest when I ask about this. I’m only inquiring for a friend who’s desperate to get hold of some. He would be willing to pay top dollar.”

Ramon’s expression turned from seductive to horrified. “But that’s absolute treason! It’s against the law,” he sputtered.

Gee, where had I heard those same words only a few minutes ago?

“I’m sorry; I have no intention of getting you into any trouble. But if you don’t carry them, perhaps you might know of someone who does?” I urged.

A fine layer of perspiration lightly moistened his brow. For a moment, I thought he might ask me to leave. Instead he pressed my hand to his heart.

“Raquel, I can only imagine that you don’t truly understand the implications of what you are asking,” he said.

He gently stroked my fingers. It was enough to make me almost feel guilty for trying to trap him.

“No decent Cuban would ever allow himself to be involved in the sale of such cigars. It would be the same as taking blood money from our people,” he explained. “Cubans have died attempting to escape Castro. That’s what everyone in this country forgets. Cuban cigars that are sold in America only help support a ruthless and despicable dictator.”

He and Langer were clearly reading from the same script.

He kissed my hand, then placed his own squarely on my chest. I started to feel much less guilty.

“Haven’t there been many attempts to overthrow Castro’s regime?” I firmly removed Ramon’s hand.

“Yes, and, unfortunately, each one has failed.” A note of sorrow hung in his voice like a teardrop. “However, we continue to work toward trying to get rid of him.”

“I’ve heard there are Cubans here in Miami training for an invasion,” I ventured.

Armando now looked up at me with a pair of sad, rheumy eyes.

Ramon gave an impassive shrug. “That sort of thing took place back when Kennedy was president, but the Bay of Pigs put an end to all that. Since then, we try to do what we can, which is really very little.”

“But aren’t there groups of Cubans still hoping to mount an invasion?” I persisted. “There’s been a rash of recent bombings in Havana, all aimed at the island’s tourist industry. One took place just last night that’s being blamed on paramilitary groups based right here in Miami.”

Ramon shook his head and smiled, conveying that I still had much to learn. “The CIA stopped helping those groups long ago. What you’re hearing about is nothing more than a bunch of old men holding on to their dreams.”

The old men beside us never stopped rolling.

“Those bombings are most likely the work of an anti-Castro faction within Cuba itself. I know little about them—only that they are brave men fighting to gain our country’s freedom.” Ramon broke into a smile, his ivories gleaming as bright as tiny suns in a tropical sky. “One day soon, the dream of a free Cuba will become a reality.” Ramon placed a hand on one of the old men’s backs. “Isn’t that so, Roberto?”

Roberto gazed up at him with a near toothless grin. “
S
í,
se
ñ
or Ram
ó
n
.”

“My master rollers did this very same work in Cuba for years. I’ve promised them that they’ll do it again back home before they die. Isn’t that true, my friends?” Ramon asked, with a magnanimous wave of his arm.

The men continued to roll without saying a word.

I moved back to the last row, where one of the workers was rummaging through a drawer. A flash of silver caught my eye, its shape resembling the small silver leg band breeders placed on hatchling parrots to mark their birds as captive bred. I walked over, but the drawer was quickly closed. As the man reached for a mold, his short sleeve rode up to reveal the tattoo of a parrot clutching an automatic rifle in its talons.