Cuba Straits

The lantern. Anatol lifted it, as if to show he was done, while his eyes were fixed, waiting for a hand or the American’s shoes to appear.

“Your Spanish sucks, but the signature looks familiar. Yeah . . . I’ve seen that signature before. For some reason, I hoped you were smarter. Weird, huh? Two grown men and we’re still playing the same goddamn stupid game. Fool’s Mate.”

Where the hell was that voice coming from? Tu

“I left your emergency money,” the voice said. “Think of it as professional courtesy. Now sign the goddamn paper again. Your real name . . . Anatol.”

“But I did—” A searing contraction cut off his air. “I did, but you haven’t looked at it closely.” Sweat beaded, slid down his cheeks, as he nudged the logbook another inch into the hall. “I’m sick. You speak of professionalism. You, whose head I own when DGI comes, but I would not give you to fools of DGI. A deal we will make, huh?” His knuckles whitened on the lantern handle. “You are calling General Anatol Kostikov a liar?”

The voice replied, “Stand up, and I’ll make it quick.”

Click-click. The metallic latching of a pistol hammer always, always signaled an end to negotiations. Anatol winced but wasn’t afraid. Training took over. When cornered, attack. In Ukraine, the ancient land of Cossacks, soldiers entered battle with the same ancient war cry. A guttural howl. That howl carried Anatol into the hall, lantern slashing, but the goddamn curtain came with him, draped over his head like a shroud.

Snap-Snap. Snap. Three plastic-on-plastic reports. The Russian heard the sounds, but they held no meaning except that each coincided with sudden hammering blows that stabbed him twice in the thigh and once in the kneecap.

Anatol tumbled forward onto the floor, aware in numb consciousness that he was bleeding . . . and that the curtain he could not shed from his body was on fire.

My silent pistol, he realized. Bastard shot me with my own weapon.

The humiliation was enough to rally the giant to his feet. “You want fight Kostikov?” He slapped at flames in his hair and roared. “Come, you pizda! Like men!”

Figueroa and his strange friend, Tomlinson, were on their haunches, backs flat against the wall, when the Russian peered into the space where they were hiding and saw the motorcycles.

That was several minutes ago.

An understanding of Russian wasn’t required to know the giant would return. He wanted those Harleys. In Figuerito’s life, only two outsiders had ever seen them and they had lost their lives during their first attempt. Big men, difficult to drag, but it had to be done. He had loved these pretty blue and red machines since childhood. His earliest memory was of someone—his grandmother, possibly—revving the engines as he lay in a crib, or box, too young to talk but old enough to cherish the vibrations and the sleepy odor of exhaust fumes after she had closed the door tight.

His next memory: darkness, alone and thirsty, but too content to make a sound when someone—definitely his grandmother—entered the bedroom carrying something small and naked and dead while candles burned. The familiar odor of cigar smoke had accompanied the woman’s sobbing, then her rage.

For years afterward, dozing beside those rumbling engines was Figgy’s favorite way to drift off—and one of the rare recreations the old woman had allowed him.

There was no doubt the Russian would soon return. Even so, the strange gringo sighed a Whew of relief when he was gone and whispered, “That was a close one. We should have run for it, man. No matter how drunk some bandito happens to be—a pissed-off husband is a better example—hiding is the surest way to get your ass kicked. Next time, you should listen to me.”

Tomlinson got to his feet; peeked through the steel grating, then tested the dead bolt at the top of the frame. “Gad, he almost ripped out the damn screws. What a monster. Just gave it a little shake. See for yourself. Dude, we’ve got to get out of here. He cut the pinga off that poor bastard and we both know it. Even with me, superstition only goes so far.”

Figueroa, speaking of his grandmother, replied, “Just because she’s dead doesn’t mean her temper has improved. No blood on the sheets, I understand, but it’s different here. Her spirit can come out of the earth and do all sorts of nasty shit. How long you think she’s been dead?”

Tomlinson took another look through the grating. “Maybe he’s not coming back. Christ, I hope he’s not coming back.”

Figuerito only shrugged. “Did you hear what he said about the motorcycles?”

“He spoke in Russian, for god’s sake. But look—he closed the door, at least, when he left. That’s a good sign. I think I heard another door close, too. It’s what people do when they’re not coming back. A guy that size, what’s he want with a Harley? These old classics”—Tomlinson was already coveting the bike of jet-stream blue—“are half the size of a modern-day hogster.”

Figuerito was becoming irritated. The hippie was always offering advice or lecturing him on the difference between right and wrong. Surprisingly uncooperative, too, when they had pried open a crate stamped SERVILLETAS SANITARIAS but which, in fact, contained a pair of old gangster-style Thompson submachine guns.

“We have many bullets,” Figgy whispered. “Here . . . see?” He produced a weathered box of .45 caliber Remingtons. “Show me how the guns work.”

Tomlinson recoiled as if the box contained mierda. He didn’t want to hold a machine gun either, although he was impressed with the gold lettering that read LOYAL BEYOND DEATH—FULGENCIO BATISTA.

“Geezus Christ. General Rivera would sell us both into slavery to get his hands on these babies. A tampon crate is exactly where they belong. Put them away.”

This was all very confusing. “Would you rather use the guns as clubs? They’re heavy enough, I suppose, but he’s a big one, that Russian. It’s safer, I think, to shoot him.”

“Don’t you get it? I’m not shooting anyone. There’s got to be another way out of here.” The hippie, whispering, went to the back wall, where there was an air vent, the wall streaked with mold beneath a low cement ceiling. “You’ve got to get off this killing kick. Seriously, it goes against every moral code and law—even in the minor leagues. Violence just begets more violence.”

Figgy had one of the Thompson machine guns on his lap. “Of course. Why do you think I want to shoot him? The problem is, the old woman didn’t mind me playing with the motorcycles, but I wasn’t allowed to touch these”—he turned the gun upside down—“and shooting is more complicated than I thought.” He pressed a button, gave a yank, and the magazine drum popped free. It resembled the film canister, only thicker. “Hey . . . do the bullets go in here?”

“How the hell would I know?”

Figueroa felt his ears warming, but he concentrated on a lever at the front of the drum. He pushed, pulled, then pried. One side of the drum broke free and clattered like a hubcap when it hit the floor. “¡Ay, caramba!” he said, looking inside. “Lots of little spaces in here.” He began inserting cartridges. “Hey . . . they fit. Okay . . . once it’s loaded, then what?”