Cuba Straits

Tomlinson was at a rack of metal shelves, moving boxes to see what was behind them. He didn’t bother to respond.

Figuerito didn’t like that. They were ru

Tomlinson threw his hands up but kept his voice down. “I swear to god, I don’t know how to load a Thompson submachine gun. If we could just wiggle through a crawl space or, hell, fire up those bikes, maybe, and . . . Geezus, the damn tires are flat. What next?”

“There’s a bicycle pump,” Figuerito said. “In front of you, next to the red can. But don’t use it all. Later, that’s when I’ll need it. The gasoline, after I shoot him.”

“Does it work?”

“The gasoline? Three years ago, of course. Harley-Davidsons don’t run on diesel. Do they use diesel in the Estados Unidos?”

Tomlinson tested the tire pump’s plunger a few times, but his attention drifted to something lying atop a box. A baseball card with sewing needles stuck in it like some type of Santería curse. On the back: Iván Bárbaro Figueroa, Birmingham, Alabama, Tigers, 1980. He’d hit .344 in ’78, but then suffered a hitless two-year slump that, presumably, had ended his career. Tomlinson’s blue eyes moved from the card to Figgy, then back to the card. Too many similarities not to ask, “Are you related to this guy?”

Figuerito was busy reattaching the magazine to the machine gun but glanced over. “Him? He was an outfielder. Brother, even in English I know that.”

“I don’t know . . . something about the ears, his chin, the whole look. Are you sure?”

“To an outfielder? My abuela would not have ordered me to chain a relative from the outfield in the cellar if Iván Bárbaro ever came back. He didn’t come back, but she kept that ugly picture, so I know what he looks like.”

On the back of the card, Tomlinson read Born Pinar del Río, Cuba. Five feet four, two hundred and five pounds. “A righty. Geezus, you’d need a backhoe to knock the guy off his pins. Uhh . . . speaking of pins . . .”

“I spit on his name, the thief, and my mu-maw cursed him. Before I was born, there were three motorcycles and three nice machine guns. One was painted gold, which, of course, matched these pretty words.” His finger traced the inscription LOYAL BEYOND DEATH. “I blame Iván Bárbaro for her dislike of baseball. For firing the maid, too, who, even as a youth, I knew had beautiful pink chichis.”

Tomlinson shrugged his understanding. “He stole them both. I get it.”

“No, just the motorcycle and the gun. Isn’t that enough? Gold’s my favorite color.”

After a last look at the baseball card, Tomlinson returned to the moment, while, under his feet, the floor vibrated with the sudden impact of a big man falling on cement.

Figuerito didn’t notice. He pulled the gun’s bolt back and let it snap into position. Success. Then bounced to his feet saying, “Hope I didn’t put the bullets in backwards. What would happen, you think? I don’t want to shoot myself. If I shoot myself, then it will be up to you to . . .” He froze, crouched, and thrust up a warning hand. “Listen. Did you hear that?”

From the echoing distance, through two steel doors, a man’s bellow reached them, then one familiar word in Russian.

Pizda.

Figgy turned to his friend. “The Russian’s calling you names again.” He pulled the dead bolt clear and pushed the steel grating open. “Brother, that makes one of us mad.”

•   •   •

SOMEWHERE IN THE TUNNEL, beyond the bedroom, furniture crashed. There came the thump of heavy flesh on concrete, of hollow bone hitting bone, and the clang of a steel door banging open . . . or slamming closed. No way to know.

Figueroa, with the machine gun at waist level, paused at the foot of his grandmother’s bed. Another steel door slammed . . . then silence. Woodsmoke carried an unfamiliar chemical odor. He sniffed the air, turned, and spoke silently to the dead woman: Stop nagging. I’ll burn everything, just as promised. Letters and movies and photos. Even the motorcycles. But—he stepped back fearing a sign of protest—I didn’t say when I’d burn them . . . did I?

Candle flames twitched, the woman lay motionless. He pressed ahead.

So . . . I’m going to use the motorcycles for a while. Probably drive to baseball games. Keep this nice gun, too—if it works.

The corpse did not budge.

Good. Finally, she approved.

Behind him, Tomlinson stopped, made the sign of the cross and whispered, “Safe passage, Imelda Casanova.”

Strange words, even for a left-handed pitcher, but at least he had stopped lecturing about the evils of shooting the Russian. Fear of losing his pinga, Figuerito suspected, had opened the man’s mind to new ideas.

Now all he had to do was kill the Russian, then figure out how to transport the dead giant and the bad Santero to the special place high above the sea. The mule was missing, but they had that nice Buick station wagon. Remove the chickens and there would be room enough.

Tomlinson, after waiting through more silence, said, “The Russian, he’s gone . . . or maybe he passed out. Did you smell his breath? Smirnoff, a hundred proof.”

“Drunk?”

“Yeah, and I’m envious. Figgy, this is batshit nuts. Hell, if he wants the letters, let him have them. They’re not worth dying for, and your grandmother is beyond caring.” His eyes drifted away from the bed. “We don’t even know if that gun works or not. Amigo”—Tomlinson took a big breath—“sometimes talking is best. Wait here. I’ll see what I can do.”

Strange as the man was, he was thoughtful and sometimes made sense. “You’re worried the bullets are in backwards.” Figuerito smiled. “That I’ll shoot myself. Brother, I’ve never had a friend as devoted as you. We’ll go together.”

He cracked the door a few inches, intending to sneak a look, then said, “Uh-oh!” and tried to squeeze through in a rush because he saw flames. The machine gun, with its wide magazine, snagged and the gun went off, a deafening chain of explosions that rang in the shortstop’s ears even after he’d stumbled into the hall. It took another second to realize he had to take his finger off the trigger to stop the weapon’s wild convulsions.

“Wow,” he said, looking back at Tomlinson. “This is some gun.”

The gringo, fingers in his ears, was yelling, “Holy Geezus shit! Have you lost your beaner freakin’ mind?” and other words in English, to which Figuerito nodded agreeably.

“That’s what I think. If the Russian’s out there, I’ve killed him by now. Come on.” He jogged toward the fire, which turned out to be only a blanket or bedsheet burning. No . . . it was a shower curtain. He stomped out the flames, then, turning toward the next room, saw that the door to his abuela’s shrine was open. In the doorway lay the giant.

Figuerito aimed the gun at him. “Bring the lamp,” he said but didn’t wait. When he was close enough, he nudged the Russian’s foot with his sneaker. Then nudged him hard enough that a conscious man would move. But the giant didn’t move.

Tomlinson arrived, carrying the lamp above his head. “Oh shit. Now what are we going to do?” Then said, “I know, I know—the cliff. Or . . . maybe he’s still alive.” He knelt by the Russian. “Christ . . . you shot him at least three times. See his legs? Help me roll him over. There have to be other wounds.”

“Shot him, yes, but I didn’t steal his pants. Check under his shirt. I wonder where they went.” Figuerito leaned to see into the shrine, which was busy with Santería offerings, and the crypts of unknown children his abuela had forbidden him to discuss or ever mention to outsiders.