Cuba Straits

“Then your friend is a man.”

“Times two. I thought I made that clear.”

Maggie—if that was her name—lifted the covers and sprawled atop him, her breath warm. “Good. I don’t care what happens tomorrow, but tonight—I’ll admit it—I’m glad you’re not going with some ballsy woman.”

“Jealous?”

“Envious,” Maggie replied, “of any woman with that much nerve. This is my first vacation without training wheels”—she was repositioning her hands—“and, so far, I like the taste of freedom.”

In the morning, the retriever followed Ford past the marina office, where Mack, behind the counter, read the sports section as fishing guides fueled and iced their boats. No rush. Fog had displaced the wind with a stillness that dripped from the trees. Poor visibility required a late start.

Mack called out the window, “Were you there when police showed up at the stadium?”

Ford was on his way to the beach. “What do you mean?”

“That Senior League tournament. You had a game last night, didn’t you?”

“Yeah . . . ?”

“Says here there were gunshots, but it could have been a car backfiring. That a locker room was robbed and a couple of cars. Must have been quite a game.”

“You’re kidding. Cars were stolen or just broken into?”

“During a brawl,” Mack replied, and resumed reading until Ford was inside. “Says here it started because a batsman scored four home runs in two games, which somehow caused a fight.” He peered up through his bifocals. “Is a four-over considered a century? Or is it called a round-tripper?”

Twenty years since Mack had immigrated from New Zealand, but he still confused baseball with cricket. Ford approached the counter. “Mind if I see that?”

There were two stories about a game and resulting incident at an old Grapefruit League complex, Terry Park in east Fort Myers, miles from the Twins stadium, which Ford explained.

Mack, although disappointed, looked on the bright side. “I suppose there are enough ugly rumors about this marina, so I’m glad you weren’t involved. Particularly”—he motioned in the direction of Tomlinson’s mooring buoy—“you-know-who.”

Ford sca

Thus the brawl.

Was F. Casanova “Figueroa,” the general’s missing shortstop? More likely it was “Frank” or “Felipe,” some baseball stud who sold his services to the highest bidder. It happened. Interesting, though, because the locker room and two vehicles had been damaged by forcible entry during the game. It brought to mind Rivera’s missing briefcase.

There was something else: F. Casanova had vanished by the time police and the news reporter arrived.

Ford, after asking Mack’s permission, tore out the page. “Tomlinson will want to see this. Is he around?”

“I sure as hell heard him when I got up to check for water in the rentals. Snoring. Before sunrise, even with this fog, I knew it was him from a hundred yards away. If sleep apnea didn’t kill His Holy Weirdness, I suppose he went to breakfast. Did you check the rack for his bike?”

Ford went out the door, the dog at heel but jittery when a gaggle of pelicans parted to clear a path.

•   •   •

TOMLINSON’S BEACH CRUISER, with fat tires, AC/DC stickers, and a basket stolen from Fausto’s in Key West, was outside Bailey’s General Store, intersection of Periwinkle and Tarpon Bay, a quarter mile from the marina. Only a few vans and lawn service trucks in the lot. Ford sat on a bench near a bulletin board, watching men exit with coffee and breakfast in Styrofoam containers.

Not Tomlinson. Two bananas, a bag of scones, and a six-pack of Corona for him.

“Damn it,” he said, “forgot the limes.” Then looked up from the bag in his hand. “What happened to you last night? I got up to piss around four, you weren’t back. But I smelled coffee before sunrise.”

Ford replied, “I actually got some sleep,” and handed him the newspaper. “Keep an eye on the dog while you read. I’ll grab limes while I get breakfast.”

“You’re welcome to a mango scone.”

“Bottom of the page about a brawl,” Ford said, “the teams from Dallas and Tallahassee. Oh”—he waited until Tomlinson had found the article—“the name of Rivera’s missing shortstop is Figueroa Casanova. Take a look at the box scores.”

“Is it ‘Figueroa’ or ‘Figgy’? That makes a difference.” Tomlinson stroked his beard while he read. “Geezus, the dude hit four dingers?”

“Could be a different Casanova.”

“Not if his name’s ‘Figgy,’ it couldn’t. That’s what I meant, just by the rhythm. A ‘Fran’ or ‘Floyd’ or ‘Federico’ couldn’t hit his weight, not playing shortstop. And sure as hell wouldn’t be my choice to pinch-hit with the game on the line. Yeah, gotta be ‘Figgy’ . . . ‘Figgy Casanova.’ What do you want to bet?”

Ford had refused a scone but decided to try one. “What I’m curious about is, the locker room was broken into. Did you get to that part?”

“Don’t pressure me, Doc. It’s too early for speed-reading. Besides, not all illegal immigrant shortstops are thieves. That is semi-racist.”

“Spare me your guilt-ridden lectures,” Ford replied, then explained about the missing briefcase. “Rivera said Casanova isn’t smart, but he’s loyal. When he wandered off, he left his street shoes and other stuff but took Rivera’s briefcase. I’m projecting, probably no co

Tomlinson liked that. “A position player you can trust, plus he hits for power. What do you think he’d charge to play for us?”

Ford, walking toward the electronic doors, didn’t remind him their team had been eliminated after a misguided attempt to steal home. When he returned with a salt bagel and coffee, Tomlinson was still reading, but less enamored with the missing shortstop. “The dude went and double-crossed Dallas. He’s nuts. You don’t screw a team from a state that fries killers before the judge’s truck is out of the parking lot. Why would the generalissimo trust Casanova with anything valuable?”

“Rivera said the briefcase contains some letters, personal stuff, nothing worth much. But it wouldn’t be the first time he’s lied to me. The man’s tricky. He’s got a very nasty edge—don’t let the charm fool you.” No reason to add that, during Masagua’s first revolution, Rivera had put a bounty on Ford’s head—ten thousand córdobas, dead or alive. But then, a few years later, at a baseball tournament in Cartagena, he had greeted him like a long-lost friend.

The generalissimo’s team needed a bull pen catcher, turned out.

“He claims he doesn’t have a cell phone and wouldn’t say where he’s staying. So we’ll have to wait until this afternoon—if he shows. I’ve got work to do in the lab anyway.”

Something else Ford intended to do was check for articles about items stolen from the Castro estate.

Tomlinson had folded the page to “Senior League Tournament,” “Today’s Games.” “Dallas is playing the Long Island Starbucks at ten a.m., Terry Park. A clash of cultures, man, in the loser’s bracket. You know how grueling that shit is. Two or three games in one day and both teams desperate for players who can still walk. I think we’ve got a shot at starting.”