The last page had been ripped out.
I sat on the bed. Good old Paco, still out for the count. A million TV ads for sleep aids in this country. You want a good night’s sleep? Work like a fucking Mexican.
I slipped between the sheets, set the alarm for two hours hence. Pulled the covers over my eyes and tried to get some z’s. After all, two hours was better than nothing and there was going to be an even longer day ahead.
16 GUNMETAL
The highway goes silent. The forest holds its breath. The mountain sleeps. The image of the fifty-second hexagram is also a mountain-the youngest son of heaven and earth. The male principle is at the top, the female principle beneath. It is a hexagram denoting stillness. But in the Book of Changes rest is only equilibrium between forces. Movement is always on the verge of breaking out. Why that one, Mother? But then again, why any of it? Why the cards, the yarrow stalks, the Santería church? Why would someone who has no future care about the future?
My eyes flutter. Open.
The floor. The wall. The two beds.
I haven’t slept.
Paco’s still out. I can tell when he’s deep down because it’s almost as if he’s dead. When he does meet the horseman they’re going to have to hold a mirror over his mouth.
As if reading my thoughts, he smiles. One of those little grins that means so many things. He’s got back doors, does Paco.
I walk to the window. Snow coming down like cherry blossoms. Floating. Not the way I imagined it to be. In the old reel-to-reel Soviet flicks that we used to get on Saturday nights it always seemed harder, more painful, somehow. Not soft like this. Why would all those French soldiers fleeing Moscow complain about this? It’s beautiful.
My watch says 12:30. It’s already Monday. Shit. I have to go.
I grab my clothes, open the front door, ease out the heavy backpack.
Better to get dressed on the outside walkway than risk having to deal with him. If I tell him he can’t come, he’ll see it as an assault on his manhood.
Snowflakes as big as mandarin oranges. I put out my hand and catch a few. Lick them off.
Dress: black jeans, black long-sleeved T-shirt, thick black sweater, black ski mask, light jacket, black gloves, black sneakers. I check the backpack: rope, knife, sledgehammer, duct tape, road map, two guns.
Snow over everything.
It’s ok.
I zip the main pocket, heave it on my shoulders, go downstairs.
Ice crystals on the bottom steps. The smell of pine and laurel.
I walk to the Range Rover, throat dry, eyes filled with tears, knees shaking.
Not cut out for this. They saw that in Cuba, or they would have promoted me before now or invited me to join the DGI. They knew I wasn’t made for the rough stuff. Few women go high in the Party brass, but some do and are rewarded with those elusive travel visas to Vietnam or North Korea or China.
They don’t hand those out to lightweights. Like me.
I take out the car key, press the button, the car unlocks. Always seems like a miracle.
I shiver. Get in, put the key in the ignition, start the engine, turn on the heat.
“Now what?”
Get on with it, that’s what. But I sit there, warming my hands over the vents. Reluctant to move. The gun’s been bothering me. I wonder if Mr. Jones is still awake.
The gun.
Esteban’s cell phone.
On the second ring Mr. Jones picks up. “Hello?”
“Mr. Jones, I’m sorry to bother you at this hour, you probably remember me, I was the lady who broke into your house.”
“Yeah, what can I do ye for? In the market for another weapon? I’m up, I’ll be up for a couple of hours.”
The Range Rover purrs into life. Very quiet. I like that. Almost as quiet as Jack’s Bentley. I put the ski mask on, drive out onto Lime Kiln Road.
Mr. Jones’s lights are the only ones still burning.
A little tremor of doubt. Maybe he has hard feelings.
Park. Walk the drive. Ring the bell.
No answer.
This isn’t about the gun. Who gives a fuck about the gun? What the hell am I doing here? It’s what the PNR psychologist would call “displacement activity.”
It’s bullshit, is what it is.
The truth is I don’t want to see Youkilis. I don’t want to torture the truth out of him even if he does deserve it.
I ring the bell again. While I’m waiting I take the ski mask off.
Finally Mr. Jones opens the door. He’s wearing a coat, dark blue jeans, and work boots. He’s covered with mud.
“So that’s what you look like. Figured you was older. Come in, come in.”
I sit down in the living room. Funky smell. TV blaring. He turns it off.
“Drink?” he asks.
“Sure.”
He comes back with a mug a quarter filled with clear liquid. I drink it. It doesn’t burn like Havana moonshine.
“It’s good,” I say.
He smiles. “Excuse the dirt, I was out checking my traps,” he says.
I nod. “I’d like to show you something,” I say.
I produce the gun. He takes it, holds it up to the light.
“A thousand dollars,” he says. “It’s a fair price. I can get three times that, but you can’t.”
“I just want to know about it. It looks unusual.”
He nods. “You’ve a good eye. It is unusual. Real collector’s item. It’s a Russian Stechkin APS pistol, Cuban-made, 1993 to 1999-you can tell that because it’s manufactured from gunmetal, not stainless steel-good stock, sights set for twenty-five meters, at one point it was fitted with a silencer, it-”
“Gunmetal” catches my attention.
“Excuse me, what? Gunmetal? I’ve heard that before. What is that?”
“Gunmetal is a type of bronze, an alloy of copper, tin, and zinc. Where I’m from-Macon County, Alabama-they still call it red brass.”
“It’s a metal? That’s what they make guns out of?”
He laughs. “Not anymore. Everybody uses steel. That’s how I spotted this little beauty right away. I don’t know if you know much about Cuba, but after the USSR collapsed they couldn’t get steel. Went back to gunmetal for their Stechkin knockoffs.”
I nod but I’m confused. My PNR pistol was a standard Chinese revolver. I’d never seen one of these before.
“So where did this gun come from, I mean, who has these?” I ask.
“I reckon they made about two thousand of ’em. I can check my book. As far as I know-and what I don’t know ain’t worth shit-they was for KGB, the Cuban KGB, whatever they is.”
“The DGSE, internal security, or the DGI, Raúl Castro’s secret police.”
“Yeah, something like that. Where’d you get it?”
The room spinning, the walls closing in.
I get up. “I have to go. You can keep the gun. I don’t want it.”
He shakes his head. “This belongs to you,” he says.
Ok. I throw it in the backpack, forget about it.
A thank-you. A goodbye. Even a good luck.
I get out, breathe the cold air.
What does it mean?
Dad had a spook’s gun. Did they send someone to kill him? Had he survived the attack and taken the gun? Was he a spook himself?
No, they were after him. That’s why he was calling himself Suarez and living as a Mexican. Had he stolen the gun in Havana? Bought it? Killed someone? How long had he been planning his defection? What exactly happened that weekend we went to Santiago?
Too many questions. Information overload.
Fuck it. Just drive.
I get in the car. Hit the lights. Back to town. Malibu Mountain. The Old Boulder Road.
Cruise. Watson. Tambor. Tyrone. Lights off.
Youkilis. Lights on.
Park the car. Cut the beams. Wait… Wait… Wait.
Snow stops. Moon comes out.
A car drives past. Damn it. Can’t sit here all night.
“I’ll kill half an hour at the motel and then come back,” I say to myself.
Down the hill.
I pull into the motel parking lot and there, standing in front of me with his arms folded, is Paco.