I was smiling.
She said, "Is that okay?"
"First thing I have to do is go from hotel to hotel and track down Tomlinson. Even if you were in the mood."
"Always trying to trick me into bed-you're so good for the ego, Ford."
"Yeah, well… He couldn't have gone far. He was low on money. I'll check the cheaper places."
"He should have left a message."
"He would have. That's what bothers me."
"There's a phone book. Why don't you use the phone?"
"Have you tried it?"
"You mean it doesn't work?"
"That's right."
"Nothing in this whole damn place works." She stretched, yawned, showing me she was tired. "You want me to come along?" Not wanting to, but offering.
No, I didn't want her along. Even before I tried to find Tomlinson, I needed to make a stop at the Masaguan Embassy. Dewey couldn't be a part of that.
I pulled her forehead to me, kissed it. "Take a nap. Or watch Flipper. I won't be gone for more than a couple of hours."
She was digging into one of her suitcases. "I show you this? What I think I'll do is go down to the pool"-she was now holding up what appeared to be two tiny pieces of red silk-"and get some sun."
"That's a bathing suit?" I'd seen her in many swimsuits, always competition Speedos or triathlon latex.
"The tiniest little bikini I could find." She was holding it in front of her, modeling it. "I got it in Madrid, the next morning after finding Bets. This, and I got a pair of these lacy little panties, the kind I always used to hate. They're jade colored, kind of shiny. Only I'm not going to show you. I'm going to wear them tonight, let you do some exploring for a change." She looked up. "Like my suit? It's the new me."
I almost said, "I liked the old you just fine." Instead, I kissed her again and said, "Just don't catch cold. And Dewey?"
"Yeah?"
"If someone knocks on the door, keep the chain on until you're sure who it is. Ask for identification. The word is identification. Easy to remember."
Her expression said you're-being-paranoid-again. When I didn't react, she said, "You're serious?"
"Yeah. Humor me, okay?"
She was unsnapping her bra, her mind already down there at the pool. "If you want." Then she said, "I mean, this place seems so dangerous and all," as I locked the door behind me.
I'd been on the streets for less than twenty minutes before I was absolutely certain that I was being followed.
I hadn't had any problems driving to or from the Mas-aguan Embassy, so it took me by surprise.
But comforting, in its way. The good ones, the professionals-the small and elite group I was really worried about-are not so easily spotted. If they were tailing me, they would have worked in a kind of wolf pack; a lot of complicated switches and handoffs so that it was unlikely I would have seen the same person, or car, twice. Which is why I had looped and backtracked my way to Embassy Row. Even had to stop and fill up with black-market gas to finish the long trip.
But no, these were amateurs. Not very good amateurs at that. Two of them: a man and a woman, early twenties, dressed a little better than other Cubans on the busy streets, both black-the man onyx colored; the woman cinnamon skinned-and both trying way too hard to appear disinterested, as they tracked me down 23rd to Paseo where I checked at the desk of the Caribbean-no Tomlinson or Julia DeGlorio listed-then stepped back out into the December heat.
Now they were on the other side of the street, pretending to read a billboard: a rough painting of a devilish Uncle Sam being taunted by a Cuban soldier. The caption read: Imperialistas! We Have No Fear of You.
Standing there as if they'd never noticed it before-this old Cold War billboard that had been there in '80 during Mariel. I'd seen it.
I watched them in window glass and from the corner of my eye as I made the rounds-the shabby Inglaterra and the Kohly-calculating their motive as I did. Made a wide detour from the hotel area, past the sports center, the Ciudad Deportiva. Looked at the empty baseball diamond, picturing Fidel out there in his baggy Sugar Kings uniform; pictured myself in catcher's gear twenty years younger, harder, certainly colder, but never naive.
The couple was still with me. I looked at the knee-high grass in the outfield and thought about the situation. Probably careful scam artists who wanted to get a sense of my habits before they tried to set me up. Figure out why I was on the streets before they made their pitch. Maybe I was looking for black-market cigars… or young girls. Less likely was that they knew that I had come to Havana carrying ten thousand or more American dollars to bail out a friend's boat. The problem was, I wanted to find out. I could have lost them easily enough-established a pattern of entering and exiting hotels by the front, then left by the back-but I would have learned nothing. If Tomlinson's story had spread, if I'd already been singled out, I needed to know.
I slowed my pace. Walked down to the Malecon-Havana's busiest street, the old promenade that ribbons along the sea. Did some rubbernecking: big gringo tourist taking in the sights, looking at the lovers petting on the seawall, seeing waves break over the stone foundation of a city four hundred years old, watching the riverine flow of loafers and whores and thousands of Chinese bicycles-Flying Pigeons-that were the Maximum Leader's answer to the gas crisis. It reminded me of Asia: Cambodia and Vietnam.
Straw hats hunched over handlebars. Why was it that people with nowhere to go were always on the move?
Behind me, the couple stopped, waited. I thought: If they don't make a move it's because they know about the money. I wanted them to think-hey, here's our chance. So stood looking out at the Gulf Stream
…
Land, sea, or air, ninety miles is ninety miles, except when describing the waterspace between Havana and Key West. It is a distance protracted by a generation of despair. I thought about men and women who had taken to launching inner tubes beyond the landfall beacon off Morro Castle and paddling north. Crossing the Florida Straits in a luxury liner is one thing, but attempting it in a rubber donut, one's legs fluttering through the bright skin of the abyss, is a whole different proposition. In Cuba, desperation framed crazy optimism, or there was no optimism at all.
I wondered about the couple tailing me. How desperate were they?
Beyond the flow of bicycles, the sea was inflated with gray light. I could smell the sea and the heated asphalt and there was the odor of sargasso weed on wet rock. A streak of indigo marked the Gulf Stream's edge-it swept in close to Havana Harbor-and there were men in inner tubes fishing the rim of the Stream as if fishing the bank of a river. There was no fuel for boats, so they floated out in inner tubes. More and more of them just kept going.
I turned and stared at the couple full faced for the first time. The woman-she looked more like a girl now that they were closer-averted her eyes, then seemed to gather courage. She gave me a bawdy wink, then puckered her lips as if kissing. It was the standard come-on of the jine-tera, a street prostitute, but I got the impression she hadn't had much practice at it. I smiled, looked around, then pointed to my own chest: Me?
She winked again and I signaled her over. Watched the man give her a little nudge to get her going.
In Spanish, she said, "If you are looking for a good time, mister, perhaps I can be of help." A very formal approach for a whore.
I said, "Huh?" looking down at her. She was pretty in the way that parochial school girls are pretty. The uniform was in her face, her eyes, even though she wore tight jeans, a ruffled blue blouse. Her black hair was pulled back in a pony tail.