She hesitated. “Nothing. Not right now. It’s something that can wait, okay?”
“Em?”
“Later.” She paid at the register and we drove back to the apartment in silence.
CHAPTER TWENTY
W E SAT IN CHEAP PLASTIC CHAIRS on the cement slab. Em had a Sprite and even though it wasn’t quite 8 a.m. James and I had beers. The older couple behind us were nowhere to be seen, but the playpen was set up like always, with a faded blue blanket draped over one side.
“I think it’s too early to call.”
James tapped the phone on my lap. “We need to tell him before it makes the news.”
I punched in the numbers and the little blond answered.
“Hi, this is Skip Moore. Can I speak to Mr. Fuentes?” Moments later he came on the line.
“Mr. Moore. Do you have news?”
“Uh, yeah. Sort of.” I never did well in speech class. “We watched the building last night-”
“And?”
“And it caught on fire. It was a huge fire and-”
The thick Cuban accent sounded like that guy from the old TV show, Fantasy Island. “Caught on fire? What do you mean caught on fire?”
“It was more like an explosion.”
“And the occupants?”
“We seriously don’t know. We were approached by a policeman just before the building exploded, and he told us to leave the area.”
Fuentes was quiet for a moment. Then, as if he were talking to himself he said, “So the fire was preplanned. They knew that I knew.”
“Knew what, Mr. Fuentes? That Vic was staying there?”
“Have you told anyone? That you were watching?”
“No.” I glanced at the co-conspirators. “We haven’t said a word to anyone.”
“Don’t. Do you understand? This entire incident-you looking for Vic-this must remain in strictest confidence.”
“No problem.”
“Mr. Moore, I can’t stress this enough. You could be in a lot of danger if you mention this to anyone. I’ll be in touch with you in the near future.” He hung up the phone and I sat there looking at the receiver, more confused than ever.
“What?” James took a swallow of beer.
“I think I was threatened.”
Em looked up from her coffee. “Threatened?”
“He said the fire must have been preplanned and they knew that he knew too much. Then he said to keep it to ourselves or we could be in a lot of trouble and he’ll be in touch.”
“Make any sense to you?”
“None.”
“Anything about the $2,500?” James, the guy watching the bottom line.
“Maybe he’s a little more concerned that his son was in that inferno. Maybe that’s a little more important that our $2,500 right now.”
Em sipped on the Sprite. “The local news should be on at eight. Let’s go in and see what they’re saying.”
We got up and walked in the rear sliding-glass door. It didn’t exactly slide anymore but if you jiggled it enough it opened and closed.
“Skip, the playpen out there-still just the old couple and no baby?” Em had noticed it before.
James turned on the television and we sat on the ratty, faded cloth couch that passed as the best seat in the house. “I saw the old guy a couple of days ago and asked him,” he said.
“You just asked him what the playpen was for?”
“Well, he volunteered. He was out, I was out. He nodded, I nodded, and he motioned to the playpen. He said ‘For our grandson.’ I asked him how old and he says, ‘Six months. We’ve never seen him.’ So, I said, ‘He must live far away,’ and he says, ‘No, in Coral Gables. We never approved of the baby’s father, and when he was born my daughter decided to shut us out of her life.’”
“How sad.” Em had tears in the corners of her eyes. “So the playpen sits there and they wait for their grandson to visit?”
“I don’t know. The old guy shrugged his shoulders and walked back inside.”
The local Sunday morning anchor led with the story.
“A huge explosion in Little Havana rocked the community last night as a building called the Cuban Social Club caught fire about 2 a.m. Firefighters spent three hours battling the blaze.” Footage of the fire flashed on the screen and a fireman in full gear spoke into a reporter’s microphone.
“We don’t know the cause of the fire yet. It could be days before we are sure what happened. There appear to be three vehicles that caught fire as well.”
“Were there any casualties?”
“We haven’t been able to get inside the building, so we don’t know. The heat is just too intense.”
“Would you say, due to the intensity of the fire, that there may have been some accelerants involved?”
“All I can tell you at this time is, we are still fighting the fire. When it’s safe to go in, we’ll do a thorough investigation.”
The scene faded and the anchor came back on. “A source close to the location tells us the Cuban Social Club is the headquarters for a group of Cuban refugees called the Old Militia. The Old Militia is apparently comprised of Cubans who are known as Los Historicos. We’ll have more information as it becomes available.”
“What was that all about?” Em stared at the screen as the weather map came on.
James punched the remote and the screen went black. “ Los Historicos -families that left Cuba when Castro took control. I think a lot of them had property that was seized by the Castro regime.”
“That was almost fifty years ago.”
“Yeah. And they still want their property back.”
“How old would those people be?” Em asked.
“It’s not just them. It’s their sons, daughters, and grandkids too. They’ve never even been there, but they want what was their inheritance.”
I remembered junior high history. “These are the ones who launched the Bay of Pigs invasion. They were trying to take the country back in the sixties.”
James nodded. “Yeah. And the story is that the United States was going to support them, and President Kennedy and the CIA backed out at the last minute. A lot of people got killed.”
We were all quiet for a couple of minutes. Finally Em spoke up.
“I wonder what the hell we’ve gotten ourselves into?”
All three of us jumped when we heard the sharp knock on the front door.
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
N O ONE EVER CAME TO OUR APARTMENT. If there was a social event, we went there. Em and a handful of girls that James saw were the only ones who ever visited and only when they were invited. Our pink stucco hovel was not a place to invite polite company.
The staccato knock came again, and we looked at each other. A lot of the units around us had iron grates covering the windows and front door. I’m not sure why, because no one had much to protect. I knew that from selling-or attempting to sell-my security systems. Still, this was one time I wished we had the iron bars. Maybe to protect our lives.
I looked through the peephole and saw two guys, mid-thirties, in polo shirts and slacks. One guy had a huge mouth and he was licking his lips. They had dark skin, probably of Latin descent. The second guy shifted back and forth on his feet, anxious, maybe nervous.
“Two guys, dark skin, casual dress. Anyone want to see what they want?”
There was no response from my colleagues. If this involved the fire and last night, James was the one who got us into this mess, but it was obvious he wasn’t going to answer the door.
I opened it just enough to slip through the opening and stepped out on the front porch.
“Can I help you?” I was scared to death.
They were muscular, both carrying maybe twenty or thirty pounds too much in the mid-section. The nervous guy spoke first.
“You own the truck there?”
“No.” I wanted to be truthful.
“How about the Thunderbird?” He squinted, maybe trying to look intimidating. I was amazed I was out here with these two intimidators, but I was, and I wasn’t going to make this easy for them.
“Nope. Neither one is mine.” I kept thinking one of them would pull out a pistol or a knife.