“Come in, come in,” the man said. “Welcome to my humble campesino house.” He turned and walked inside.
Right, Bobby thought. A poor man’s shack. Maybe five, six mil, not counting the half mil in electronic security.
Bobby followed Sheila through the door. She glanced back and whispered, “That’s the only Spanish sentence I know.”
Yeah, Bobby thought, but now the little bastard thinks we understand Spanish. Which couldn’t hurt.
Medina led them into the living room, his tiny Gucci heels clicking against the white tile floor. The living room looked like the set for one of those born-again-Christian TV programs. Overstuffed lavender sofa. Two pink armchairs shaded with gilt. China figurines. Hummels. Expensive kitsch bought by people with no taste. Bobby looked for the big cross, but saw only a huge color photo over the marble fireplace.
“Ah, you noticed,” said Medina, gesturing toward the photograph. “My wife, Lucinda.”
“Beautiful,” said Bobby. The woman looked about 35, heavily made-up, a puff of pinkish blonde hair like a halo surrounding her pretty, small-featured face, which wouldn’t age well. She’d get fat, Bobby thought, and look like a plump pigeon.
Medina stepped through sliding glass doors to an outdoor bar alongside a heart-shaped swimming pool. His wife, sitting at the bar nursing a drink, looked up with a small jerk, as if frightened. She was maybe 20 years older than her picture, 20 pounds heavier. Just like a pigeon, Bobby thought, a plump pigeon in a flowing pink caftan.
Medina introduced them. Sheila flashed Lucinda her patented 8 X lo-glossy smile. Lucinda returned a quick, nervous little smile. A Nicaraguan bartender in white served drinks. Another servant appeared with a tray of caviar and toast. Medina snapped something in Spanish and one of the white-clad servants hovering in the darkness hustled inside. He returned with a long box, which Medina opened, showing it to Bobby and Sheila. Nestled on tissue paper was a replica of an Uzi machine gun, except that it was carved out of ivory.
“My good friends from the estate of Israel gave me this,” he said. “In gratitude for my assistance. A little matter of a Hamas terrorist. He turned up in Miami trying to buy Cemtex. He was very foolish. Made the wrong connections. Poof!” Medina wiped the palms of his hands as if to clean them of blood. “It is lovely, no?”
“Lovely!” said Sheila.
“But at times, a patriot needs more than artifacts, eh, señora?”
Sheila smiled and nodded.
“Come, Señor Esquared. Let the women talk while I show you the grounds.”
Bobby and Medina walked into the warm, humid darkness, leaving the two women at the bar. Bobby glanced back to see Sheila, smiling, trying to make conversation. The plump woman nodded nervously, like a toy bird dipping its head for water.
“I have lived in your country 30 years,” said Medina as they walked across the huge expanse of lawn toward what looked like a garage. “But I am still a Cuban. My wife is a Cuban. My children. We will die only Cubans. Do you understand?” Bobby nodded. Medina went on. “Even here in exile I go to Mass every morning as I did in Havana, years ago, before that bandit destroyed my country.”
He stepped into a dark mound in the grass and screamed, “Aiee! Fucking dogs!” He danced aside and wiped his shoe furiously on the grass.
When they came to the garage, Medina pushed a button to open the doors. The doors rolled up, a light went on and Bobby was staring at a beautifully restored, lipstick red 1957 Cadillac Coupe de Ville convertible with white leather upholstery.
“Is beautiful, no?” Medina said, smiling at the car.
“Very beautiful,” Bobby said.
The little man went over to the gleaming car, ran his hands lovingly along its fender. “It is the same model I used to ride through the streets of Havana,” he said. “I found this one and restored it myself. A hobby of mine, mechanical things. It took me five years but that did not matter.” He looked at Bobby. “Do you know what sustained me, Señor Esquared?” Bobby shook his head no. Medina said, “The knowledge that one day Lucinda and I will drive this car again through the streets of Havana, past cheering crowds welcoming me home from exile. I come here at night to stare at this beautiful thing. I see myself in it back in Cuba.” He looked at Bobby. “I’d give it all up, you know. This house, the life, to return.”
Sure you would, Bobby thought. A humble patriot. Not a fucking ruthless butcher. Not a guy who once, Sol claimed, blew a Cuban airliner out of the sky. Two hundred eighty-eight innocent people, some of them exiles from Miami, because he wanted to make a point. “You know what they call him?” Sol had said. “El-Loco. The Crazy One.”
“Don’t misunderstand me, Señor Esquared,” Medina was saying. “I am grateful to America. It’s been very good to me. And it’s made me rich. But a patriot needs something more. His roots. My roots are in Havana. My father is buried there. He was a great patriot. He fought that butcher, Castro, until my father was captured. I was only a boy. My mother and I were called to the prison to watch. We had to stand in the hot sun while they brought my father out in front of Castro. Castro made him kneel at his feet. He told him to bow his head, but my father refused. He looked up into that butcher’s eyes and defied him to kill him man-to-man. And that coward, that bastard…” Medina’s fingers jabbed the night air, saliva forming in his cheeks, spittle on his lips, as he raged on. “That pig bastard didn’t have the courage. He turned to one of his henchmen, an American, a hired assassin, this big fucking gringo, and he handed him his pistola, a P-38, a Nazi gun, of course, and said, ‘Here, gringo, you do it. He is not worth my time.’ And the gringo shot my father between the eyes.”
Medina stopped talking. Finally, he said, “Excuse me, Señor Esquared; I am a man of passion. You understand. For my people, passion is everything. Passion is the food that keeps me alive. Makes me remember my enemies.” He smiled. “And my friends. Will you be my friend, Señor Esquared?”
Bobby dipped his head slightly, as if to bow, and stretched out his hand. “It would be an honor to be your friend, Señor Medina.”
The little man nodded, took the tips of Bobby’s fingers in his and held them a moment. In the moonlight, Bobby could see that his face was still dark from his outburst.
“Good, señor. That is good. I know I can trust you.”
Yeah, Bobby thought. But can I trust you?
During dinner Medina hardly spoke, except to snap at his servants and once to whisper a few words to one of his bodyguards. The man backed off slowly, bowing slightly, turned and disappeared through the sliding glass doors.
Sheila looked quizzically at Bobby, but he shook his head and put a firm hand on her arm to prevent her from going to the bathroom. No sense taking chances. Señor Medina’s mood had soured. The little bastard’s mind was still back in Havana and he seemed to be tasting revenge with every morsel of food he jabbed into his mouth. His wife ate with her head down, the good Cuban wife. She must be terrified out of her wits, Bobby thought, the things she knows. Jesus, the poor old broad!
Bobby tried to make small talk with Señora Medina, but the woman just flashed her tiny, terrified smile and looked down again at her food.
When the silent dinner was over, Medina snapped his fingers and a servant appeared with a leather briefcase. Medina handed it to Bobby. “My grocery list, Señor Esquared. Do you think you can fill it?”
“No problem,” said Bobby.
“It is a very extensive list, Señor Esquared.”
“I can fill it.”
“I have heard of only one man in your city who can supply such items. Difficult to contact.”