makes a difference. Absurd, isn’t it?”
“I’ve known Alfredo Lopez since 1945,” said Sanchez. “He’s a decent enough fellow. But I fail to see how Noreen Eisner prefers him to a man like you.”
“Maybe that’s what I want to prove to her.”
“Anything is possible, I suppose.”
“I don’t know. Maybe he is a better man than me.”
“No, just a younger one.”
THE SIM BUILDING in the center of Marianao looked like something out of
I parked a few streets away and walked along to the entrance, where a dog was lying on the grass shoulder. Dogs sleeping on the streets of Havana were neater and tidier about the way they did this than any dogs I had seen before, as if they were keen not to get in anyone’s way. Some were so neat and tidy about how they slept on the street that they looked dead. But you stroked any of them at your peril. Cuba was the very well-deserved home of the expression “Let sleeping dogs lie.” It was good advice for everyone and everything. If only I had taken it.
Inside the heavy wooden door, I gave my name to an equally sleepy-looking soldier and, having delivered my request to see Lieutenant Quevedo, I waited in front of another portrait of F.B., the one with him wearing the uniform with the lampshade epaulettes and a cat-that-had-all-the-cream smile. Knowing what I now knew about his share of casino money, I thought he probably had a lot to smile about.
When I had tired of being inspired by the self-satisfied face of the Cuban president, I went to a big window and stared out at a parade ground, where several armored cars were parked. Looking at them, I found it hard to see how Castro and his rebels had ever thought they stood a chance against the Cuban army.
Finally I was greeted by a tall man in a beige uniform, with gleaming leather, buttons, teeth, and sunglasses. He looked dressed up for a portrait of his own.
“Senor Hausner? I’m Lieutenant Quevedo. Would you come this way, please?”
I followed him upstairs, and while we walked, Lieutenant Quevedo talked. He had an easy way about him and seemed different from the picture Captain Sanchez had painted of the man. We came along a corridor that looked as if it could be a
“We call this our wall of heroes,” Quevedo said, jokingly. “As you can see, we have only the one hero. Some people call him a dictator. But if he is, then he’s a very popular one, it seems to me.”
I halted momentarily in front of the
“You’re wondering where the title went, perhaps,” observed Quevedo. “And what it said?”
“Was I?”
“Of course you were.” Quevedo smiled benignly. “It said, ‘Cuba’s Batista: He Got Past Democracy’s Sentries.’ Which is something of an exaggeration. For example, in Cuba there are no restrictions on freedom of speech or freedom of the press or freedom of religion. The Congress can override any legislation or refuse to pass what he wants passed. There aren’t any generals in his cabinet. Is this really what dictatorship means? Can one really compare our president to a Stalin? Or a Hitler? I don’t think so.”
I didn’t reply. What he said reminded me of something I myself had said at Noreen’s dinner party; and yet, in Quevedo’s mouth, it sounded somehow less than convincing. He opened the door to an enormous office. There was a big mahogany desk; a radio with a vase on top; another, smaller desk with a typewriter on it; and a television set that was switched on but had the sound turned down. A baseball game was in progress; and on the walls were pictures not of Batista but ballplayers such as Antonio Castano and Guillermo “Willie” Miranda. There wasn’t much on the desk: a pack of Trend, a tape-recording machine, a couple of highball glasses with American flags embossed on their outsides, a magazine with a picture of mambo dance star Ana Gloria Varona on the cover.
Quevedo waved me to a seat in front of the desk and, folding his arms, sat on the edge and looked down at me as if I were some kind of student who had brought him a problem.
“Naturally I know who you are,” he said. “And I believe I’m right in thinking that the unfortunate murder of Senor Reles has now been satisfactorily explained.”
“Yes, that’s right.”
“And are you here on Senor Lansky’s account, or on your own?”
“My own. I know you’re a busy man, Lieutenant, so I’ll come straight to the point. You have a prisoner named Alfredo Lopez here. Is that correct?”
“Yes.”
“I was hoping I might persuade you to let him go. His friends assure me that he has had nothing to do with Arango.”
“And your interest in Lopez is what, exactly?”
“He’s a lawyer, as you know. As a lawyer, he did me a good service, that’s all. I was hoping to be able to return the favor.”
“Very commendable. Even lawyers need representation.”
“You were talking about democracy and freedom of speech. I feel much the same way as you, Lieutenant. So I’m just here to help prevent a miscarriage of justice. I’m certainly not a supporter of Dr. Castro and his rebels.”
Quevedo nodded. “Castro is a natural criminal. Some of the newspapers compare him to Robin Hood, but I myself don’t see it. The man is quite ruthless and dangerous, like all communists. Probably he has been a communist since 1948, when he was still a student. But in his heart he’s worse than a communist. He’s a communist and a natural autocrat. He’s a Stalinist.”
“I’m sure I agree with you, Lieutenant. I certainly have no desire to see this country collapse into communism. I despise all communists.”
“I’m pleased to hear it.”
“As I said, I’m hoping to do Lopez a good turn, is all. It just happens that I might be able to do you a good turn too.”
“A quid pro quo, so to speak.”
“Maybe.”
Quevedo grinned. “Well, now I’m intrigued.” He collected the pack of Trend off the desk and lit one of the little cigars. It seemed almost unpatriotic to smoke such a diminutive cigar. “Please, do go on.”
“According to what I read in the newspapers, the Moncada Barracks rebels were poorly armed. Shotguns, a few M1 rifles, a Thompson, a bolt-action Springfield.”
“That’s quite correct. Most of our efforts are directed toward preventing ex-President Prio from getting arms to the rebels. So far we’ve been very successful. In the last couple of years we’ve seized over one million dollars’ worth of arms.”
“What if I was to tell you the location of an arms cache that contains everything from grenades to a belt-fed machine gun?”
“I should say that it was your duty as a guest in my country to tell me where those arms can be found.” He sucked on the little cigar for a moment. “Then I should also say that I could certainly arrange for your friend to be freed immediately once the arms cache is found. But might I inquire how it is you come to know about these weapons?”
“A while ago I was driving my car in El Calvario. It was late, the road was dark, I’d probably had a little too much to drink, and I was certainly driving too fast. I lost control of my car and skidded off the road. At first I thought I had a flat or a broken axle, and I got out to take a look with a flashlight. In fact, my tires had churned up a lot of dirt and broken through some wooden planks that were covering up something buried underneath. I lifted one plank, shone the flashlight inside, and saw a box of Mark 2 FHGs and a Browning M19. Probably there was a whole lot more, only I didn’t figure it was safe to stay there for very long. So I covered the boards with earth again and marked the spot with some stones so that I could find it. Anyway, last night I went to check, and the stones hadn’t been moved, which leads me to suppose that the cache is still there.”
“Why didn’t you report this at the time?”
“I certainly intended to, Lieutenant. But by the time I got back home I decided that if I told the authorities, someone might get the idea that there was a lot more to tell than I’ve told you, and I lost my nerve.”
Quevedo shrugged. “There doesn’t seem to be much that’s wrong with your nerves now.”
“Don’t be too sure of that. Inside, my stomach is turning over like a washing machine. But as I told you, I owe Lopez a favor.”
“He’s a lucky man to have a friend like you.”
“That’s for him to say.”
“True.”
“Well? Do we have a trade?”
“You’ll take us to where this arms cache is hidden?”
I nodded.
“Then, yes. We have a trade. But how shall we do this?” He stood up and walked around his office thoughtfully. “Let’s see now. I know. We’ll take Lopez with us, and if the weapons are where you say they are, then you can take him with you. As simple as that. Do you agree?”
“Yes.”
“All right. I’ll need a little time to organize everything. Why don’t you wait in here and watch the television while I go and set things up? Do you like baseball?”
“Not particularly. I can’t relate to it. In real life there are no third chances.”
Quevedo shook his head. “It’s a cop’s game. Believe me, I’ve thought about it. You see, when you hit something with a club, it changes everything.” Then he went out.
I picked up the magazine on the desk and got a little better acquainted with Ana Gloria Varona. She was a little bombshell type with a backside for cracking walnuts, and a large chest that was crying out for a child-sized sweater. When I had finished admiring her I tried to watch the baseball. But I figured it was one of those curious sports in which the history is obviously more important than
