He opens the door, comes in, crying.
He falls on his bed like a kid.
I sit beside him, stroke his back.
“What will I do after you go home?”
“You’ll be fine. You’ve got a job, friends, you’ll be fine.”
“I should have stopped those guys in the desert.”
“No. You should have done exactly what you did. You kept a cool head and I’m proud of you.”
“You’ve a boyfriend in Havana?”
“No.”
“Maybe I’ll come see you when I’ve got some money saved.”
“Sure.”
Sure.
“I saw you praying.”
“Yes.”
“What’s that like?”
He shakes his head. He doesn’t understand the question. He yawns.
Time flowing forward in single breaths. Entropy maximizing.
“I’m tired,” he says and yawns again.
He starts breathing like a cat.
Up on Obispo, at the Casa de los Arabes, lies Havana’s mosque. You can get in only if you’re a foreigner or a diplomat or a cop. I went once with Hector to question a man from the Iranian Embassy about activities proscribed by the Koran and also by Cuban law. We were there at dawn, when, Hector explained, an additional line is sung by the muezzin:
I’ve always liked that. Prayer is better than sleep.
But what if you don’t know how to do either?
I want to pray, I want to sleep, both, either, I want to feel something, or nothing. Paco starts to snore, unmoved by such concerns.
“I wish I was more like you,” I whisper in his ear, kiss him, and put my blanket on him.
But anyway, it’s a lie. I wouldn’t want his certainty, the clarity of a believer.
Not yet.
I’ll lean into the confusion. The gray area. The dark. Embrace it. Sleep can wait and prayer can wait and into the comfort of the profane world I’ll go.
12 MR. JONES
I need a gun. In Havana I was lit by neon. A rep. The kind that floats up. Only my immediate superiors and the goons in the DGSE or the DGI could fuck with me. But in America the border taught me that life is cheap. The life of an illegal worth less than a dog. And Paco’s right. It’s Saturday. I’ve got one day left. The investigative part of this operation is almost over.
Not Mrs. Cooper.
If I can eliminate Esteban’s Range Rover and the silly golf cart, it will all boil down to the garage.
There were only two cars in for repairs in the Pearl Street Garage that whole week. Mrs. Cooper’s Mercedes and Jack Tyrone’s Bentley.
But Jack was in L.A. the night of the accident.
Youkilis was here. Youkilis driving Jack’s car? Got to be. It fits with the man, it works with the evidence. Twenty meters from Jack’s house, fifteen from Youkilis’s front gate. Jack’s car and Youkilis drunk or high or both. Coke and ice. Ice and coke. Foreign and domestic. Gives you two trips, two lives.
Youkilis. Take him. Break him. Make him talk. Make him admit it.
And then…
Is there any real alternative? The Cuban Interests Section of the Mexican Embassy?
Sure. The ministry claims that Luis Carriles put a bomb on a plane that killed seventy-three people. To this day the Yankees have refused to extradite him to Cuba.
It has to be in-house. I’m ok with it. It feels right.
For all of recorded history and for the million years before that humans have taken vengeance into their own hands. A simple code. Kill one of ours, we’ll kill one of yours. The simplest code there is. Only in the last century or two have people given this job to outsiders. To police, lawyers, courts. And no one really buys into that 100 percent. Certainly not in Cuba, where the old ways walk the streets of Cerro and Vedado. This is what Ricky doesn’t understand. He’s never walked those streets. Cops and the rule of law are a blip in deep time.
No, we don’t completely believe in them and some part of us remembers that revenge isn’t just a right-it’s a sacred obligation.
And why else did I come here? Why?
Overthinking. Need to be doing, not thinking.
Supplies. Duct tape, cuffs, map, markers, sledgehammer. And most of all-a gun.
In another ensemble from Angela’s cupboard I walk out of the motel. Brown cotton skirt, beige blouse, black sweater, black jacket. Backpack. No lipstick, no makeup. Wool hat low over my eyes. No attempt to look my best. This is the business end of my journey here. An ugly business.
I turn left for Fairview and again note that Toyota with the New York plates. No man sleeping inside this time because it’s later.
One sighting was bad but two have me worried. Someone’s keeping an eye on the motel. An INS agent? A fed following up a lead from New Mexico?
It’s
Down the hill to town. I walk past Starbucks and Dolce and Gabbana and a Ferrari dealership. Dean and Deluca. Whole Foods. Past a paradise of fruit and bread.
I turn on Arapahoe Street and enter the Safeway.
Aisle 2: Hardware. Knife, tape, rope.
Aisle 3: Winter clothes. Ski mask, gloves.
Aisle 6: Electrical. Flashlight, batteries.
Aisle 8: Grocery. Coffee, butter, bacon-so the purchases don’t look quite so menacing.
Pay.
Load up my backpack.
How many dollars left from my carefully husbanded bribe money, payoff money, and wages?
Six twenties and a five. Is that enough for a firearm? I walk down Manitou Road to what passes for the bad part of town.
A 7-Eleven, a couple of liquor stores, boarded-up shops-notices on the boards that all this has been rezoned for urban renewal.
Next to a sex shop is Fairview’s only pawnbroker.
In the window: a bicycle, a baby stroller, a fur coat, guns.
I go inside.
Skinny kid in a blue T-shirt reading an SAT prep book. Looks up at me briefly and back down at his book.
A whole row of handguns in a glass cabinet in front of him, the cheapest a.38 police special for $180. I’m fifty-five bucks short. But it doesn’t matter anyway-a sign on the wall says HANDGUNS FOR SALE TO US CITIZENS ONLY and another informs me that BACKGROUND CHECKS WILL BE ENFORCED AT ALL TIMES.
This kid doesn’t seem the type who is authorized to haggle or bend the rules.
Damn it. I turn, go to the door. Kid looks up again.
“Help you with anything?” he asks.
“No, thank you.”
He goes back to his college book, and as I nod goodbye I notice something that actually might be very useful.
