The Consummata

We sat on a couch whose springs were too tired to complain, and cold beers were drawn from a cooler, ice cold, sweaty in a good way, and he let me swallow one down before he got me another. I was just nursing that one when he picked up the conversation.

“Senor Morgan, of course I know who you are. The man with but one name. Morgan the Raider, the militia keep calling you. A pirate for our day. But we do not reveal what we know of you in front of the intruders. We think that is more wise.”

Being known at all was something I wanted no part of. Why did a bunch of Cuban exiles know who the hell I was? There were too many possibilities, none of them good.

I said, “Why should you know me, Pedro? I’ve kind of made a point of staying under the radar. Only cops and crooks know who I am...or anyway, that’s what I thought.”

“It is more a matter of knowing of you, Senor Morgan. Until now, none of us have had the pleasure of meeting you. But we are glad to do so now.”

“Why?”

He caught the look in my eyes and smiled again. “Some months ago you did our neighboring country, Nuevo Cadiz, a great service. There you have become a legend. They sing of you in the cantinas, they write your name on the wall.”

“Not restroom walls, I hope.”

He didn’t get the joke and seemed momentarily dismayed. “No, no, you are a hero in that country!”

I had to smirk. “Probably not to everybody.”

“This is true, Senor Morgan. To certain people connected with the former corrupt government, to mention your name to them is to make them ill in the stomach, no? They talk of you in Cuba, too, where the people hope and dream that perhaps one day you might honor them with your presence, your talents, and give those thieves in control...” He paused and spat on the floor with vehemence. “...the taste of death they deserve.”

“I have no business in Cuba, amigo.”

His head nodded in sad agreement. “A man’s business is his own. His choices are his to make. We all know this.”

“Good.”

“But, senor, to Cubans, you are still a symbol. Someone to be admired, even to be...imitated. A great hero makes small heroes out of others, and enough small heroes can be...”

“An army of revolution?”

“Yes. And those heroes, they will arise when the time comes.”

I tried to make sure my smile didn’t seem patronizing. I owed this guy, and his people.

“Friend,” I said, “you’re talking to a man with a price on his head and the police at his back. I’m about as helpful to you right now as a rabid dog. If the federales knew what you did for me? Hell, they’d slap you in the pen so fast your eyes would cross.”

His smile blossomed again, but melancholy now. “Ah, again true. But the people who helped you, who look up to you, they do not care. They brush up against a real hero, and they help this hero, and they feel good about themselves and each other.”

“Yeah, well, whatever works for them.” I swallowed more beer. “How did you work it, Pedro?”

Navarro’s shrug was a masterpiece of understatement. “Heroes are recognized...by police and populace alike. There was one of our people...he was in Nuevo Cadiz, when you staged your small revolution, senor, and when he saw you on the street here he recognized you...knew you at once.”

“A break for me.”

“And he saw those who followed you, too, and when you headed our way, we were called...and called to action. In just a few minutes, several things were planned for coming to your assistance.”

I let out a little laugh. They sure had done a great job on the fly like that.

“You see, we are good Americans, Senor Morgan, but we know that police, those with badges, don’t always work for... what is the phrase? The public interest. And American or not, we are still Cubans. And the hero of Nuevo Cadiz, well ...we have more loyalty to him than to any militia.”

I had to laugh again. “My God, were those kids really in on it from the start?”

“Ah, yes, the children. The police didn’t believe the little ones could be organized like that. They forgot one thing. These muchachos grew up in the knowledge of much injustice. Only because of lessons learned in the streets of Havana are these children here in America with the rest of us.”

Well, Sherlock Holmes had his Baker Street Irregulars. Now Morgan the Raider had his own little Cuban pirates to thank.

I shook my head. “How in the hell do I find a way to say gracias, Pedro? For what you and your people have done?”

That shrug again. “There is no need. You may thank us by not being caught, and by remaining an inspiration to a beaten-down people...and perhaps to keep in your mind that there are such people, and that they need you.”

“They can look up to me if they like. There’s no accounting for taste. But there isn’t much chance of me helping anybody out. A guy in a hole has enough trouble digging himself out.”

“But, senor, people in the premature grave, they...what is the expression? Perhaps they should stick together. It is a thought, no?”

Now it was my turn to shrug. “If it pleases you.”

He stared at me a long moment, then said, “Tell me, Senor Morgan, is it true you stole forty million dollars from your government, and have it hidden in some safe place?”

I chuckled. “That would buy a nice little invasion army, wouldn’t it, Pedro?”

He laughed, too, shook his head, and finally sipped his own beer. “A very nice army, possibly even a successful one...but we are content to raise our own funds through our own efforts.”

“If you’re not asking for a handout, from that forty mil, why do you bring it up?”

“I am a curious man, senor.”

Apparently he hadn’t heard about the cat.

“Sorry, Pedro, I hate to disappoint you. It’s true the... militia...thinks I pulled that job. But I never did. Hope it doesn’t spoil my image, buddy.”

His teeth gleamed brightly under his mustache. “I wouldn’t have believed you, senor, if you told me that you did do this thing.”

“Why not?”

“Senor...surely you know the stories about you, they say you are the robbing hood.”

I almost choked on my beer. “Yeah. I’m a robbin’ hood, all right. I never took any spoils from anybody who didn’t have it coming. Criminals, bad people in general with money and jewels and other goodies that they didn’t earn or deserve...I took it from them.”

“And gave to the poor, senor?”

“Well...sort of. At first, I was poor, remember. But no, Pedro, I’m no saint. I’m the raider they say I am. I just don’t knock over solid citizens, much less Uncle Whiskers.”

“Uncle...?”

“Uncle Sugar. Uncle Sam?”

“Ah!” He pointed at me. “He wants you!”

“Doesn’t he, though.”

He stood. “We will serve you a meal now, senor, if you will so honor us.”

“That growling you hear is my stomach thanking you in advance.”

I got up and stuck my hand out and he shook it. Stood there just looking down at this little guy who was, as