The Consummata

senor. We recognize what lies below the surface. May I introduce myself? I am Luis Saladar, late of the Republic of Cuba.”

Then I remembered him. We had never met, but I did remember him....

He had fought both Batista and Castro, though the guns against his opposition party were too big and too many. His supporters had broken him out of one of Castro’s jails the day before he was to be executed. He had asked for political asylum in this country and gotten it.

Only now the feds were looking for Saladar under a deportation order, because he had been trying to organize another revolutionary group to invade Cuba and the doves in government were too jittery to upset the status quo. After the Bay of Pigs, the Missile Crisis, and the Kennedy assassination, our government’s Cuban operations had been curtailed. The current White House would rather let the menace exist ninety miles off our coastline than risk any more problems with Russia.

“Morgan,” I said and held out my hand. “I guess we are two of a kind.”

His grip was firm, his eyes steady on mine. “I realize your situation here, senor. Let me assure you that I took every precaution not to be observed. There are still police about, but I was not seen.”

“You sound sure of yourself.”

He smiled wryly. “I have an advantage. Cubans in a Cuban community all seem to look alike to certain of your countrymen.”

“Well, I can tell the difference,” I said, grinning back at him, “but I’m not an idiot.”

He chuckled, then sat down next to Pedro.

“Hey, if you have business to discuss,” I said, half-rising, “I can crawl back in my hidey-hole.”

“No, please,” Saladar told me with an upraised palm and embarrassed expression. “I, too, have occupied those cramped quarters. There is no reason for you to be uncomfortable any longer than necessary. Besides, senor, it is possible you might be in a position to advise us...if you would be so kind. Your presence here comes at a most fortunate moment.”

“Amigo,” I said, shaking my head, “I’m far from an expert on the political situation.”

“Politics are not the issue, senor.” Saladar’s expression turned grave. “It is a matter of thievery.”

I nodded. “Your old ‘amigo’ Jaimie Halaquez?”

Pedro and Luis exchanged glances.

Saladar said, “You are quite astute, senor.”

“Pedro mentioned him earlier. How much did the bastard get?”

Saladar sighed. “Seventy-five thousand dollars.”

I raised one eyebrow. It wasn’t enough dough to raise them both.

“That’s not a fortune,” I said. “But it’s a lot to be collected in an impoverished area like this.”

Saladar folded his hands on his flat belly and leaned back. There was sadness in his eyes.

“Senor Morgan, you are correct. That figure represents very many pennies and nickels, carefully saved from meager earnings. It represents hours of extra work for the privilege of contributing to the fund. For many, it means that clothes must be mended some more, and the table spread with a little less. Yet it was money cheerfully given so that others could escape the oppression they now face.” He shook his head. “This was more than simple thievery, senor. It was a tragedy.”

“Sorry, amigo.” I didn’t let him off the hook. “You shouldn’t have picked such a lousy, lowlife character to handle your cash.”

“In hindsight, this is obvious. But at the time...who was to know?”

I shook my head at him, still not letting him off. “You’ve been to the rodeo plenty of times, Luis. Okay if I call you ‘Luis’? I mean no disrespect.”

He lowered his head, held up his hand, granting permission.

“It’s not like you haven’t had experience in such things,” I said. “I mean, I figure you must have known this Halaquez guy pretty well. And nobody made him for a stinker?”

Saladar’s smile had a grim twist to it. “We thought we knew him well, and we detected no...unfortunate fragrance.” The knuckles of his fingers were white.

“Senor Morgan,” Pedro said, sitting forward, “Jaimie Halaquez...our ‘amigo’ as you call him...was working for the present Cuban government. It was Jaimie’s job to keep his masters informed of our movements. But...he came here and he told us of this.”

“A double agent,” I said.

Pedro nodded. “He would inform us of their plans—the Castro people do carry out activities in Miami, senor, in particular trying to...what is the word? Infiltrate our ranks.”

“Not surprising,” I said.

“Ever since the takeover,” Pedro continued, “he has been one of us. It was through Halaquez that we were able to make contact with our families and sympathizers, back home...because he had access to Cuba. Until now, the information he brought to us appeared true, and whatever he gave to his Cuban masters about us was either false or distorted. His work on our behalf, it was always done well.”

“Until now,” I said.

Something desperate came into Pedro’s tone as he gestured with two open palms. “We thought him trustworthy.”

I slowly scanned their faces, then nodded. “You’ve been gathering money for a long time, taking precautions. Everybody in your circle knew about it, and since you admit you may have infiltrators, you were careful.”

Pedro sighed. “But not careful enough. It is difficult when one you trust betrays you.”

I’d been there. “You’ve had your treasury heisted before, haven’t you?”

“Unfortunately, yes.”

“By these infiltrators you mentioned?”

“In one case, yes. In the two other instances, they were simply greedy fools. This is the fourth...what is the word... setback? Setback in as many years.”

“What happened to the others who stole from you, Pedro?”

“They were caught by our people. Their captors had a hot-blooded temperament, senor, and while one despairs of such things...the traitors’ deaths were justified.”

“And the money they stole?”

“Always there was enough time for them to spend it or...”

Pedro searched for the word.

“Transfer,” Saladar offered.

“Transfer it,” Pedro said, with a nod of thanks to his friend. “However, the amounts that were stolen before— and the need for funds—were as nothing compared to this.”

I shook my head in disgust. “You’ve been raided, my friends. It’s an old operation.”

All three looked at me, puzzled.

“Your amigo Halaquez played the game. He knew he had suckers on the line, so he just wormed his way in and waited you out. You collected the money, he took delivery, and he’ll get it through to Cuba, all right. The only difference is, the loot won’t go to your friends and families there who need the help.”

They all frowned, but it was Saladar who said, “What do you mean, senor?”

“I mean, it’ll buy Jaimie some favor with the Castro crowd, and maybe put him up in high society. Hell, when you’re in favor and eating high off the hog, Havana isn’t a bad place to live, even now. He can already come and go as he pleases, only this time when he goes back, he won’t return. Why should he? He’ll stay there and live it up. Come back to the States, he gets bumped off.”

For a few moments nobody spoke.

Finally Saladar said, “Perhaps you have a suggestion, Senor Morgan.”

“Sure,” I said. “Start up another collection.”

The futility of it brought a bitter laugh to Saladar’s mouth. “Another year of sacrifice for our people? It will be