Hot Schemes (16 page)

Michael frowned at her.

“Never mind. Speaking of Pedro, though, do you suppose we could stop by his restaurant and grab another sandwich?” she asked wistfully.

“We just ate.”

“Maybe you ate. I barely got to the table before you dragged me out of the place.”

“Sorry,” he said, looking contrite. “I wasn’t thinking.” He drove the few blocks east and pulled into the parking lot beside Pedro’s restaurant. Inside they found his uncle working the cash register, his expression somber. He gave them a distracted glance.

“Sit anywhere. I will join you when I can.”

Although it was nearly two o’clock, the restaurant was still jammed. As they worked their way between the crowded tables, Molly spotted the two young rafters who’d been rescued the day before. She pointed them out to Michael. They were surrounded by people, clearly being treated as heroes. At the sight of Michael, though, they stood up and came forward. Molly was relieved to see that the color in their cheeks was more normal, even though their sunburn blisters had broken and still looked painful.

“Gradas, amigo,”
Ricardo said to Michael, a smile spreading across his face. “You were right. Your uncle has promised us work. We will work hard to repay his generosity.”

Tony clasped Michael’s hand.
“Sí
, we are very grateful,” he said in his low, shy voice. “We will start tonight. That will be the beginning of our new life.”

“I’m glad it worked out,” Michael told them. “I see you have found some admirers.”

“Everyone has been very good to us,” Ricardo agreed with his ready grin.

Tony, however, regarded Michael worriedly. “There is so much to learn.”

“You’ll do fine,” Molly told them. “You already speak English amazingly well. Soon you will fit right in with those your own age. By the time school starts in the fall, you’ll already have friends.”

“I am not so sure about school,” Tony said. “Unless we can locate our uncle and he will take us in, we must work to live here.”

“I’m sure my uncle will adjust your hours so that you can attend classes,” Michael said, dismissing their concerns. “You’ll need an education if you are to get ahead in this country.”

“Get ahead?” Ricardo repeated.
“No comprendo.”

“To be a success.”

The teenager nodded emphatically. “Ah, yes, a success. The American success story,
sí?”
Both boys glanced down at their new jeans, fancy sneakers, and the teal-and-black T-shirts of the Florida Marlins baseball team. “With these gifts we look American already, yes?” Ricardo asked.

Molly nodded, thinking how desperately they wanted to be part of their new land while so many other exiles simply longed to go home again. Perhaps it was because the two teenagers understood better than anyone the harsh reality and desperation of life in Cuba today. Would they be able to find a common understanding with men like Miguel, or would their perceptions of Cuba be so at odds it would be as if they were speaking of different countries? Would the glamor of this new land wear off when they realized how hard they would have to work to attain what others had? Right now it all must seem a fantasy come true.

When Molly and Michael were alone at their table and the boys had left with their new friends, she looked at him. “How much do you recall about your first days here?”

A faraway look came over his face. “I was just thinking about that, trying to identify with what those two boys must be feeling. I can’t. I was so young. All I remember was crying when I realized my mother wasn’t getting on that plane with me. I remember how alone I felt, even after I was living with Pedro and Elena and my cousins. A child at that age needs a mother more than freedom, I think.”

His expression hardened, as if he’d been transported back in time. “That is why I had so much anger,” he said quietly. “I threw incredible tantrums. Sometimes I would go to bed so hoarse from crying, there was no sound left in me. I was probably hoping they would send me back. I didn’t understand that they couldn’t. I was still angry when my mother finally came. I didn’t speak to her for days. I refused to allow her close enough to hug me.”

“That must have pained her deeply,” Molly said, barely able to conceive of the heartbreak she would suffer if Brian ever shut her out so cruelly.

“I suppose it did. I was too caught up in my own hurt to think of hers.”

“Perhaps you were afraid.”

“Of what?”

“That she would leave you again.”

A faint, rueful smile tugged at his lips. “Have I ever told you that you are very wise,
querida?”

She grinned at him. “Not nearly enough. Do you suppose they would have heard any rumors of an impending attack by guerrillas from the U.S.?”

Michael shook his head. “They are boys. Like all teenage boys, I would guess their interest is in girls, not politics.”

“Michael, they risked their lives to get to a new country. That doesn’t sound like a couple of kids who are unaware of anything except their hormones. This wasn’t some lark or an adventure.”

“Are you so sure?”

“Sure? No, of course I can’t swear to it. We’d have to ask them. But from everything I’ve seen about life in Cuba or in any other place that has suffered war or oppression of one sort or another, there is no such thing as a childhood or adolescence as we know it. You’ve seen the pictures of children from places like Bosnia or Ireland or the Middle East, children whose eyes tell you they are wise beyond their years. Based on that, I say Tony and Ricardo may still be in their teens, but they are men, not children.”

“Perhaps they just wanted to live someplace where they could get a Big Mac and a milk shake.”

“I guess we’ll have to ask them directly when we see them again to see which of us is right.” Pedro joined them then. He gave Molly a wan, dispirited smile as he sat down with his tiny cup of
café Cubano
and poured in a healthy dollop of sugar.

“Qué pasa
, Tío?” Michael asked.

“I should be home with the family,” Pedro complained. “But no one else can handle the register at this hour, and we could not remain closed forever.”

“Elena and Mother are with Pilar. That’s all she really needs right now.”

“No, she needs Miguel. As I do. He is like my own brother after all these years.”

“Did he come in here often?” Molly asked.

“I tried to persuade him to work for me, but he said his English was not good enough. Still, he would stop almost every afternoon for an hour or so. Even today, I keep glancing toward the door expecting him to appear.”

“Was he usually alone?”

Pedro nodded. “He came alone, but always there were two or three friends at the counter. He would join them.”

Michael nodded approvingly at Molly as he picked up on where she was headed with the questions. “Are any of those friends here now?” he asked, his gaze on the row of men seated at the Formica-topped counter at the front of the restaurant.

There were one or two men dressed in business suits, but most wore the more traditional
guayabera
shirts from the simplest style to those with tiny rows of fancy tucks. The men seemed to range in age from their sixties upward. One wrinkled old man appeared to be at least eighty, but he spoke with youthful passion and vehemence about whatever topic they were discussing.

Pedro scanned the row. “There is the political satirist Juan Cabrera on the end and next to him is Herman Gómez-Ortega. Juan and Miguel have known each other since the first year of school in Cuba. The Cabrera family lived only a little distance from Miguel’s family. They both fought against Castro, but in different ways, Miguel with a gun, Juan with his words. The differences didn’t matter in the end. Both were jailed.”

“And Gómez-Ortega?”

“I know less about him.” Pedro’s gaze narrowed when he looked at the stoop-shouldered man bent over his cup of coffee.

Molly could see that the man’s broad, weathered hands appeared unsteady as he lifted the cup to his mouth. “You don’t like him, though, do you?” she asked.

“You are very perceptive,” he said bitterly. “Herman has these crazy ideas. Perhaps it is because he spent too long in Castro’s prisons. He has been here only since the Mariel boat lift in 1980. I suspect Castro was glad to get rid of him. He was a dissident, but he was also a troublemaker, a violent man.”

“Did Miguel know him in Cuba, or did they meet here?” Michael asked.

“Perhaps it was in prison. I cannot say for sure.”

“Could you suggest they join us?” Michael asked.

Pedro looked startled. “You wish to question them?”

Michael shrugged. “They are Miguel’s friends. Perhaps he has taken them into his confidence or, if as you say Herman is a little
loco
, perhaps he knows of some crazy scheme to invade the island.”

Pedro stood. “I will get them.”

“Don’t tell them I wish to question them. Say only that Miguel’s nephew is here and would like to meet friends of his uncle.”

Pedro nodded slowly. “
Comprendo.”

A few moments later the two men joined them. Herman walked with a limp, but his handshake was strong and his eyes were alert and cautious. Molly wondered at once if he was quite as crazy as Pedro thought. He struck her as shrewd. Juan Cabrera was the one with the faraway look in his eyes. Perhaps, though, he was merely dreaming of his next political article or satirical short story.

“I understand you both know my uncle well,” Michael said.

“Miguel Garcia is a strong man, a man of conscience,” Herman said, settling into a chair with another cup of the strong Cuban coffee. “You should be proud of him.”

“I am,” Michael agreed. “Right now, though, I have to admit that I’m worried about him. When was the last time you spoke with him?”

“We had coffee here as usual on Saturday,” Juan said.

“And what was his mood?”

“He talked of the fish he would catch in the morning. He said he would bring some by for my family, as always,” Juan said.

Michael looked skeptical, but rather than cross-examining the old man as he might a witness to a crime, he merely turned his attention to Herman.

“And you? When did you last see him?”

“I was here on Saturday as well. It is something of a habit with us. We are three old men with little to occupy our time except talk and memories.”

It sounded awfully disingenuous to Molly.

“And he spoke to you only of fishing?” Michael asked.

“As I recall,” Herman said vaguely.

Michael attempted a casual disinterest, but Molly could see the tension in the set of his jaw. “Do either of you know Orestes León Paredes?” he asked.

“Everyone knows of Paredes,” Herman said quickly. “Why do you ask?”

“Do you think it is possible that he would have information about my uncle’s disappearance?”

“He is a powerful man,” Juan said thoughtfully. “It is true he would have many contacts.”

Herman’s gaze had narrowed. “What is it you are really asking,
amigo?”

Michael regarded him evenly. “I suppose I’m asking exactly how involved Miguel was in Paredes’s organization. As his friends, you would know that,
sí?”

Herman stood up. “This is not something I care to discuss with a stranger.”

Juan objected at once. “Michael is not a stranger. He is the nephew of our friend.”

Herman shrugged. “He is also a policeman. Is that not what Miguel told us? I have no use for the police, not in my country and not in this one.
Adiós.”
He left the restaurant without glancing either to the right or the left.

“Too many cruel years in prison,” Juan explained when he had gone. “I am sorry for his rudeness.”

“It’s okay,” Molly said distractedly, her gaze fixed on Michael’s expression. She recognized that look.

“Let’s go,
amiga”
he said. He was polite enough to his uncle and to Juan Cabrera, but it was clear his attention was focused on the man who had just left them.

“Are we following Herman?” Molly asked as they got into the car.

Michael nodded, his gaze scanning the parking lot and the nearby curbside. “There,” he said finally, and made a quick turn across traffic that had Molly clinging to the door and praying that the cars aimed straight at the passenger side had time enough to stop. She closed her eyes. Tires squealed and horns blew.

“You can open your eyes now,” Michael said dryly.

“Don’t you suppose that the ruckus you caused making that turn might have gotten Herman’s attention?” she said, glancing ahead and hoping for a glimpse of the car they were tailing. She guessed it had to be the late-model white midsize Chevrolet.

Michael dismissed her concern. “My bet is he’s too busy trying to get to Paredes to tell him about our chat. Where are those articles Ryan gave you?”

“In the backseat.”

“Can you get to them?”

“As long as you don’t arrest me for not wearing a seat belt.”

“I’ll close my eyes,” he promised.

“Given the way you drive with them open, it probably wouldn’t make that much difference,” she observed. She snatched the papers from the back and snapped her seat belt into place. “Okay, what am I looking for?”

“Some mention of Herman in the articles about the organization.”

Molly started skimming the printouts. Before she’d made it through the first two articles, Michael slammed on the brakes and muttered an expletive under his breath. For once it wasn’t in Spanish, so she knew exactly how exasperated he was.

“What’s wrong?”

“I don’t get it.”

She glanced out the window and spotted Herman at a pay phone in front of a convenience store. “So he’s calling Paredes, rather than going to see him.”

Michael shook his head. “I don’t think so.”

“Why not?”

“Because it looks to me like he’s holding a long distance calling card in his hand.”

“What does that mean? Do you think he’s an infiltrator working for the government?”

“Your imagination is working overtime,
amiga
. Besides, a government operative would have memorized the number.”

“Maybe he’s just making a business call that has absolutely nothing to do with this.”