Killing Castro (10 page)

At the Sierra Maestro, Castro found a ranch foreman who had accused tenant farmers of being pro-rebel and who had greatly increased his personal land holdings at their expense. Castro’s men seized the foreman, tried him and executed him.

This was revolutionary justice.

Revolutionary justice.
It was a fresh term, a new term, a carefully chosen rationalization for fighting fire with fire, for meeting the terror of Batista with the terror of the rebels. If Batista could torture and kill those who aided rebels, then Castro could leave the mutilated bodies of Batistianos as a grim souvenir of his purpose. If Batista could burn houses and slaughter peasants, Castro could go him one better and set sugar-cane fields afire and lay waste to thousands of acres of farmland.

If Batista could retreat into paranoia, seeing enemies on every side and leveling vengeful cries in every direction, Castro could adopt this paranoia and improve upon it. He, too, could reward those who followed him. And he, too, could swear eternal vengeance upon his enemies.

His movement was gaining ground; the ultimate success of his revolution was inevitable. But he himself was changing. Either that or he had been carefully hiding his real purpose all along.

SEVEN

The highway runs from Manzanillo, on the Gulf of Guacanayabo, almost due east to Santiago. Its course is roughly parallel to the southern coasts of Oriente Province, passing through the towns of Bayamo and Jiguani and Palma Soriano before reaching the end of the line. It is a broad, two-lane highway, paved with blacktop but maintained poorly. There are potholes here and there, the asphalt blacktop eroded or gouged out, and an automobile’s tires can take a beating on the road.

The land on either side of the road is rough and hilly. The soil is fertile and the rain plentiful, but this particular area is not good for the raising of sugar cane, the crop that is for Cuba what cotton was for the ante-bellum Southern United States. A little tobacco is grown here and there along the highway. Mostly, the land is given over to small truck-farms, or is abandoned to nature. There are hills, there are valleys, there are dense growths of shrubbery and brush.

There are also rebels.

It was late afternoon. Matt Garth lay flat on his back upon a threadbare army blanket and listened to the train. The train ran a zigzag course from Manzanillo to Glorieta in the east, bypassing Santiago. The train was now perhaps a mile from them, but it could be heard easily through the still air. It was the only sound audible.

Garth yawned and scratched himself. The spics were out somewhere, he thought. Out chasing fleas or something, for God’s sake. He didn’t know how in hell they did it, but every afternoon they went skulking off into the woods, and every night they came back with something to eat—a sack of beans, a pot of rice, a chicken with its neck twisted, a few eggs, once even a young pig taken too soon from its mother. Garth wasn’t too clear on how they managed it, whether they copped the food from farmers who were on their side or whether they just stole it. He didn’t much care.

He lit a cigarette, took two puffs on it and put it out.

He was going crazy, that was the trouble. He was going off his nut, roaming around in the goddamned mountains and eating rice and beans three times a day and waiting for something to happen. The fighting wasn’t bad but they hadn’t had any of that in too long, not since they cooked the six soldiers in the Jeep. Since then it was plenty of rambling, plenty of sleeping outside, plenty of goddamned beans and rice, and nothing else.

Oh, yeah. Plenty of the broad, that Maria, shaking those big tits and that hot ass right in his face, then pulling it all away the minute he got interested. The tease, the damn tease—she was driving him screwy. A girl who tossed it around like that ought to be ready to give some of it away. It would be a little better if she was at least putting out for somebody else. But not her, not that Maria bitch. She slept alone, slept by her goddamned self, and she stuck her tits in Garth’s face every other minute.

She was around now, he knew. She was over by the shore, scrubbing down pots and plates, oiling guns, making herself useful. And Fenton was around too, for all the goddamned good he was. Fenton, the punk, wasn’t doing him a hell of a lot of good. Fenton could speak English, all right, but Fenton still didn’t talk to him. He just sat around doing nothing all the time, maybe smoking a little, maybe talking to Manuel, the only spic who could speak English. Fenton talked to Manuel more than he talked to Garth, and Manuel never talked to Garth, and Garth couldn’t take it. He didn’t have leprosy, for God’s sake.

His mind started to work. Fenton was sitting by himself, doing nothing. And Maria was there, too. But if Fenton wasn’t around, if Fenton wanted to take a walk somewhere, then he would be alone with Maria. She was a tough bitch, tough as nails, but he was a man and he was sure one hell of a lot stronger than she was. So what if she screamed? Nobody would hear her. And what could she do later? Not a hell of a lot, because they needed him for the big play against Castro.

He thought it over for a minute or two. But thinking was a waste of time, thinking only gave him a headache. You could think all day long, the way Fenton did, and what the hell did it get you? Nothing, nothing at all. Thinking was not Garth’s kick. He wanted to do something instead. Something that would get that broad on her back with her knees pointing at the sun. He knew her type, too. All she needed was a man to show her who was boss and then she’d come down off her high horse in no time at all. She needed a man, one who could take charge, and once he showed her what it was all about she wouldn’t be cold-shouldering him any more. Hell, by the time he was done with her he’d be beating her off with a club. She’d be after him all the time, he decided.

All he had to do was take her the first time.

So. He stood up, ambled over to Fenton. Fenton was reading a paperback novel, his eyes on the page, a cigarette burning itself to ashes between two of his fingers. Garth cleared his throat and Fenton looked up, his eyes asking a question.

“I was thinking,” Garth said. “I was thinking it’s a nice day and you maybe should take a walk.”

“You want to go someplace?”

“Not me,” Garth said. “You.”

Fenton said nothing.

“Just a little walk,” Garth went on innocently. “A little walk, maybe scout around or something. You wouldn’t have to be gone long. Ten, maybe fifteen, even twenty minutes. No more.”

“Why?”

Garth shrugged.

Then Fenton got it. “You’re making a mistake,” he told him, “A big mistake.”

“Yeah?”

“Yes. The girl doesn’t want you. If you force her we’ll all have trouble. Why can’t you leave her alone?”

“That’s my business, Fenton.”

“It’s mine as well. You’ll get twenty thousand dollars, Garth. You can have all the women in the world with that much money. Can’t you leave this one alone until then?”

“What’s the matter? Got the hots for her yourself?”

“No.”

“I bet that’s it,” Garth said. “Why, you little dried-up old fart! You want the broad yourself, don’t you?”

“No. Leave her alone, Garth. You’ll ruin everything. You’ll—”

But Garth didn’t hear any more of it, mainly because that was all Fenton had a chance to say. Garth’s mind worked simply but efficiently. He had managed to dope out the fact that Fenton wasn’t going to go for a walk, and that if Fenton stayed around he would only make trouble. So Garth did the simplest thing possible under that set of circumstances. He hit Fenton once, on the side of the head.

Once was enough. The blow was a measured chop, hard enough to knock a man out, hard enough to keep him out for ten or fifteen minutes. Which would be plenty of time.

Time for the broad.

He found her at the edge of the stream, sitting cross-legged in the shade of a huge matto grosso palm, dressed as always in the army field jacket and the khaki pants. Her eyes came up slowly, meeting his, finding something frightening there that caused them to widen in terror. He met her fearful expression with a smile that came out lecherous and evil.

“It’s about time,” he said. And he stepped toward her.

She understood the meaning if not the words. She had been scrubbing a cast iron skillet, and as he moved at her she threw the skillet at him, aiming for his face. He brushed it aside with one hand, then moved to kick aside the Sten gun she was reaching for. She started to scramble to her feet but he slapped her hard on the side of her face and she fell down again.

“Now,” he said.

He fell on her, roughly, savage and blind with his hunger. She fought him, her nails driving for his face, for his eyes, but he pinned her hands behind her back and tore the field jacket open. Beneath it she wore only a white T-shirt, no brassiere. He ripped the T-shirt from her body. Her breasts were enticing mounds of golden flesh, the tips dark and taut, and he filled his hands with them, squeezing her, hurting her.

There was terror in her eyes now, terror mingling with fear, hatred, loathing and anger. He ignored all this. He was impatient, a stallion aching to mount a mare. He tore at her pants, at the damned khaki pants she always wore. He got them down over her hips, over her thighs, down to her knees. Her underpants were wispy white nylon and he shredded them.

“Don’t fight,” he said, not caring that she could not understand him. “Don’t fight, don’t give me a hard time. Just relax and enjoy it. It won’t be so bad, you little bitch. Just relax. You might like it.”

But she fought. One knee tried for his groin but he swerved his body and blocked the blow with his hips. One hand got loose, went for his throat, but he caught the hand and bent it back against her wrist until she moaned with pain. The knee tried again, and this time he lost patience, burying a hamlike fist in the softness of her flat stomach so that she doubled up in agony and made a sound like a man when you shot him in the guts with a small-caliber pistol.

He hit her again, in the same spot, and the fight sagged out of her like air from a punctured tire. He struggled with his own clothing now, opened his pants, readied himself.

There was a gunshot. A bullet passed far over Garth’s head. Garth froze, waiting.

Then a voice. Fenton’s. Harsh, cold, crisp, unafraid.

“Get up, Garth. Get up, you pig, or I’ll shoot you where you are. I’ll kill you, Garth.”

There was no room for doubt in the tone of the little man’s voice. It was not easy for Garth to get up. He was primed, ready, and it was not at all easy to give up now when the prize was there on the ground ready to be taken.

He got up.

“Button your pants. Then get the hell away from her, Garth, and stay away from her. Because if you go near her again I’ll kill you. You’re an animal, Garth. Get away from her and leave her alone.”

Garth walked away, ashamed and bitter. He hated Fenton and he hated the girl and he loathed himself with a flat, dull loathing. He had had her there and he had not taken her. That rat Fenton had fouled things up, that rat bastard.

He went back to his blanket and found his cigarettes.

The café was on Calle de las Mujeres Bonitas, the street of the pretty women. There were no pretty women around, none that Turner could see. But he was not anxious to meet any, not just now. Now all he wanted to do was sit where he was sitting, sip the glass of good red wine he had at hand, and talk with Ernesto.

Ernesto was a thick-set Cuban with a walrus mustache and sleepy eyes, a man’s man who talked easily, swore freely, drank heavily and, if he was to be believed, fornicated incessantly. Turner had met him there, at the café, two days ago. Turner had bought him a glass of wine. Then Ernesto had returned the favor. They took a table together and talked.

They were talking now.

“It seems to me that you have no problem,” Ernesto was saying in Spanish. “You have killed a whore and her lover, true? And so the North American police would hang you.”

“They take a dim view of murder.”

“So,” Ernesto said. “In North America, there you have a problem. But here, in Cuba? No problem, no problem at all.”

“What about extradition?” Turner asked. He knew the States had an extradition treaty with Cuba; they had one with every Latin American country, even with Brazil now. But in Brazil there were loopholes. You could marry a local girl and immunize yourself from extradition. Or you could get to the right official with enough money.

“There is a treaty,” Ernesto allowed.

“So I have a problem—”

“No. In the old days, in the days before the revolution, then you would have had a problem. But these days things are not so good between Señor Castro and your government, true? Your government says that a man named Turner is a criminal, a murderer. And our Señor Castro laughs, because he knows that this Turner has killed no one in Cuba. So there will be no extradition. You have broken no laws here and you may remain here.”

It was something Turner had thought of before. Cuba was as good as Brazil and as safe. But there was still the matter of twenty thousand dollars.

“I would need money,” Turner said. “Where would I work?”

Ernesto shrugged magnificently. “Why work? I do not work. It is not necessary to work.”

“But I have no money.”

“Ah,” Ernesto said. “It is not difficult to get money. One buys, one sells. One acts as an agent in such transactions. One lives cleverly, making oneself useful to others. Look at me, my friend. Before the revolution, I worked for a man named Antonio Torelli. Señor Torelli was a gangster from New York, a man who owned a casino here in Havana. A very important man. I worked at his casino. I was a dealer, a croupier. Señor Torelli also bought a bordello, also in Havana. I managed this house for him, kept the girls on their toes. I earned good money for this work.”

“And?”

“And there was a revolution. So. All at once Señor Torelli is on a plane to Florida and I no longer have a job. The casinos run by American gangsters are closed. The bordellos run by American gangsters are also closed. Have I starved?”

“It would take you years to starve,” Turner said.