{"product_id":"cuba-straits-isbn-9780425280096","title":"Cuba Straits","description":"\u003cb\u003eA remarkable installment in the Doc Ford series from \u003ci\u003eNew York Times\u003c\/i\u003e–bestselling author Randy Wayne White.\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e  \u003cbr\u003e Doc Ford’s old friend General Juan Rivera has gone into the business of high-profile collectibles, but when he manages to obtain a collection of letters written by Fidel Castro between 1960 and 1962 to a secret girlfriend, it’s not a matter of money anymore. Rivera has stumbled way out of his depth. Those letters contain a secret that someone cannot allow to be made public. A lot happened between Cuba and the United States in those years. Many men died. A few more will hardly be noticed. | \u003cb\u003ePraise for Randy Wayne White’s \u003ci\u003eCuba Straits\u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e “White shows a new side to his talent [in \u003ci\u003eCuba Straits\u003c\/i\u003e], combining familiar themes and much-loved characters with a real flair for madcap adventure.” —\u003ci\u003eBooklist \u003c\/i\u003e(starred review)\u003cbr\u003e  \u003cbr\u003e “White smoothly combines history, action, and colorful characters into a savory concoction easily devoured in a single sitting.” —\u003ci\u003ePublishers Weekly\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \u003ci\u003e \u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e “A trove of revealing private documents, rumors concerning a political assassination, a trip to Cuba—it’s either today’s newspaper or Dr. Marion Ford’s 22nd adventure. . . . Cuba provides the perfect setting. . . . The next few months’ headlines will determine whether his view of contemporary Cuba is remarkably prophetic.” —\u003ci\u003eKirkus Reviews\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \u003ci\u003e \u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e “Baseball, fishing, sharp dialogue, and an action-packed story. Pour a mojito, think of a place where people clap ‘just because the sun goes down,’ and read this.” —Cleveland\u003ci\u003e Plain Dealer\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \u003ci\u003e \u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e “Intriguing settings, colorful characters, and eye-opening geopolitical dramas. When you mix everything together, you have a ready-to-serve and highly recommended first-class adventure.” —\u003ci\u003eMystery Scene\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e  \u003cbr\u003e “White’s storytelling at its best…a rip-roaring plot filled with baseball, history, lost treasure, and, just for good measure, a love triangle—all wrapped in politics.” —\u003ci\u003eSouth Florida Sun-Sentinel\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \u003ci\u003e \u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e “The master has knocked one out of the park.” —\u003ci\u003eThe\u003c\/i\u003e \u003ci\u003eFlorida Times-Union\u003c\/i\u003e | \u003cb\u003eRandy Wayne White\u003c\/b\u003e is the author of twenty-two Doc Ford books, including the latest, \u003ci\u003eDeep Blue\u003c\/i\u003e. He has also had four collections of his columns for \u003ci\u003eOutside\u003c\/i\u003e magazine and elsewhere published—and the new Hannah Smith series has debuted with \u003ci\u003eGone\u003c\/i\u003e, \u003ci\u003eDeceived\u003c\/i\u003e, and \u003ci\u003eHaunted\u003c\/i\u003e. In 2002, a one-hour documentary film called \u003ci\u003eThe Gift of the Game\u003c\/i\u003e, about White’s trip to Cuba to find the remnants of the Little League teams founded by Ernest Hemingway in the days before Castro, won the Best of the Fest Award from the 2002 Woods Hole Film Festival, then was bought by PBS and broadcast station by station in the spring and summer of 2003. A veteran fishing guide who at one time had his own local PBS show, he lives in an old house on an Indian mound in Pineland, Florida. | 1\u003cbr\u003eAt sunrise in November, Marion D. Ford, wearing shorts\u003cbr\u003eand jungle boots, jogged the tide line where Sanibel Island\u003cbr\u003ecrescents north, and finally said, “Screw it,” tired of wind\u003cbr\u003eand pelting sand. To his right were colorful cottages—red, yellow,\u003cbr\u003egreen—The Castaways, a popular resort during season, but this was\u003cbr\u003eTuesday and a slow time of year. He went to the outdoor shower,\u003cbr\u003ethinking he’d hide his boots and swim through the breakers. He\u003cbr\u003ewas ten pounds overweight and sick of his own excuses.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eA porch door opened: a woman backlit by clouds of cinnamon,\u003cbr\u003ethe sun up but not hot enough to burn through. “Want some coffee?”\u003cbr\u003eShe cupped her hands to be heard. “Your dog’s welcome, if he’s sociable.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eNo idea who the woman was. Wearing a sweatshirt, with an\u003cbr\u003earticulate, strong voice that suggested Midwestern genetics: a descendant\u003cbr\u003eof dairymaids good at sports and baking pies. Late thirties, a\u003cbr\u003erental compact in the drive, only one pair of sandals outside the door:\u003cbr\u003ea woman on a budget vacationing alone.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eFord said, “Can’t. I’m punishing myself.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eThe woman replied, “You, too?” and walked toward him, started\u003cbr\u003eto speak but stopped, got up on her toes, focusing on something\u003cbr\u003eout there in the waves. “What in the world . . . is that someone drowning?”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eBeyond the sandbar, Ford saw what might have been a barrel\u003cbr\u003ebut one thrashing appendage told him was not. He removed his\u003cbr\u003eglasses. “A loggerhead, I think. This isn’t mating season, so it must\u003cbr\u003ebe hurt.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Logger-what?”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“A sea turtle.” Ford handed her his glasses, jogged to the breakers,\u003cbr\u003eand duck-dived, still wearing his damn boots. The dog, which was a\u003cbr\u003eretriever but not a Lab or golden, swam after him. That was a mistake, too.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eThe turtle, barnacles on its back, was tangled in fishing line, and,\u003cbr\u003eyes, drowning. Ford had to alternately battle his dog, then the turtle,\u003cbr\u003ewhich hissed and struck like a snake while he maneuvered the thing\u003cbr\u003ethrough waves into the shallows. The woman was impressed. “You\u003cbr\u003eseem to know what you’re doing.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“On rare occasions. Do you have a knife?”\u003cbr\u003e“You’re not going to . . . ?”\u003cbr\u003e“Of course not.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eThe woman galloped to the cottage, her sweatshirt bouncing in\u003cbr\u003ecounter-synch, legs not long but solid. Nice. She watched Ford cut the\u003cbr\u003eturtle free, inspect it for cuts, then nurse the animal back through the\u003cbr\u003esurf, where he side-stroked alongside for a while.\u003cbr\u003e \u003cbr\u003eThe woman was waiting with a towel, coffee in a mug, and water for the dog.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Why not come inside and dry off? Or a hot shower, if you like,\u003cbr\u003ebut you’ll have to forgive the mess.” The look the woman gave him\u003cbr\u003ewas unmistakable—not that Ford often got that look from women\u003cbr\u003ehe didn’t know. “Three mornings straight I’ve watched you run past\u003cbr\u003ehere,”—an awkward smile—“so I finally worked up the nerve. Is\u003cbr\u003eit always this windy in November?”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eFord cleaned his glasses with the towel. “Nerve?”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Old-fashioned, I guess. You know, speaking to strange men and\u003cbr\u003eall that.” Another look, eyes aware, before she added, “I’m here all alone.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eFord tested several excuses before he followed the woman inside.\u003cbr\u003eHe was thinking, \u003ci\u003eWhy do the lonely ones choose islands?\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eThat night in Fort Myers. off Daniels Road, he was at Hammond\u003cbr\u003eStadium, where the Minnesota Twins train, one of the practice\u003cbr\u003efields, listening to his friend Tomlinson ramble on about something,\u003cbr\u003ebut not really listening.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Which is why,” his friend concluded, “I won’t even watch a game\u003cbr\u003eon TV without wearing the ol’ codpiece.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eMentioning fish got Ford’s attention. “You caught a cod? They\u003cbr\u003edon’t migrate this far south.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“No, man—\u003ci\u003emy cup\u003c\/i\u003e. Until a woman finds an expiration date on\u003cbr\u003emy dick, I simply will not risk the Hat Trick Twins.” Tomlinson\u003cbr\u003erapped three bell tones from between his legs to illustrate, which\u003cbr\u003eproved nothing, because they were sitting in a dugout, under lights, \u003cbr\u003ewearing baseball uniforms, not in a bar watching TV. On the field\u003cbr\u003ewas a Senior League team from Orlando, a left-hander warming\u003cbr\u003eup while the umpires kibitzed, game time stalled for no apparent\u003cbr\u003ereason.\u003cbr\u003e \u003cbr\u003eTomlinson muttered, “Geezus, what’s the holdup?” He grabbed\u003cbr\u003ethe fence, yelled, “Hey, blue—while we’re still young, okay?” before\u003cbr\u003ereturning to Ford. “You seem distracted, ol’ buddy. Romantic problems\u003cbr\u003eor is it something unusual?”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eFord replied, “This morning I found a turtle tangled in fishing\u003cbr\u003eline—one of those crimped wire leaders tourists buy at Walgreens. I\u003cbr\u003eassumed it was a loggerhead because they’re so common. Now I don’t\u003cbr\u003ethink so.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Was it dead? Goddamn pharmaceutical companies. They’d sell\u003cbr\u003ePop-Tarts to diabetics if it bumped their numbers.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“The turtle was only about fifty pounds but already had barnacles\u003cbr\u003egrowing. See what I’m getting at? Even a young loggerhead or\u003cbr\u003ehawksbill would be closer to a hundred. Or maybe I’m wrong about\u003cbr\u003ethat, too. I had him in my hands but didn’t bother to notice details.\u003cbr\u003eEmbarrassing, how little I know about sea turtles. Wouldn’t you expect\u003cbr\u003ea biologist to notice what the hell species it was?”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eTomlinson knew the pitcher from Orlando or would not have\u003cbr\u003eyelled, “Joe . . . Hey, Joey—put some color in that rainbow. Slow-pitch\u003cbr\u003eis for commies, dude.” This ultra-left-wing Zen Buddhist priest (he’d\u003cbr\u003ebeen ordained in Japan) and dope-smoking boat bum was a different\u003cbr\u003eperson when he exited reality and entered a baseball field.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eJoey flipped Tomlinson the bird.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eFord mused, “Now I’m thinking it might have been a Kemp’s\u003cbr\u003eRidley turtle, or even a Pacific Ridley. Two of the rarest in the\u003cbr\u003eworld—the thing snapped at me like a dog, which is typical according\u003cbr\u003eto the literature. And its shell was too round. Had it right there in\u003cbr\u003emy hands; swam with it and still didn’t dawn on me. If that’s not a\u003cbr\u003emetaphor for something, I don’t know what the hell is.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eFord hunched forward and retied his spikes, Tomlinson saying, “I\u003cbr\u003eshould’ve never gotten rid of my old Kangaroos. These new Mizunos\u003cbr\u003epinch my toe rings. I hate that.” Then hollered through the screen,\u003cbr\u003e“Oh great, now I’ve got to piss \u003ci\u003eagain\u003c\/i\u003e. Guys . . . I have a Masonic meeting\u003cbr\u003etomorrow. Any chance we’ll be done?’”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eFord sat up. “Know what’s odd? Two days ago, I was reading\u003cbr\u003eabout sightings of Pacific Ridleys in the Cuba Straits. I just remembered.\u003cbr\u003eOlive Ridleys, actually, but they’re the same thing. A few nests\u003cbr\u003edocumented along this coast, too. Even north of Sarasota.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eTomlinson reverted to his role as Zen master. “Nothing accidental\u003cbr\u003eabout coincidence, Doc. Hey—just listen, for once. You’re being\u003cbr\u003enudged toward something. Or away. Or into a new avenue of study.\u003cbr\u003eKarma seldom grabs a rational man by the balls.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“I didn’t say it was a coincidence.”\u003cbr\u003e“Oh?”\u003cbr\u003e“Not the Cuba part.” Ford checked the bleachers—only a couple\u003cbr\u003eof wives in attendance—then found the main field, where stadium\u003cbr\u003elights created a silver dome. Minnesota’s minor league team, the Miracle,\u003cbr\u003ewas playing St. Pete, a few hundred fans in attendance. He said,\u003cbr\u003e“You’ll see when he gets here.”\u003cbr\u003e“Who?”\u003cbr\u003e“If he shows up,” Ford said, “you’ll understand. A friend from \u003cbr\u003eCentral America. He was drunk when he called, which might explain\u003cbr\u003ewhy he’s late. Or might not.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eThat made perfect sense to Tomlinson. He nodded, fingering a\u003cbr\u003escar on his temple hidden by scraggly hair—a figure eight which he\u003cbr\u003einsisted was an infinity symbol.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Saving that Ridley is the coincidence. If it was a Ridley. The data\u003cbr\u003egoes back to 1953—one was caught in nets off Pinar del Río on\u003cbr\u003eCuba’s western coast. A few years back, a Ridley was photographed\u003cbr\u003elaying eggs near Sarasota. They’re not supposed to be in the Gulf or\u003cbr\u003eCaribbean, but sea turtles are like underwater birds. They travel anywhere\u003cbr\u003ethey want; flawless navigation systems, which suggests a magnetic\u003cbr\u003esensitivity that’s still not understood. It crossed my mind I’ve\u003cbr\u003enever actually seen a Ridley. Not confirmed anyway, which is why\u003cbr\u003eI’m pissed at myself about this morning.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eTomlinson’s attention focused. “\u003ci\u003eReally\u003c\/i\u003e? You sure that’s the only\u003cbr\u003ereason?” He said it as if envisioning a woman who was lonely and\u003cbr\u003ealone in her vacation cottage. Then added, “I hope you’re not thinking\u003cbr\u003eabout going back to Cuba. That’s risking jail, man; a firing squad,\u003cbr\u003efrom what I remember. Or has something changed?”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eFord shrugged, adjusted his protective gear, and buckled his pants.\u003cbr\u003e“I’ll ask Victor to catch the first few innings. He might have gone to\u003cbr\u003ethe wrong field.”\u003cbr\u003e“Vic? No . . . he went to his car to get eye black. What about Cuba?\u003cbr\u003eYou know I’m right.”\u003cbr\u003e“Not him. The guy I was talking about.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eTomlinson said to Ford, whose spikes clicked as he walked away,\u003cbr\u003e“Not if I’m called in to pitch, you’re not leaving. Hey . . . \u003ci\u003eWhoa\u003c\/i\u003e! Do \u003cbr\u003eyou have a death wish or get dumped again? Dude . . . I can talk you\u003cbr\u003ethrough this.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003ci\u003e\u003cbr\u003eThere is a fine line between getting dumped and a relationship\u003cbr\u003eended by the unanimous vote of one.\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eFord thought about that as he walked past the spring training\u003cbr\u003eclubhouse, across the parking lot to the stadium, into a tunnel of noise\u003cbr\u003eand odors: popcorn, beer, and grilled brats. Cuba was also on his\u003cbr\u003emind. What Tomlinson said would’ve been true a few years ago but\u003cbr\u003emight be okay now with the right cover story—or a companion with\u003cbr\u003ethe right political ties.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eThe man he was searching for had those ties.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eFord spotted him in the outfield cheap seats, alone above the bull\u003cbr\u003epen. The nearest cluster of fans was three sections closer to third base.\u003cbr\u003eThe man had been watching relief pitchers warm up, not the game,\u003cbr\u003ebut was now arguing with two security cops.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eNo doubt who it was, even from a distance. The man’s size and his\u003cbr\u003echoice of seats would have been enough.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eBaseball spikes are tricky on aluminum. It took Ford awhile to get\u003cbr\u003eto left field and intervene on behalf of the man who was an old\u003cbr\u003eenemy and sometimes a friend—General Juan Simón Rivera, recently\u003cbr\u003earrived from Central America via Havana.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Tell them,” Rivera said in English when he spotted Ford. “Tell\u003cbr\u003ethem who I am. Perhaps they will understand that diplomatic immunity\u003cbr\u003eincludes baseball and cigars.”\u003cbr\u003eHe’d been smoking a Cohiba, that was the problem.\u003cbr\u003e \u003cbr\u003eFord replied in Spanish. “You want me to blow your cover, General?”\u003cbr\u003eThis was safe to ask in front of two Anglo sheriffs deputies\u003cbr\u003ewho resembled farmhands.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eRivera, the former dictator of Masagua, a tiny country that exported\u003cbr\u003ebananas and revolution, got control of himself. Decided,\u003cbr\u003e“Hmm. A man of my intellect is seldom a donkey’s ass, but good\u003cbr\u003epoint. Yes . . . better to indulge these fascists—for now.” Spoke loudly\u003cbr\u003ein slang Spanish, then waited with regal impatience while Ford pacified the cops.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eWhen they were gone, Ford endured a bear hug; they exchanged\u003cbr\u003epleasantries—who was married, how many wives, how many kids.\u003cbr\u003eRivera, finally getting to it, said, “I’m surprised you recognized me.\u003cbr\u003eI’ve come incognito for a reason.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eInstead of signature khakis and boots, he wore a yellow Hawaiian\u003cbr\u003eshirt, a Disney visor, and flip-flops. Not enough to disguise a husky\u003cbr\u003eLatino with a gray-splotched beard and wild Russian hair, but Ford\u003cbr\u003eplayed along.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“A European tourist, General, that’s what I thought at first. Very\u003cbr\u003eclever.”\u003cbr\u003e“Yes, I know.”\u003cbr\u003e“Oh, it took me awhile.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eRivera expected that. It was a game they played, informal formality,\u003cbr\u003ebut each man knew the truth about the other. He said, “Sometimes\u003cbr\u003ea wolf must blend with the sheep. Yet, not clever enough to fool\u003cbr\u003eyou, my old catcher friend.” He noticed Ford’s uniform “Why are you\u003cbr\u003enot on the field? I might even agree to pitch a few innings . . . \u003ci\u003eif\u003c\/i\u003e you\u003cbr\u003ehave a large uniform. It doesn’t have to be clean, but it cannot be an\u003cbr\u003eeven number. I’m partial to the numbers three, nine, and thirtyseven.”\u003cbr\u003eWith his hands, he gestured: \u003ci\u003eI think you understand\u003c\/i\u003e.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eSantería, a mix of Catholicism and voodoo, was big on numerology,\u003cbr\u003eespecially when it came to baseball. Rivera was devoted to the\u003cbr\u003egame. In Central America, he had built his own field in the rainforest\u003cbr\u003eand drafted soldiers based on their batting averages. He fancied\u003cbr\u003ehimself a great pitcher whose politics had ruined his shot at the major leagues.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eFord replied, “General, my teammates would be honored. But,\u003cbr\u003efirst . . . why are you here?”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Always the same with you, Marion. Rush, rush, rush. Only bachelorhood\u003cbr\u003ehas spared you ulcers, I think.” Rivera nodded to the bull\u003cbr\u003epen, where a pitcher who looked sixteen but was almost seven feet\u003cbr\u003etall, sat with his hat askew. “That is Ruben. He’s one of my protégés.\u003cbr\u003eThe Twins have offered him a tryout, but a mere formality. Ruben’s\u003cbr\u003efastball rivals my own, yet he is a southpaw, as you can tell from his\u003cbr\u003esombrero.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eA joke. \u003ci\u003eGorro\u003c\/i\u003e was Spanish for “cap.” The general was in a pawky mood.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“He can’t be from Masagua. I never saw anyone from Masagua\u003cbr\u003emuch over six feet—except for you. Are you his agent?”\u003cbr\u003eRivera touched an index finger to his lips. “Unfortunately, the\u003cbr\u003esituation requires that Ruben pretends he doesn’t know me. I can’t\u003cbr\u003eexplain right now.”\u003cbr\u003eFord could guess where this was going but waited.\u003cbr\u003e“I have an interesting proposition, Marion.”\u003cbr\u003eFord said, “In Cuba.”\u003cbr\u003e“I told you as much on the phone. A nice chunk of silver in U.S.\u003cbr\u003edollars if you agree.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eFord sensed trouble but also escape: turtles, isolated beaches, a\u003cbr\u003eland without cell phones—if he wasn’t arrested. “I’ll listen, but I don’t\u003cbr\u003edo that sort of work anymore. Not if it’s dangerous. Or political\u003cbr\u003ework—count me out if politics are involved.” He hadn’t ruled out\u003cbr\u003ehuman trafficking in deference to his own curiosity.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Politics?” Rivera said. “I spit on the word. I piss on their speeches.\u003cbr\u003eTo hell with their silly games. I am a freedom fighter—always—but\u003cbr\u003ehave learned there are benefits to this free enterprise system of yours.\u003cbr\u003eA man is allowed to change, isn’t he?”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Only the small-minded hate change, General.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eIn clumsy English, Rivera replied, “You can say that twice. We\u003cbr\u003ewill feast ourselves several days in Cuba. A week at most, every expenses\u003cbr\u003epaid. But, first”—he hesitated while shifting to Spanish—\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“I have a little problem here that must be dealt with.”\u003cbr\u003e“In Florida?”\u003cbr\u003e“Let us hope so.” Rivera leaned closer to speak over the noise of\u003cbr\u003ethe PA system. “I have lost a baseball player. Temporarily, I’m sure,\u003cbr\u003ebut it would be unwise to contact your police.”\u003cbr\u003e“How long has he been missing?”\u003cbr\u003e“Not ‘missing’; ‘wandered off.’ Since this morning, when I visited\u003cbr\u003ehis motel—a place not far from here, with a large red sign. Without\u003cbr\u003eshoes or money, the lunatic could not have gone far.”\u003cbr\u003e“He’s crazy?”\u003cbr\u003e“Well . . . no more than most, but he’s not as smart as normal men.\u003cbr\u003eAnd honest, very honest, which makes him unpredictable.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eFord had spent much of his life on the water and in baseball dug-\u003cbr\u003eouts, which is why he asked, “Were his glove and bat missing? He\u003cbr\u003ecould have worn spikes instead of shoes.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“I didn’t think to check. I was too angry because a briefcase I\u003cbr\u003eentrusted to him was also gone. Nothing of value—some letters, a\u003cbr\u003efew photos. What I think is, the crazy fool took my orders to protect\u003cbr\u003ethe case too seriously and carried it with him when he wandered off.”\u003cbr\u003eRivera demonstrated the size of the case by holding his hands apart.\u003cbr\u003e“An old leather briefcase. Not big, but well sewn.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eFord wondered about that, looking down into the bull pen where\u003cbr\u003ethe seven-foot-tall pitching prospect, sitting alone, was scrutinizing a\u003cbr\u003eGatorade label. “Well . . . if the kid looks anything like Ruben, he\u003cbr\u003eshouldn’t be too hard to find.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“No, he is a shortstop, and not so young. There is no birth certificate\u003cbr\u003eto prove his age, but his brain has not matured. Figueroa Casanova\u003cbr\u003eis the name he uses—but we are wasting time. Tomorrow, we\u003cbr\u003ewill find Figuerito. Tonight, we must discuss this trip I’ve proposed.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eFord’s mind returned to Cuba. The government there respected\u003cbr\u003eJuan Rivera; with Rivera, he’d probably be safe. But there were other\u003cbr\u003econcerns. “Would we be traveling . . . together?”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eRivera misread Ford’s wariness and was insulted. “In my country,\u003cbr\u003egeneralissimos do not travel like Yankee flamenco dancers or \u003ci\u003emaricóns\u003c\/i\u003e.\u003cbr\u003eSeparately, of course, so bring a woman—two or three—all\u003cbr\u003eyou want. I will provide you with a rental car and gas. Details can\u003cbr\u003ewait, but on a certain day we will rendezvous in the west of Cuba. A\u003cbr\u003eday or two there, shake a few hands, then back to Havana. Have you\u003cbr\u003etraveled the Pinar del Río region?”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eFord knew what “shaking hands” meant but pictured dirt roads\u003cbr\u003eand rainforest when he replied, “I’d have to think back.”\u003cbr\u003e“Magnificent countryside, and vegetables from the garden. There,\u003cbr\u003eevery village has its own baseball campo, so you will have many\u003cbr\u003eopportunities to swing the bat.” Rivera removed a cigar from his\u003cbr\u003eshirt, bit the tip off, chewed and swallowed. “Inferior pitching, of\u003cbr\u003ecourse, but on an island ruled by Fidel for fifty years, what do you\u003cbr\u003eexpect?”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eThat was an odd thing for Rivera to say, and it was heresy in Cuba,\u003cbr\u003ebut Ford was warming to the idea. He’d felt restless for weeks, but\u003cbr\u003estill had to say, “This can’t be legal.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eNo, it wasn’t. He could tell by Rivera’s attempt to skirt the subject,\u003cbr\u003ewhich is when Ford decided, “Tell me anyway.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e2\u003cbr\u003eIn his lab, Ford dropped three brine shrimp pellets into an aquarium\u003cbr\u003ewhile speaking to Tomlinson, who had an ice pack bag on his\u003cbr\u003eknee and a pitcher of beer on his lap. There had been a collision at\u003cbr\u003ehome plate, but just bruises.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eFord said, “Rivera is smuggling Cuban baseball players into the\u003cbr\u003eU.S. He didn’t admit it, of course. He came up with another story—a\u003cbr\u003ebizarre one you’ll like—but I’m sure that’s what he’s doing. Now the\u003cbr\u003eheat’s on in Cuba and Rivera wants me to go along, probably as a\u003cbr\u003ebeard. Or who knows, with him.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“How bizarre?”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“The cover story? Just so-so, by your standards. He says in the late\u003cbr\u003efifties, three American ballplayers buried their motorcycles and some\u003cbr\u003eguns the day Fidel Castro came to power. You know, rather than\u003cbr\u003ehave their valuables confiscated. Thompson submachines, presentation \u003cbr\u003egrade. But let’s stick with the smuggling thread and I’ll fill you\u003cbr\u003ein later.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eTomlinson moved the ice pack, fidgeting. “Were the bikes Harleys?\u003cbr\u003eIf they were Harleys, the story is bullshit. No baseball jock\u003cbr\u003ewould bury his Harley.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eFord took a patient breath. “Anyway . . . the U.S. has loosened\u003cbr\u003esanctions, but Cuban players still need legal asylum from a third\u003cbr\u003ecountry before Major League Baseball will sign a contract. Most\u003cbr\u003eescape through Mexico. The drug cartels handle everything—boats,\u003cbr\u003epapers, even sports agents. But now Rivera has set up his own cut-rate\u003cbr\u003eversion through contacts in Masagua. Or—could be—Nicaragua.\u003cbr\u003ePretty much the same political players both countries. Oh—get\u003cbr\u003ethis—for start-up money, he’s been smuggling Cuban hard goods:\u003cbr\u003ecigars, paintings, historical items. Anything he can sell on the Internet\u003cbr\u003ewhile the Castro regime collapses.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eWind slapped waves against the pilings, sifting odors of saltwater\u003cbr\u003eand iodine through the floor. Tomlinson was still wearing baseball\u003cbr\u003epants but had traded his spikes for Birkenstocks. He adjusted the ice\u003cbr\u003epack and wiggled his toes as if they were cold. “For a while,” he said,\u003cbr\u003e“I thought you were talking about the Juan Rivera I know—big guy\u003cbr\u003efrom Masagua, a pitcher with a decent slider? The famous general.\u003cbr\u003eIt’s such a common name.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“That’s him. You were pissed because he wouldn’t give you a uniform\u003cbr\u003ewhen we were down there, then almost hit one out. That was\u003cbr\u003emore than, what, ten years ago? Now Rivera’s caught in a squeeze\u003cbr\u003ebetween the Cuban government for stealing players and the Mexican\u003cbr\u003ecartels for horning in on their business. That’s why he wants help, I\u003cbr\u003ethink.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eTomlinson smiled, gave a sideways look. “Naw, you’re messing\u003cbr\u003ewith my head.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Ask him tomorrow when he shows up. If he shows. We’re supposed\u003cbr\u003eto help him find a shortstop who wandered off this morning.”\u003cbr\u003e“You’re serious.”\u003cbr\u003e“After all your cracks about my lack of imagination, what do you think?”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eThat clinched it. Tomlinson placed the beer pitcher on the floor—\u003cbr\u003ea man trying to control his temper. “You’re telling me that Juan\u003cbr\u003eSimón Rivera, the Maximum Leader of the Masaguan Revolution . . .\u003cbr\u003ethe generalissimo of the goddamn People’s Army . . . is smuggling\u003cbr\u003eballplayers and selling shit on eBay—”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“On the Internet . . . Yeah, he admitted that much—”\u003cbr\u003e“And profiting from the flesh trade? Gad, that’s freakin’ human\u003cbr\u003etrafficking, man.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Well, depends on the ballplayer, I suppose.” Ford thought that\u003cbr\u003emight get a smile. It didn’t. “I could be wrong. Like I said, he gave me\u003cbr\u003ethat story about motorcycles and machine guns. I can tell you the rest\u003cbr\u003enow or wait until we drive in to look for his missing shortstop.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eTomlinson didn’t hear the last part. He got to his feet, chewed at a\u003cbr\u003estring of hair while he paced, limping a little. “That bastard. Is there\u003cbr\u003enot a shred of Euro socialist integrity left in our leaders? A feeding\u003cbr\u003efrenzy of mobster behavior—that’s what’s happening. Even to advance\u003cbr\u003eUtopian goals, it is totally bogus.” He cringed and sighed. “Thank\u003cbr\u003egod Fidel and François Mitterrand aren’t alive to see this day.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eFord, attempting subtlety, replied, “A lot of people would agree.”\u003cbr\u003eHe flicked on the aquarium’s lights and noted movement among\u003cbr\u003eclusters of oysters at the bottom of the tank that had appeared lifeless\u003cbr\u003ebut was now coming alive. “Watch this. It took only two days to condition\u003cbr\u003ethe stone crabs—see that big female creeping out? Lights mean\u003cbr\u003eit’s feeding time. At five days, even the barnacles started to respond.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eAmong the oysters, a mini-forest of lace blooms were sprouting,\u003cbr\u003erobotic fans that sifted amid a sudden flurry of crabs—dozens of\u003cbr\u003ecrabs—most of them tiny.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eTomlinson said, “There you go—a feeding frenzy. I rest my case.\u003cbr\u003eLiving entities perverted by the system to hide from the light—at\u003cbr\u003eleast until some poor, innocent shortstop walks into the money trap.\u003cbr\u003eNow I understand why Rivera didn’t have the balls to look me in the\u003cbr\u003eface tonight and say hello. Which is why I assumed it was a different guy.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eInstead of pitching for Ford’s team, the generalissimo had remained\u003cbr\u003ein the main stadium but was gone by the end of the game—a game\u003cbr\u003ethey might have won if, in the ninth inning, down by two runs,\u003cbr\u003eTomlinson hadn’t tried to steal home. By all standards, a truly boneheaded play.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eFord asked, “Are you mad at the general or still mad at yourself?”\u003cbr\u003e“Sure, rub it in. I didn’t buy a plane ticket to fly back here and lose.\u003cbr\u003eBe aggressive—that’s just smart baseball.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eIn October, Tomlinson had sailed his boat, No Más, to Key West\u003cbr\u003efor the Halloween freak show known as Fantasy Fest. That was three\u003cbr\u003eweeks ago, but he couldn’t resist returning for a tournament that attracted\u003cbr\u003eteams from around the country, games played day and night\u003cbr\u003eat the best fields in South Florida.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Stealing home with two outs? Down two runs?” Ford tried to\u003cbr\u003esound neutral.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Surprised everyone but the damn umpires, didn’t I? Dude, spon-\u003cbr\u003etaneity, that’s just who I am.” Tomlinson looked into the empty\u003cbr\u003epitcher. “You’re out of beer, Doc. Hate to say it, but I warned you\u003cbr\u003ethis morning. Me sleeping outside in a hammock takes at least a\u003cbr\u003esix-pack—and that’s before I knew we’d be searching for some poor\u003cbr\u003edugout refugee from the slave trade. What’s the shortstop’s name?\u003cbr\u003eJust from how the name flows, I can tell you if he’s any good.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eFord, walking toward the door, replied, “The 7-Eleven’s still open,\u003cbr\u003eif you’re desperate. I’ve got to find my dog.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eFord’s lab was an old house on pilings in the shallows of Dinkin’s\u003cbr\u003eBay, just down from the marina, where, on this Tuesday night, people\u003cbr\u003ewho lived on boats were buttoned in tight but still awake, watching\u003cbr\u003emonitors that brightened the cabins along A dock.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eThe dog was there, curled up next to the bait tank, probably tired\u003cbr\u003efrom swimming all day. A picnic table allowed a view of the bay.\u003cbr\u003eFord sat, opened his laptop while explaining to the dog, “I didn’t\u003cbr\u003erenew my Internet service because it’s so damn intrusive. And I don’t\u003cbr\u003ewant to be there when Tomlinson sneaks a joint. Or comes back with\u003cbr\u003emore beer.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eThe dog’s eyes sagged open. His tail thumped once. He went back\u003cbr\u003eto sleep.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“People say you need Internet for research? What the hell’s wrong\u003cbr\u003ewith going to the library? I like libraries—or used to.” Ford, using\u003cbr\u003etwo fingers, banged at the keys. “Next time—I mean this, by god—\u003cbr\u003eTomlinson is getting a hotel room and he can either ride his bike or\u003cbr\u003ecall a cab. What kind of grown man asks to do a sleepover? His exact\u003cbr\u003eword: sleepover. Then bitches at me about not buying enough beer.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eMore hammering on the keys before he scanned the boats, some\u003cbr\u003eheld together by epoxy and tape, others expensive yachts. “Crappy\u003cbr\u003ereception out here. You’d think one of these people could afford a\u003cbr\u003edecent router. Hey”—he was speaking to the dog—“Hey, if I’ve got\u003cbr\u003eto sleep in the same house with him, you do, too. Your too-tired-towalk\u003cbr\u003ecrap isn’t going to fool me twice. The way he snores, I get it, but\u003cbr\u003eI’m the one who needs sleep.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eFord zipped the laptop into its case, loaded the dog into his truck,\u003cbr\u003eand drove to Blind Pass, telling himself he would cast for snook along\u003cbr\u003ethe beach on this good outgoing tide despite a waxing moon.\u003cbr\u003eFrom the parking lot of Santiva General Store he could look across\u003cbr\u003ethe road to the beach and colorful cottages of The Castaways, red,\u003cbr\u003egreen, and yellow, although they appeared gray at eleven p.m. on this\u003cbr\u003ebreezy night.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eFrom the back of the truck, Ford selected a spinning rod—an intentional\u003cbr\u003edeception. All the cottages were dark but for one where","brand":"G.P. 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