what your gut tells you. I’ll wait.’ Or your ‘inside voice’—something similar—is what I was told. Sounded like bullshit to me. Is it true?”
Rivera did everything with a flair, it was possible. Ford nodded.
“
No shit?
Why you think I came armed?”
Ford replied, “That’s fairly obvious.”
“No . . . not to kill the man, but as a precaution for my own personal defense. In the security business, that’s what we’re taught. Something else I was told”—Hector, becoming cautious, looked up—“well, that Rivera . . .
General
Rivera . . . was traveling with a . . . not a bodyguard, exactly, but some serious badass. You know, as in approach with extreme caution. Safety first, man. I’m not some crack addict. We have what’s called a procedural checklist. That don’t mean I came to kill anyone.”
No need for more wasp spray. Ford, placing it on the ground, added flattery. “From the way you came through the door, I knew you’d had some training. Keep talking, maybe we can work this out.”
“From how I handled myself, you mean? Same with you, when you grabbed my weapon—but I expected this psycho
Cubano
, not a gringo-looking dude. Not that I’m making excuses.”
“Oh?”
Hector, speaking as one pro to another, said, “Tell me something. If I’d pulled the trigger, would it have blown up? I’ve heard different things about freezing the slide. Not from anyone with the balls to actually, you know, experiment, so I’m interested.”
The temptation was to point the Beretta and demonstrate, but better to keep things moving. “Who told you I was Cuban?”
Hector, sitting on his butt in dirt, replied, “I’ll talk, but I want my weapons back. That one there”—a nod at the Beretta—“don’t belong to me. I’ll lose my job, man, if I can’t account for that suppressor. Don’t screw with the ATF, right? And you’ve got to promise not to tell the general until I’m gone. Hey—is he really a general?”
After a long, uneasy silence while Ford stared, the man added, “I ain’t saying
you’re
crazy. This Cuban dude, I mean. More of a murderer than a pro.”
Another chilly silence. “Man . . . by ‘gringo,’ I didn’t mean no racial slur. That’s what I was told: a
Cubano
who escaped and hooked up with Rivera. The big concrete jail in Havana—a prison asylum, I’m talking about, the one by the baseball field on your way to José Mart Í . You never been to Cuba?”
Ford thought,
Uh-oh
. “What’s the guy’s name?”
“The psycho Cuban?”
“Of course.”
Hector sensed an opening. “Do I get my guns back?”
Ford picked up the wasp spray.
A s applause died down, Figueroa Casanova, enjoying his first ride on a sailboat, waved both hands at the crowd on Mallory Square and asked Tomlinson, “Brother, how’d you get so famous in Key West? Must be a hundred women, but the men, even that juggler, they’re clapping, too.”
Tomlinson, at the wheel, was kicked back, steering with his feet. “Naw, man, they do this every sunset. Hey . . . mind digging out another beer?” He pointed, wearing frayed shorts and a T-shirt that read BUM FARTO, CALL HOME .
Figgy had puzzled over the strange American words, but his interest had moved on. “They clapping just because the sun goes down?”
“Like a tradition, yeah.”
“Brother, you’re too modest. Every day since I was born, the sun comes up, it goes down, except in prison—no windows in my cell, you know?—but I’m pretty sure it happened anyway. Why they so happy about night coming?”
Tomlinson cocked his head. “You did time? Why’d the pigs lock you up?” Which, even to him, didn’t sound right in Spanish, so he translated, “Cops, I mean. Not ‘time’ as in clock time.”
Figgy replied, “I don’t need a clock to know night from day when I see it.” He couldn’t take his eyes off so much activity, flaming torches, cats jumping through hoops, and too many gringas with
Rivera did everything with a flair, it was possible. Ford nodded.
“
No shit?
Why you think I came armed?”
Ford replied, “That’s fairly obvious.”
“No . . . not to kill the man, but as a precaution for my own personal defense. In the security business, that’s what we’re taught. Something else I was told”—Hector, becoming cautious, looked up—“well, that Rivera . . .
General
Rivera . . . was traveling with a . . . not a bodyguard, exactly, but some serious badass. You know, as in approach with extreme caution. Safety first, man. I’m not some crack addict. We have what’s called a procedural checklist. That don’t mean I came to kill anyone.”
No need for more wasp spray. Ford, placing it on the ground, added flattery. “From the way you came through the door, I knew you’d had some training. Keep talking, maybe we can work this out.”
“From how I handled myself, you mean? Same with you, when you grabbed my weapon—but I expected this psycho
Cubano
, not a gringo-looking dude. Not that I’m making excuses.”
“Oh?”
Hector, speaking as one pro to another, said, “Tell me something. If I’d pulled the trigger, would it have blown up? I’ve heard different things about freezing the slide. Not from anyone with the balls to actually, you know, experiment, so I’m interested.”
The temptation was to point the Beretta and demonstrate, but better to keep things moving. “Who told you I was Cuban?”
Hector, sitting on his butt in dirt, replied, “I’ll talk, but I want my weapons back. That one there”—a nod at the Beretta—“don’t belong to me. I’ll lose my job, man, if I can’t account for that suppressor. Don’t screw with the ATF, right? And you’ve got to promise not to tell the general until I’m gone. Hey—is he really a general?”
After a long, uneasy silence while Ford stared, the man added, “I ain’t saying
you’re
crazy. This Cuban dude, I mean. More of a murderer than a pro.”
Another chilly silence. “Man . . . by ‘gringo,’ I didn’t mean no racial slur. That’s what I was told: a
Cubano
who escaped and hooked up with Rivera. The big concrete jail in Havana—a prison asylum, I’m talking about, the one by the baseball field on your way to José Mart Í . You never been to Cuba?”
Ford thought,
Uh-oh
. “What’s the guy’s name?”
“The psycho Cuban?”
“Of course.”
Hector sensed an opening. “Do I get my guns back?”
Ford picked up the wasp spray.
A s applause died down, Figueroa Casanova, enjoying his first ride on a sailboat, waved both hands at the crowd on Mallory Square and asked Tomlinson, “Brother, how’d you get so famous in Key West? Must be a hundred women, but the men, even that juggler, they’re clapping, too.”
Tomlinson, at the wheel, was kicked back, steering with his feet. “Naw, man, they do this every sunset. Hey . . . mind digging out another beer?” He pointed, wearing frayed shorts and a T-shirt that read BUM FARTO, CALL HOME .
Figgy had puzzled over the strange American words, but his interest had moved on. “They clapping just because the sun goes down?”
“Like a tradition, yeah.”
“Brother, you’re too modest. Every day since I was born, the sun comes up, it goes down, except in prison—no windows in my cell, you know?—but I’m pretty sure it happened anyway. Why they so happy about night coming?”
Tomlinson cocked his head. “You did time? Why’d the pigs lock you up?” Which, even to him, didn’t sound right in Spanish, so he translated, “Cops, I mean. Not ‘time’ as in clock time.”
Figgy replied, “I don’t need a clock to know night from day when I see it.” He couldn’t take his eyes off so much activity, flaming torches, cats jumping through hoops, and too many gringas with
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