nice
chichis
to count. “No, this afternoon I’d of noticed any pretty fans from the dugout. Those women, they looking at you, brother.” He opened the Igloo, grabbed two beers fast so as not to miss anything.
Tomlinson considered what he’d just heard while his eyes lived in the moment: tourists and locals packed along the seawall, tangerine clouds over the Tortugas, the air sweet with coconut oil, Gulf Stream jasmine, and some professional-grade weed that only a true pirate town could handle with dignity. A slow turn of the head and there was Key West Bight, the Turtle Kraal docks busy where he often tied his dinghy, although the sandy spot at the end of Simonton was better for swimming naked.
Whoops
. . . His head jolted and pivoted the other way. Christmas Island astern, a colony of sailboats floating where, three weeks ago, he’d moored
No Más
before taking a taxi boat, the
Magic
Penny
, ashore. Then late this afternoon, after the ball game, the same in reverse but with a stop at Fausto’s Food Palace to buy provisions, then another stop at Marine Hardware on Caroline. No charts of Cuba available, but hemp for a boom vang and extra shackles might come in handy, as would oil for the dinghy’s little Yamaha outboard, boat and motor both secured forward atop
No Más
’s cabin.
The baseball team from Indiana had slipped a hundred bucks to Figgy, who’d picked the field clean and gone four for five with two RBIs. Only a Coors Light to the scraggly-haired pitcher who’d closed the game—no runs, but three duck-fart bloopers beyond the range of Indianola Cadillac’s limping, over-the-hill fielders. Tomlinson was still peeved about that. But he had gotten the save and paid for provisions anyway.
No problem. He’d inherited a family fortune, but that wasn’t the reason. The last thing he’d expected was the little shortstop to ask to accompany him to Cuba, and the chaos he’d recently escaped, all because of a promise he’d made to watch the briefcase.
The deal was done when Figgy finally perused the letters and saw what they contained.
Comrade,
Tomlinson thought,
I am proud to have you aboard.
Honor . . . conviction . . . loyalty—the little dude personified everything good about the Revolution, which, of late, had been made a mockery by snot-nosed dilettantes and political traitors. This sad truth had brought Tomlinson near tears more than once. He accepted the beer, sopping ice chips with his shirt, and toasted his new shipmate. “Solidarity, man.”
Figgy was wary of political slogans. He demurred by asking what BUM FARTO, CALL HOME meant.
“That’s what everyone called the guy. Bum. He was the fire chief in Key West years ago. One night, he got in his car and was never seen again. Farto, his real name. Seriously. Which reminds me . . .” Tomlinson checked his phone, seeing his last text to Ford, which read
Sailing south on a righteous
mission. Stop your damn
worrying.
He switched it off and added, “You can’t be too careful down here on the Keys.”
Figgy had refocused on a group of gringas, five or six with their
chichis
bouncing while they yelled something across the water. “Those women love you, brother. Modesty, yeah, that’s sometimes good, but it won’t get you no papaya. Maybe they’d enjoy a boat ride—make some hot oil with us. You think?”
Tomlinson smiled at the Cuban slang and checked Mallory Square. Yes . . . a redhead and a blonde he recognized—possibly several familiar faces jumbled back there in memory. Over the years, he’d dropped anchor in bedrooms from Duval to Cudjoe Key, but women always looked so different wearing clothes instead of body paint. He replied, “Those whom Key West does not kill, it enlightens.
That’s
why we’re not turning back.”
It was more strange talk from this odd pitcher who didn’t throw hard enough to break glass but had a pretty good curve. Figueroa liked him anyway, trusted the man’s kindness and
chichis
to count. “No, this afternoon I’d of noticed any pretty fans from the dugout. Those women, they looking at you, brother.” He opened the Igloo, grabbed two beers fast so as not to miss anything.
Tomlinson considered what he’d just heard while his eyes lived in the moment: tourists and locals packed along the seawall, tangerine clouds over the Tortugas, the air sweet with coconut oil, Gulf Stream jasmine, and some professional-grade weed that only a true pirate town could handle with dignity. A slow turn of the head and there was Key West Bight, the Turtle Kraal docks busy where he often tied his dinghy, although the sandy spot at the end of Simonton was better for swimming naked.
Whoops
. . . His head jolted and pivoted the other way. Christmas Island astern, a colony of sailboats floating where, three weeks ago, he’d moored
No Más
before taking a taxi boat, the
Magic
Penny
, ashore. Then late this afternoon, after the ball game, the same in reverse but with a stop at Fausto’s Food Palace to buy provisions, then another stop at Marine Hardware on Caroline. No charts of Cuba available, but hemp for a boom vang and extra shackles might come in handy, as would oil for the dinghy’s little Yamaha outboard, boat and motor both secured forward atop
No Más
’s cabin.
The baseball team from Indiana had slipped a hundred bucks to Figgy, who’d picked the field clean and gone four for five with two RBIs. Only a Coors Light to the scraggly-haired pitcher who’d closed the game—no runs, but three duck-fart bloopers beyond the range of Indianola Cadillac’s limping, over-the-hill fielders. Tomlinson was still peeved about that. But he had gotten the save and paid for provisions anyway.
No problem. He’d inherited a family fortune, but that wasn’t the reason. The last thing he’d expected was the little shortstop to ask to accompany him to Cuba, and the chaos he’d recently escaped, all because of a promise he’d made to watch the briefcase.
The deal was done when Figgy finally perused the letters and saw what they contained.
Comrade,
Tomlinson thought,
I am proud to have you aboard.
Honor . . . conviction . . . loyalty—the little dude personified everything good about the Revolution, which, of late, had been made a mockery by snot-nosed dilettantes and political traitors. This sad truth had brought Tomlinson near tears more than once. He accepted the beer, sopping ice chips with his shirt, and toasted his new shipmate. “Solidarity, man.”
Figgy was wary of political slogans. He demurred by asking what BUM FARTO, CALL HOME meant.
“That’s what everyone called the guy. Bum. He was the fire chief in Key West years ago. One night, he got in his car and was never seen again. Farto, his real name. Seriously. Which reminds me . . .” Tomlinson checked his phone, seeing his last text to Ford, which read
Sailing south on a righteous
mission. Stop your damn
worrying.
He switched it off and added, “You can’t be too careful down here on the Keys.”
Figgy had refocused on a group of gringas, five or six with their
chichis
bouncing while they yelled something across the water. “Those women love you, brother. Modesty, yeah, that’s sometimes good, but it won’t get you no papaya. Maybe they’d enjoy a boat ride—make some hot oil with us. You think?”
Tomlinson smiled at the Cuban slang and checked Mallory Square. Yes . . . a redhead and a blonde he recognized—possibly several familiar faces jumbled back there in memory. Over the years, he’d dropped anchor in bedrooms from Duval to Cudjoe Key, but women always looked so different wearing clothes instead of body paint. He replied, “Those whom Key West does not kill, it enlightens.
That’s
why we’re not turning back.”
It was more strange talk from this odd pitcher who didn’t throw hard enough to break glass but had a pretty good curve. Figueroa liked him anyway, trusted the man’s kindness and
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