mind but her own empty plans.
She’d been in that white dress made of lace with matching gloves and soft shoes her father had given her. It had been one of those endless days where even at night there was a soft glow coming across the Sierra del Escambray into the little village where the shoeshine shops and drugstores and little dress and suit makers opened late, while the young people moved around like a dance on the old town square. She didn’t think about much back then, revolution was just a word that her mother extinguished each time her father, an old man, a pharmacist who’d once been a printer, said it in excited tones after reading little tracts that would come in dark brown paper wrappers. He was too old to have a young daughter, but he’d married late and had only a single child, so everything he made in his little shop spilled over on her.
She was known by most of the boys in Placetas not for her beauty but for her speed and her ability to outrun the best athletes in the entire province. That night, that heated night in July, was the first night she’d kissed a boy. They’d been in the back room of a little cathedral, and soon after they’d broken away, with the shadowed faces of wooden saints looking down at her. She was hoping to see him again, as the mules drawing the carts dripping in flowers passed her and the other girls in their lace and stiff dresses and finely tooled little shoes.
A black woman named Celia, who sometimes worked in her father’s store, found her as she looped around the old square with a content, pretty smile on her lips, holding a little ice-cream cone and trying to seem happy and bored at the same moment.
“Come, child,” she said.
Lucrezia watched her eyes, bloodshot and tired. Her hands rough and unfamiliar as they gripped her shoulders and led her away.
“He’s dead,” she said, unaware of those around and walking ahead of her in a dry clump-clump-clump of her man’s work shoes, which were unlaced and broken.
Lucrezia stood there, thinking about the fight between her mother and father before he left for Santiago de Cuba to meet a lawyer who he admired a great deal. Then she wondered what had made it all so important.
A lawyer named Castro.
Lucrezia sat on the bed, her feet dangling in the old army boots, and thumbed through Johnny Rivera’s ledger. So many numbers and names of banks in Habana.
She tucked the ledger in her bag. She wasn’t sure what she had, but she knew it was important.
FADED COLORFUL CASITAS lined the brick streets of Fifth Avenue, two blocks south of Broadway. It was five o’clock when Johnny Rivera pulled his baby-blue Super 88 Olds into a vacant lot and shut off the engine. The engine burned and ticked from driving all over Ybor City looking for the girl. But he had it pretty good that this was the place, a seafoam green casita with a small porch and tin roof. A single door in front, and one in back by the kitchen.
He followed the sidewalk and passed some kids playing marbles. One of the boys was watching his kid brother or something and the little baby sat in a pair of droopy diapers munching on a soggy cracker.
Johnny paid them no mind as he looked back and forth down the street and circled the casita. Trash covered the dusty path and he kicked it out of the way.
Toward the back, he stared into a leaded-glass window. There, he saw the warped shape of a girl.
She was packing a bag.
He moved around back and found a screen door to the kitchen. Johnny took his pocketknife and lifted up the latch and crept into the small room. Dirty dishes sat in the sink and flies buzzed around the dried food on the plates. There was a small dinette set and a framed picture of the Virgin. The room smelled of olive oil and fried meat, and he could hear steps through the shotgun hallway.
He crept through the house. He could hear the children playing outside. The wooden floors bent and creaked under him.
Johnny pulled the .45 from his waistband and
She’d been in that white dress made of lace with matching gloves and soft shoes her father had given her. It had been one of those endless days where even at night there was a soft glow coming across the Sierra del Escambray into the little village where the shoeshine shops and drugstores and little dress and suit makers opened late, while the young people moved around like a dance on the old town square. She didn’t think about much back then, revolution was just a word that her mother extinguished each time her father, an old man, a pharmacist who’d once been a printer, said it in excited tones after reading little tracts that would come in dark brown paper wrappers. He was too old to have a young daughter, but he’d married late and had only a single child, so everything he made in his little shop spilled over on her.
She was known by most of the boys in Placetas not for her beauty but for her speed and her ability to outrun the best athletes in the entire province. That night, that heated night in July, was the first night she’d kissed a boy. They’d been in the back room of a little cathedral, and soon after they’d broken away, with the shadowed faces of wooden saints looking down at her. She was hoping to see him again, as the mules drawing the carts dripping in flowers passed her and the other girls in their lace and stiff dresses and finely tooled little shoes.
A black woman named Celia, who sometimes worked in her father’s store, found her as she looped around the old square with a content, pretty smile on her lips, holding a little ice-cream cone and trying to seem happy and bored at the same moment.
“Come, child,” she said.
Lucrezia watched her eyes, bloodshot and tired. Her hands rough and unfamiliar as they gripped her shoulders and led her away.
“He’s dead,” she said, unaware of those around and walking ahead of her in a dry clump-clump-clump of her man’s work shoes, which were unlaced and broken.
Lucrezia stood there, thinking about the fight between her mother and father before he left for Santiago de Cuba to meet a lawyer who he admired a great deal. Then she wondered what had made it all so important.
A lawyer named Castro.
Lucrezia sat on the bed, her feet dangling in the old army boots, and thumbed through Johnny Rivera’s ledger. So many numbers and names of banks in Habana.
She tucked the ledger in her bag. She wasn’t sure what she had, but she knew it was important.
FADED COLORFUL CASITAS lined the brick streets of Fifth Avenue, two blocks south of Broadway. It was five o’clock when Johnny Rivera pulled his baby-blue Super 88 Olds into a vacant lot and shut off the engine. The engine burned and ticked from driving all over Ybor City looking for the girl. But he had it pretty good that this was the place, a seafoam green casita with a small porch and tin roof. A single door in front, and one in back by the kitchen.
He followed the sidewalk and passed some kids playing marbles. One of the boys was watching his kid brother or something and the little baby sat in a pair of droopy diapers munching on a soggy cracker.
Johnny paid them no mind as he looked back and forth down the street and circled the casita. Trash covered the dusty path and he kicked it out of the way.
Toward the back, he stared into a leaded-glass window. There, he saw the warped shape of a girl.
She was packing a bag.
He moved around back and found a screen door to the kitchen. Johnny took his pocketknife and lifted up the latch and crept into the small room. Dirty dishes sat in the sink and flies buzzed around the dried food on the plates. There was a small dinette set and a framed picture of the Virgin. The room smelled of olive oil and fried meat, and he could hear steps through the shotgun hallway.
He crept through the house. He could hear the children playing outside. The wooden floors bent and creaked under him.
Johnny pulled the .45 from his waistband and
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