Cuba Straits (Doc Ford)

White, Randy Wayne

ISBN 10: 1628995750 ISBN 13: 9781628995756

Publisher: Center Point Pub, 2015

Synopsis

Doc Ford's old friend, General Juan Garcia, has gone into the lucrative business of smuggling Cuban baseball players into the U.S. He is also feasting on profits made by buying historical treasures for pennies on the dollar. He prefers what dealers call HPC items -- high-profile collectibles -- but when he manages to obtain a collection of letters written by Fidel Castro between 1960-62 to a secret girlfriend, it's not a matter of money anymore. Garcia has stumbled way out of his depth.

About this title

About the Author:

Randy Wayne White is the author of twenty-one previous Doc Ford novels; the Hannah Smith novels Gone, Deceived, and Haunted; and four collections of nonfiction. He lives on Sanibel Island, Florida, where he was a light-tackle fishing guide for many years.

Excerpt. © Reprinted by permission. All rights reserved.:

1
At sunrise in November, Marion D. Ford, wearing shorts
and jungle boots, jogged the tide line where Sanibel Island
crescents north, and finally said, “Screw it,” tired of wind
and pelting sand. To his right were colorful cottages—red, yellow,
green—The Castaways, a popular resort during season, but this was
Tuesday and a slow time of year. He went to the outdoor shower,
thinking he’d hide his boots and swim through the breakers. He
was ten pounds overweight and sick of his own excuses.

A porch door opened: a woman backlit by clouds of cinnamon,
the sun up but not hot enough to burn through. “Want some coffee?”
She cupped her hands to be heard. “Your dog’s welcome, if he’s sociable.”

No idea who the woman was. Wearing a sweatshirt, with an
articulate, strong voice that suggested Midwestern genetics: a descendant
of dairymaids good at sports and baking pies. Late thirties, a
rental compact in the drive, only one pair of sandals outside the door:
a woman on a budget vacationing alone.

Ford said, “Can’t. I’m punishing myself.”

The woman replied, “You, too?” and walked toward him, started
to speak but stopped, got up on her toes, focusing on something
out there in the waves. “What in the world . . . is that someone drowning?”

Beyond the sandbar, Ford saw what might have been a barrel
but one thrashing appendage told him was not. He removed his
glasses. “A loggerhead, I think. This isn’t mating season, so it must
be hurt.”

“Logger-what?”

“A sea turtle.” Ford handed her his glasses, jogged to the breakers,
and duck-dived, still wearing his damn boots. The dog, which was a
retriever but not a Lab or golden, swam after him. That was a mistake, too.

The turtle, barnacles on its back, was tangled in fishing line, and,
yes, drowning. Ford had to alternately battle his dog, then the turtle,
which hissed and struck like a snake while he maneuvered the thing
through waves into the shallows. The woman was impressed. “You
seem to know what you’re doing.”

“On rare occasions. Do you have a knife?”
“You’re not going to . . . ?”
“Of course not.”

The woman galloped to the cottage, her sweatshirt bouncing in
counter-synch, legs not long but solid. Nice. She watched Ford cut the
turtle free, inspect it for cuts, then nurse the animal back through the
surf, where he side-stroked alongside for a while.
 
The woman was waiting with a towel, coffee in a mug, and water for the dog.

“Why not come inside and dry off? Or a hot shower, if you like,
but you’ll have to forgive the mess.” The look the woman gave him
was unmistakable—not that Ford often got that look from women
he didn’t know. “Three mornings straight I’ve watched you run past
here,”—an awkward smile—“so I finally worked up the nerve. Is
it always this windy in November?”

Ford cleaned his glasses with the towel. “Nerve?”

“Old-fashioned, I guess. You know, speaking to strange men and
all that.” Another look, eyes aware, before she added, “I’m here all alone.”

Ford tested several excuses before he followed the woman inside.
He was thinking, Why do the lonely ones choose islands?

That night in Fort Myers. off Daniels Road, he was at Hammond
Stadium, where the Minnesota Twins train, one of the practice
fields, listening to his friend Tomlinson ramble on about something,
but not really listening.

“Which is why,” his friend concluded, “I won’t even watch a game
on TV without wearing the ol’ codpiece.”

Mentioning fish got Ford’s attention. “You caught a cod? They
don’t migrate this far south.”

“No, man—my cup. Until a woman finds an expiration date on
my dick, I simply will not risk the Hat Trick Twins.” Tomlinson
rapped three bell tones from between his legs to illustrate, which
proved nothing, because they were sitting in a dugout, under lights, 
wearing baseball uniforms, not in a bar watching TV. On the field
was a Senior League team from Orlando, a left-hander warming
up while the umpires kibitzed, game time stalled for no apparent
reason.
 
Tomlinson muttered, “Geezus, what’s the holdup?” He grabbed
the fence, yelled, “Hey, blue—while we’re still young, okay?” before
returning to Ford. “You seem distracted, ol’ buddy. Romantic problems
or is it something unusual?”

Ford replied, “This morning I found a turtle tangled in fishing
line—one of those crimped wire leaders tourists buy at Walgreens. I
assumed it was a loggerhead because they’re so common. Now I don’t
think so.”

“Was it dead? Goddamn pharmaceutical companies. They’d sell
Pop-Tarts to diabetics if it bumped their numbers.”

“The turtle was only about fifty pounds but already had barnacles
growing. See what I’m getting at? Even a young loggerhead or
hawksbill would be closer to a hundred. Or maybe I’m wrong about
that, too. I had him in my hands but didn’t bother to notice details.
Embarrassing, how little I know about sea turtles. Wouldn’t you expect
a biologist to notice what the hell species it was?”

Tomlinson knew the pitcher from Orlando or would not have
yelled, “Joe . . . Hey, Joey—put some color in that rainbow. Slow-pitch
is for commies, dude.” This ultra-left-wing Zen Buddhist priest (he’d
been ordained in Japan) and dope-smoking boat bum was a different
person when he exited reality and entered a baseball field.

Joey flipped Tomlinson the bird.

Ford mused, “Now I’m thinking it might have been a Kemp’s
Ridley turtle, or even a Pacific Ridley. Two of the rarest in the
world—the thing snapped at me like a dog, which is typical according
to the literature. And its shell was too round. Had it right there in
my hands; swam with it and still didn’t dawn on me. If that’s not a
metaphor for something, I don’t know what the hell is.”

Ford hunched forward and retied his spikes, Tomlinson saying, “I
should’ve never gotten rid of my old Kangaroos. These new Mizunos
pinch my toe rings. I hate that.” Then hollered through the screen,
“Oh great, now I’ve got to piss again. Guys . . . I have a Masonic meeting
tomorrow. Any chance we’ll be done?’”

Ford sat up. “Know what’s odd? Two days ago, I was reading
about sightings of Pacific Ridleys in the Cuba Straits. I just remembered.
Olive Ridleys, actually, but they’re the same thing. A few nests
documented along this coast, too. Even north of Sarasota.”

Tomlinson reverted to his role as Zen master. “Nothing accidental
about coincidence, Doc. Hey—just listen, for once. You’re being
nudged toward something. Or away. Or into a new avenue of study.
Karma seldom grabs a rational man by the balls.”

“I didn’t say it was a coincidence.”
“Oh?”
“Not the Cuba part.” Ford checked the bleachers—only a couple
of wives in attendance—then found the main field, where stadium
lights created a silver dome. Minnesota’s minor league team, the Miracle,
was playing St. Pete, a few hundred fans in attendance. He said,
“You’ll see when he gets here.”
“Who?”
“If he shows up,” Ford said, “you’ll understand. A friend from 
Central America. He was drunk when he called, which might explain
why he’s late. Or might not.”

That made perfect sense to Tomlinson. He nodded, fingering a
scar on his temple hidden by scraggly hair—a figure eight which he
insisted was an infinity symbol.

“Saving that Ridley is the coincidence. If it was a Ridley. The data
goes back to 1953—one was caught in nets off Pinar del Río on
Cuba’s western coast. A few years back, a Ridley was photographed
laying eggs near Sarasota. They’re not supposed to be in the Gulf or
Caribbean, but sea turtles are like underwater birds. They travel anywhere
they want; flawless navigation systems, which suggests a magnetic
sensitivity that’s still not understood. It crossed my mind I’ve
never actually seen a Ridley. Not confirmed anyway, which is why
I’m pissed at myself about this morning.”

Tomlinson’s attention focused. “Really? You sure that’s the only
reason?” He said it as if envisioning a woman who was lonely and
alone in her vacation cottage. Then added, “I hope you’re not thinking
about going back to Cuba. That’s risking jail, man; a firing squad,
from what I remember. Or has something changed?”

Ford shrugged, adjusted his protective gear, and buckled his pants.
“I’ll ask Victor to catch the first few innings. He might have gone to
the wrong field.”
“Vic? No . . . he went to his car to get eye black. What about Cuba?
You know I’m right.”
“Not him. The guy I was talking about.”

Tomlinson said to Ford, whose spikes clicked as he walked away,
“Not if I’m called in to pitch, you’re not leaving. Hey . . . Whoa! Do 
you have a death wish or get dumped again? Dude . . . I can talk you
through this.”

There is a fine line between getting dumped and a relationship
ended by the unanimous vote of one.

Ford thought about that as he walked past the spring training
clubhouse, across the parking lot to the stadium, into a tunnel of noise
and odors: popcorn, beer, and grilled brats. Cuba was also on his
mind. What Tomlinson said would’ve been true a few years ago but
might be okay now with the right cover story—or a companion with
the right political ties.

The man he was searching for had those ties.

Ford spotted him in the outfield cheap seats, alone above the bull
pen. The nearest cluster of fans was three sections closer to third base.
The man had been watching relief pitchers warm up, not the game,
but was now arguing with two security cops.

No doubt who it was, even from a distance. The man’s size and his
choice of seats would have been enough.

Baseball spikes are tricky on aluminum. It took Ford awhile to get
to left field and intervene on behalf of the man who was an old
enemy and sometimes a friend—General Juan Simón Rivera, recently
arrived from Central America via Havana.

“Tell them,” Rivera said in English when he spotted Ford. “Tell
them who I am. Perhaps they will understand that diplomatic immunity
includes baseball and cigars.”
He’d been smoking a Cohiba, that was the problem.
 
Ford replied in Spanish. “You want me to blow your cover, General?”
This was safe to ask in front of two Anglo sheriffs deputies
who resembled farmhands.

Rivera, the former dictator of Masagua, a tiny country that exported
bananas and revolution, got control of himself. Decided,
“Hmm. A man of my intellect is seldom a donkey’s ass, but good
point. Yes . . . better to indulge these fascists—for now.” Spoke loudly
in slang Spanish, then waited with regal impatience while Ford pacified the cops.

When they were gone, Ford endured a bear hug; they exchanged
pleasantries—who was married, how many wives, how many kids.
Rivera, finally getting to it, said, “I’m surprised you recognized me.
I’ve come incognito for a reason.”

Instead of signature khakis and boots, he wore a yellow Hawaiian
shirt, a Disney visor, and flip-flops. Not enough to disguise a husky
Latino with a gray-splotched beard and wild Russian hair, but Ford
played along.

“A European tourist, General, that’s what I thought at first. Very
clever.”
“Yes, I know.”
“Oh, it took me awhile.”

Rivera expected that. It was a game they played, informal formality,
but each man knew the truth about the other. He said, “Sometimes
a wolf must blend with the sheep. Yet, not clever enough to fool
you, my old catcher friend.” He noticed Ford’s uniform “Why are you
not on the field? I might even agree to pitch a few innings . . . if you
have a large uniform. It doesn’t have to be clean, but it cannot be an
even number. I’m partial to the numbers three, nine, and thirtyseven.”
With his hands, he gestured: I think you understand.

Santería, a mix of Catholicism and voodoo, was big on numerology,
especially when it came to baseball. Rivera was devoted to the
game. In Central America, he had built his own field in the rainforest
and drafted soldiers based on their batting averages. He fancied
himself a great pitcher whose politics had ruined his shot at the major leagues.

Ford replied, “General, my teammates would be honored. But,
first . . . why are you here?”

“Always the same with you, Marion. Rush, rush, rush. Only bachelorhood
has spared you ulcers, I think.” Rivera nodded to the bull
pen, where a pitcher who looked sixteen but was almost seven feet
tall, sat with his hat askew. “That is Ruben. He’s one of my protégés.
The Twins have offered him a tryout, but a mere formality. Ruben’s
fastball rivals my own, yet he is a southpaw, as you can tell from his
sombrero.”

A joke. Gorro was Spanish for “cap.” The general was in a pawky mood.

“He can’t be from Masagua. I never saw anyone from Masagua
much over six feet—except for you. Are you his agent?”
Rivera touched an index finger to his lips. “Unfortunately, the
situation requires that Ruben pretends he doesn’t know me. I can’t
explain right now.”
Ford could guess where this was going but waited.
“I have an interesting proposition, Marion.”
Ford said, “In Cuba.”
“I told you as much on the phone. A nice chunk of silver in U.S.
dollars if you agree.”

Ford sensed trouble but also escape: turtles, isolated beaches, a
land without cell phones—if he wasn’t arrested. “I’ll listen, but I don’t
do that sort of work anymore. Not if it’s dangerous. Or political
work—count me out if politics are involved.” He hadn’t ruled out
human trafficking in deference to his own curiosity.

“Politics?” Rivera said. “I spit on the word. I piss on their speeches.
To hell with their silly games. I am a freedom fighter—always—but
have learned there are benefits to this free enterprise system of yours.
A man is allowed to change, isn’t he?”

“Only the small-minded hate change, General.”

In clumsy English, Rivera replied, “You can say that twice. We
will feast ourselves several days in Cuba. A week at most, every expenses
paid. But, first”—he hesitated while shifting to Spanish—

“I have a little problem here that must be dealt with.”
“In Florida?”
“Let us hope so.” Rivera leaned closer to speak over the noise of
the PA system. “I have lost a baseball player. Temporarily, I’m sure,
but it would be unwise to contact your police.”
“How long has he been missing?”
“Not ‘missing’; ‘wandered off.’ Since this morning, when I visited
his motel—a place not far from here, with a large red sign. Without
shoes or money, the lunatic could not have gone far.”
“He’s crazy?”
“Well . . . no more than most, but he’s not as smart as normal men.
And honest, very honest, which makes him unpredictable.”

Ford had spent much of his life on the water and in baseball dug-
outs, which is why he asked, “Were his glove and bat missing? He
could have worn spikes ins...

About this edition

• Publisher: Center Point Pub
• Publication date: 2015
• ISBN 10: 1628995750
• ISBN 13: 9781628995756
• Binding: Library Binding
• Number of pages: 383