In the morning, the retriever followed Ford past the marina office, where Mack, behind the counter, read the sports section as fishing guides fueled and iced their boats. No rush. Fog had displaced the wind with a stillness that dripped from the trees. Poor visibility required a late start.
Mack called out the window, “Were you there when police showed up at the stadium?”
Ford was on his way to the beach. “What do you mean?”
“That Senior League tournament. You had a game last night, didn’t you?”
“Yeah . . . ?”
“Says here there were gunshots, but it could have been a car backfiring. That a locker room was robbed and a couple of cars. Must have been quite a game.”
“You’re kidding. Cars were stolen or just broken into?”
“During a brawl,” Mack replied, and resumed reading until Ford was inside. “Says here it started because a batsman scored four home runs in two games, which somehow caused a fight.” He peered up through his bifocals. “Is a four-over considered a century? Or is it called a round-tripper?”
Twenty years since Mack had immigrated from New Zealand, but he still confused baseball with cricket. Ford approached the counter. “Mind if I see that?”
There were two stories about a game and resulting incident at an old Grapefruit League complex, Terry Park in east Fort Myers, miles from the Twins stadium, which Ford explained.
Mack, although disappointed, looked on the bright side. “I suppose there are enough ugly rumors about this marina, so I’m glad you weren’t involved. Particularly”—he motioned in the direction of Tomlinson’s mooring buoy—“you-know-who.”
Ford scanned the newspaper for familiar names and zeroed in on yesterday’s box scores. In the afternoon, a shortstop named F. Casanova had hit three home runs playing for the Dallas BMW Bandits. Last night, pinch hitter F. Casanova, playing for the Tallahassee Orthopedics, had beaten the Dallas team with a solo shot in extra innings.
Thus the brawl.
Was F. Casanova “Figueroa,” the general’s missing shortstop? More likely it was “Frank” or “Felipe,” some baseball stud who sold his services to the highest bidder. It happened. Interesting, though, because the locker room and two vehicles had been damaged by forcible entry during the game. It brought to mind Rivera’s missing briefcase.
There was something else: F. Casanova had vanished by the time police and the news reporter arrived.
Ford, after asking Mack’s permission, tore out the page. “Tomlinson will want to see this. Is he around?”
“I sure as hell heard him when I got up to check for water in the rentals. Snoring. Before sunrise, even with this fog, I knew it was him from a hundred yards away. If sleep apnea didn’t kill His Holy Weirdness, I suppose he went to breakfast. Did you check the rack for his bike?”
Ford went out the door, the dog at heel but jittery when a gaggle of pelicans parted to clear a path.
• • •
TOMLINSON’S BEACH CRUISER, with fat tires, AC/DC stickers, and a basket stolen from Fausto’s in Key West, was outside Bailey’s General Store, intersection of Periwinkle and Tarpon Bay, a quarter mile from the marina. Only a few vans and lawn service trucks in the lot. Ford sat on a bench near a bulletin board, watching men exit with coffee and breakfast in Styrofoam containers.
Not Tomlinson. Two bananas, a bag of scones, and a six-pack of Corona for him.
“Damn it,” he said, “forgot the limes.” Then looked up from the bag in his hand. “What happened to you last night? I got up to piss around four, you weren’t back. But I smelled coffee before sunrise.”
Ford replied, “I actually got some sleep,” and handed him the newspaper. “Keep an eye on the dog while you read. I’ll grab limes while I get breakfast.”
“You’re welcome to a mango scone.”
“Bottom of the page about a brawl,” Ford said, “the teams from Dallas and Tallahassee. Oh”—he waited until Tomlinson had found the article—“the name of Rivera’s missing shortstop is Figueroa Casanova. Take a look at the box scores.”
“Is it ‘Figueroa’ or ‘Figgy’? That makes a difference.” Tomlinson stroked his beard while he read. “Geezus, the dude hit four dingers?”
“Could be a different Casanova.”
“Not if his name’s ‘Figgy,’ it couldn’t. That’s what I meant, just by the rhythm. A ‘Fran’ or ‘Floyd’ or ‘Federico’ couldn’t hit his weight, not playing shortstop. And sure as hell wouldn’t be my choice to pinch-hit with the game on the line. Yeah, gotta be ‘Figgy’ . . . ‘Figgy Casanova.’ What do you want to bet?”
Ford had refused a scone but decided to try one. “What I’m curious about is, the locker room was broken into. Did you get to that part?”
“Don’t pressure me, Doc. It’s too early for speed-reading. Besides, not all illegal immigrant shortstops are thieves. That is semi-racist.”
“Spare me your guilt-ridden lectures,” Ford replied, then explained about the missing briefcase. “Rivera said Casanova isn’t smart, but he’s loyal. When he wandered off, he left his street shoes and other stuff but took Rivera’s briefcase. I’m projecting, probably no connection whatsoever, but see what I mean? Because that’s what he’d been told to do: watch the thing.”
Tomlinson liked that. “A position player you can trust, plus he hits for power. What do you think he’d charge to play for us?”
Ford, walking toward the electronic doors, didn’t remind him their team had been eliminated after a misguided attempt to steal home. When he returned with a salt bagel and coffee, Tomlinson was still reading, but less enamored with the missing shortstop. “The dude went and double-crossed Dallas. He’s nuts. You don’t screw a team from a state that fries killers before the judge’s truck is out of the parking lot. Why would the generalissimo trust Casanova with anything valuable?”
“Rivera said the briefcase contains some letters, personal stuff, nothing worth much. But it wouldn’t be the first time he’s lied to me. The man’s tricky. He’s got a very nasty edge—don’t let the charm fool you.” No reason to add that, during Masagua’s first revolution, Rivera had put a bounty on Ford’s head—ten thousand córdobas, dead or alive. But then, a few years later, at a baseball tournament in Cartagena, he had greeted him like a long-lost friend.
The generalissimo’s team needed a bull pen catcher, turned out.
“He claims he doesn’t have a cell phone and wouldn’t say where he’s staying. So we’ll have to wait until this afternoon—if he shows. I’ve got work to do in the lab anyway.”
Something else Ford intended to do was check for articles about items stolen from the Castro estate.
Tomlinson had folded the page to “Senior League Tournament,” “Today’s Games.” “Dallas is playing the Long Island Starbucks at ten a.m., Terry Park. A clash of cultures, man, in the loser’s bracket. You know how grueling that shit is. Two or three games in one day and both teams desperate for players who can still walk. I think we’ve got a shot at starting.”
Ford, fussing with the dog’s collar, shook his head.
“Your call, man. You going for a run?”
“To the Island Inn and back, hopefully eight-minute miles or better. Then pull-ups. I need to start pushing myself.”
“Sure. Pain is a lot more fun than baseball,” Tomlinson replied. “If I can get my van started, I’ll let you know how things shake out.”
• • •
IN 1921, a baseball-loving farmer donated cattle pasture east of Fort Myers in the hope of attracting a major league team to spring training. Connie Mack’s Philadelphia Athletics obliged. Although teams changed through the decades—Pittsburgh, then the K.C. Royals—the baselines of the main diamond had not moved an inch since 1925.
Tomlinson loved that about Terry Park. He sat in his van, windows open, soaking up history while the morning sun baked the fog away. Senior League games didn’t attract fans, so players’ cars were clustered behind the stadium but not on the grass near the gate. That’s why Tomlinson had chosen this spot, out here in the Bermuda flats, close to the old clubhouse, but not because the locker room had been robbed. He was a man who valued solitude for practical reasons—such as lighting a joint after amping up Springsteen’s “Glory Days” until the bass vibrated in his heart. Then held his breath so long he had to relight the joint, which was okay, because he also valued ceremony.
Next up, Tomlinson decided, he’d play Warren Zevon, with the Stones on deck and Jimi Hendrix in the hole. No . . . Buffett was a better choice to hit cleanup. Captain Jimmy prolonged the amperage of a buzz; he sort of took the tiller until mist cleared unto another fine day.
This was a bold move that required a lineup change. Which is why Tomlinson was pawing through a box of CDs when a man, his face obscured by a towel, appeared in the van’s mirrors. The man was barefoot and shirtless, all skin and muscle, built low to the ground, maybe five-five on a tall day, with baseball spikes slung over his shoulder and wearing a towel like a hoodie.
Tomlinson sat up straight, cupped the joint, and let his paranormal powers assist his eyes.
Hmm . . . were those Santería beads hanging from the guy’s equipment bag? Yep. Beads of red and black. They hinted at the man’s identity despite the towel over his head. If true, this was one ballsy finesse, attempting to sneak onto the field this morning after causing so much trouble last night.
Tomlinson made a clucking sound of approval and used a boney hand to motion the stranger closer. “Aquí, amigo,” he called. “Over here.”
The little man tilted his head to sniff the air, sniffed again and appeared interested. Then started toward the van—which is when two sheriff’s deputies exited the locker room and scanned the parking lot. An instant later, an equipment bag banged through the van’s window. The little man followed, small and agile enough to land curled up on the floor like a cat. With his hands, he urged Get moving.
Tomlinson smiled down from the steering wheel. “Dude . . . I love your act already.”
“My brother,” the man replied, “that pitillo, it smells fine, but not so fine in jail, huh? Let me hold that thing while you drive.”
“You’re from Cuba, aren’t you? A shortstop, I’d wager.”
Figueroa Casanova formed a V with his fingers and accepted the joint with a smile.
• • •
WHAT FIGUEROA couldn’t understand is why, after only five days in America, so many angry men had chased him, some with bats, but one with a pistola, and now police were after him, too.
“I come here, all I want to do is play baseball. In Cuba, we play all day, all night if there’s no cane to cut or I’m not in jail. Why is such a simple matter so crazy? Amigo, my ears hurt, those men yell at me so loud.”
Tomlinson pulled into the old armory, no cars around, just seagulls sunning themselves and shitting on haggard Humvees beyond the wire. The symbolism won him over, so he put the van in park. “Wait until your first iPhone, pal. Hell, or even a laptop if your ears are ringing now. The social media thing, Twitter and Facebook, they jackhammer into your skull. They’ll infest your privates and suck your soul dry. In terms of decibels? S and M—social media, I’m saying—the shit’s a relentless banshee scream that no silver bullet can silence.”
Casanova had no idea what Tomlinson was talking about, so continued with his story. “General Rivera, he says to me, ‘Figuerito, I promise all the baseball you want,’ but then leaves me—although in a fine hotel, it is true. Two days, do I play baseball? Three days, same shit. I bounce the ball in the parking lot. I sit on my ass in that room with cold air. Then bang-bang-bang at the door—it’s a bandito with this thing over his head—like a sweater with eyes, you know? A damn pistol pointed, so I grabbed my shit and ran. Brother, I have been running ever since. Well”—Figueroa paused to accept a freshly rolled joint—“not yesterday, when I hit three home runs. I trotted the bases out of, you know, respect for the pitcher. But those big gringos last night, when I hit a fourth, they chased me anyway.” He reached for the lighter. “What’s the name of that town where their team lives?”
Tomlinson was opening his cell. “Dallas, Texas,” he replied, then left another message on the phone in Ford’s lab. For half an hour and one fat joint they’d been talking, just driving and taking it slow to see what they had in common. There was Juan Rivera and baseball, now they were getting down to the nitty-gritty. This was the first Tomlinson had heard of an armed man breaking into Casanova’s motel. It sobered him. “Any idea who it was? From his voice, or maybe you saw his car.”
The shortstop was admiring the van’s spaciousness. He shook his head. “A man sticks a pistola in my face, all I think about is, run. He wanted something, kept yelling at me, but how the hell do I know?” His eyes did another scan. “This thing’s roomy, man. Last night, I slept on a bench outside ’cause of what happened. A golf course, I think. It was a field with flags.”
“What do you think the guy wanted?”
“The bandito? Whatever he could get. That’s why I left my money and shoes in the room. Nice shoes, and almost twenty dollars American. But guess what? Didn’t matter. That man chased me, too.” He went into detail, saying he didn’t know where Rivera was staying, and that he was afraid to return to his fine hotel, the Motel 6 on Cleveland Avenue, so he had nowhere to stay. Then, peering through the windshield, asked, “Which way is Texas?”
Tomlinson pointed west.
“Let’s don’t take that road,” Figueroa said, frowning.
“No way in hell, so don’t worry. But help me make sense of what’s going on here. The friend I told you about, Doc—his name’s really Marion Ford—he knows Rivera a lot better than me. He thinks Rivera’s tricky. And, from personal experience, I know he’s dangerous.”
“Who?”
“The general.”
“No, the other one. His name is Doc?”
“Marion Ford, he’s my neighbor on Sanibel.”
“Oh. Of course. All generals are dangerous. Why you think I ride a boat to Florida from Cuba?” Figueroa let that sink in for a moment. “Yes . . . what you say is interesting. The general has a bad temper, this is true. And always on the phone whispering. Secretive, you know? I think he is running from something, or afraid.”
“Rivera gave you a briefcase to hang on to, according to Doc. Is that true?”
The shortstop patted the equipment bag at his feet, an oversized model carried by catchers, to indicate the briefcase was inside. “The general, he trusts me.”
“Maybe that’s what the robber was after.”
“The case? Could be, yeah. I don’t know ’cause I couldn’t understand what he was saying.”
“That’s the confusing part. Your English is excellent—thank god or we’d need sign language. Or was it because you were so scared?”
Figueroa gave him an odd look. “Man, I don’t speak English. What makes you say this crazy thing?”
Tomlinson tugged at a strand of hair and reconsidered the joint he had rolled. “You’re shittin’ me.”
“Just Spanish. What you think we’ve been talking this whole time?”
“I’ll be damned. You actually understand me?”
“Except for all the crazy shit you say. Smoke some nice pitillo before a game, yeah, I need it to slow me down. But too much”—he shrugged—“guess we all different. You a pitcher, huh? Left-handed, I bet.” Talking, he reached, unzipped the equipment bag, and removed a briefcase.
“This is so freaking cool,” Tomlinson murmured. He located his own eyes in the mirror, decided there were untapped worlds behind those two blue orbs. Among them, a cogent intelligence that might decipher why his new best amigo had been assaulted by a bandit.
The briefcase drew his attention. It rested in Casanova’s lap: antique brass buckles, and leather of waxen brown, all handsomely sewn. “Hey . . . that’s what that bastard bandito was after. What Rivera told my friend was a bald-faced lie, I think.”
“Yeah?”
“Rivera claimed there’s nothing valuable in there, but my cognitive senses reply, ‘Bullshit.’ Yes, a lie . . . a blanket deception designed to cover his ass—and all the more plausible because Rivera gave the briefcase to you. Why didn’t the general hide the thing in his own room? That’s the question. Dude . . . I can only think of one reason.”
“’Cause the general knows I’m honest.”
“That, too—or because it’s dangerous.” Tomlinson looked from Figueroa to briefcase.
The shortstop didn’t want to believe him. “This?”
“Damn right, Figgy. Dangerous, sure, to have in your possession.” Tomlinson bent to see a logo branded into the leather flap . . . no, three letters, one bigger than the others, but all too small to read until his nose had damn-near skewered the brass lock.
Figueroa was getting nervous. “I didn’t ask what’s inside. The general tells me to watch something, I watch it. He tells me not to look inside a briefcase, I don’t look inside. As a child, I made a vow to a certain deity that I will not lie unless—”
Tomlinson, after inspecting the flap, sat up fast, saying, “Son of a bitch—I was right,” but gathered himself when he saw the shortstop’s face. The poor guy was ready to run barefoot through the streets again. So he took a breath—like, No big deal—and added, “On the other hand, Figgy, I’m seriously blazed. For instance, I didn’t realize I spoke fluent Spanish until now.”
This was true, although the initials on the briefcase suggested it was a big deal.
“God damn, brother, you scared me, actin’ like you found something bad.”
“Dude, look for yourself. We’ve got ourselves a situation here. Do the initials F.A.C. mean anything to you?”
“Nope. You want to open this case, you welcome, but it’s up to you.” The shortstop pushed the thing toward him and reached for the lighter. “All I promised to do is watch.”
F.A.C. Tomlinson, after reconfirming those initials, decided, It’s got to be his. Damn few people, even Cubans, knew that Fidel Castro’s middle name was Alejandro. But that wasn’t proof enough. He fiddled with the lock, part of him hoping it wouldn’t open.
Cripes. Like magic, the flap peeled back to reveal what was inside. There were well-sewn pockets. They holstered reading glasses with wire cables and several antique pens. At the bottom was a stationery box adorned with a ribbon in the shape of a heart. The box smelled of lavender perfume, and had some weight when he placed it on his lap. This offered hope. A man, especially the leader of a revolution, wouldn’t keep something so blatantly feminine in his briefcase.
Figgy, gazing out the passenger window, said, “Hurry up. I’m tired of pretending not to see.”
Inside the box were letters. Several dozen . . . no, at least a hundred, written on paper that ranged from fine onionskin to postcards to cheap legal-sized. Even a couple of telegrams, all in Spanish.
Tomlinson said, “Dude, I’m going to need some help here.”
The shortstop refused to turn his head. “If you can speak it, you can read it. But, brother, don’t read out loud ’cause I don’t want to hear this bad thing you’re doing.”
Tomlinson let his mind go loose and picked out a letter at random. It had been typed; others were in cursive ink, written with a flourish that suggested a Jesuit education:
17 March ’53
My Adored Gaitica . . . I saw Mirta yesterday, she said that she had spoken with Mongo by phone. I haven’t been to the University since the softball game three days ago . . .
“Softball,” the English spelling.
“Figgy, how do you say ‘softball’ in Spanish?”
“‘Pig shit,’” he responded but didn’t turn.
“Float on, hermano,” Tomlinson replied, and skipped over several lines to:
There has been no blood shed until now. Havana is still in a sleepy state and nobody speaks on the buses. Last night they detained Dr. Agramonte and other Party leaders again. Fidel and I remain in hiding, although discreetly moving around a lot . . .
Huh?
He flipped the page over.
My regards to all and to you all the affection of your unforgettable love.
It was signed “Raúl.”
What the hell was a letter written by Raúl Castro doing in a briefcase with his older brother’s initials?
Tomlinson plucked out another letter, this one handwritten, three pages, dated April 1954 . . . and, my god, it was postmarked from prison on Cuba’s Isle of Pines. There was a censor’s stamp and red initials.
My Dear Little Doll . . . In the night I imagined you taking a bath in the washbasin and you were telling me in the mirror that you are too young to be so daring . . . I lay in bed rather absentmindedly and was soon in a state of ecstasy with thoughts of my sweet little girl . . .
Tomlinson spoke to Figueroa. “This one’s hot. I think the guy’s whacking off, which I don’t blame him because he’s in the slammer. You know? Locked up. But wait, let’s see how it’s signed . . .”
The shortstop covered his ears.
At the bottom of the third page:
You are always in my thoughts. Fidelito
Whoa! Jackpot.
Check the mirrors, lock the doors, check mirrors again. Tomlinson started the van.
They were on I-75, south of the Twins stadium, before he finally said to Figgy, who was calmer, “I’ll tell you a great place to play baseball—you ever been to Key West?”