“Fast, right?” Barbara grinned fiendishly at me over her shoulder as she gunned the Mamita‘s engines. “With horses like these, we can go as fast as any Cigarette.”
“Very nice.” I could barely speak through the hot wind whipping against my face. I had to hold hard to a wooden rail to keep from falling when she popped the throttle.
“Alberto never let me drive. He always wanted to do it himself.” Barbara looked up at the sky and yelled out, “Alberto! Alberto Cruz! I doubt you’re up there, but in case you are, look at me! I’m driving the boat, you bastard!”
She threw her head back and cackled maniacally. I hoped Barbara hadn’t started in on the rum before we set out. All I needed on this trip was a drunken pregnant lunatic for a captain.
The Mamita cruised so fast that the coastline passed in a blur. By the time I got used to the speed, we were out of Miami completely, riding through the brilliant blue toward the Keys.
“Smart, eh?” Barbara yelled out, watching me instead of the water ahead. “Alberto had a good idea when he put these engines inside a sailboat. He figured no one would bother us: drug runners have Donzis or Cigarettes, not wooden sailboats. He told me it took a guy a whole week to figure out how to change the Mamita so it could go this fast.”
“Very smart,” I shouted back at her. “He thought he would be in the business for a long time, right? That’s why he put so much money into the boat.”
The Mamita slowed down a bit as Barbara cut the engines, ignoring my question. “We’re making good time. I won’t wear out the engines until we need to.”
She settled her girth on the thick cushions behind the wheel, steering with her foot, completely relaxed. I seriously considered popping a couple of Valiums, but I knew I couldn’t hold them down.
“Can I steer for a while?” I asked. I needed something to distract me.
“Sure, get the feel of her,” she said, getting up from the seat with a grunt. “The practice might come in handy later.”
Having something useful to do calmed me down a little. Within minutes, Barbara was asleep. I envied her.
The sea had only a mild chop, minimizing the jarring of the boat against the waves. The channels were clearly marked, and since it was a weekday, there weren’t too many other boaters in sight. I might have actually enjoyed the trip down to the Keys, if my voyage ended there.
The last time I visited Key West was three years before, on a missing persons case involving a husband who disappeared one morning from his office in South Miami. He wasn’t really missing at all. The wife couldn’t accept what the police told her—that after twenty years of marriage her husband had left her and their four children for a restaurant owner in Key West.
I had the unpleasant job of confirming that not only had he left her, but the restaurant owner was a man. Even though the news must have been very difficult and shocking for her, I thought she took an inordinate interest in photographs of the two men eating crème brûlée with a single spoon.
I wouldn’t normally have taken such a case, but I really love Key West. Besides, I had an old boyfriend down there I always enjoyed seeing. Sam Lamont before he quit was one of the best—if not the best—polygraph examiners in Dade County. His abilities were legendary because his confession rate approached a hundred percent. Once subjects were strapped into his machine, something happened that made them break down and tell the truth. He knew precisely what questions to ask, and was respected or feared by virtually everyone in the criminal justice system.
One day five years before, in the middle of an exam, he walked out of his office, climbed into his car, and disappeared. Six months later he turned up in Key West. He bought himself an old Victorian gingerbread house on Caroline Street and started renovating it. He’d made a good income as a polygraph examiner and was a notorious saver, so he was able to retire and indulge himself.
When I was in Key West on the missing husband case, I looked him up, not really knowing what to expect. I had never known anyone who just quit the grind the way he had, and thought maybe he had collapsed under the pressure. I found him as happy as I’d ever seen anyone, and he looked terrific—so much so that I moved out of my hotel room and stayed with him while I worked the case.
We stayed in touch after that, so I knew he was still there, still making additions and renovations to his beloved house. When I parked at the marina in Coconut Grove just before noon, I’d called him from the Mercedes and told him I might be dropping by for an hour or two. I wanted to squeeze everything I could out of life before we crossed into international waters headed for Cuba.
We were very close to Key West, and when I turned to wake Barbara I saw her face inches from mine. “That’s it, over there to the right!” she screamed.
“I see it, I see it!” I screamed back, trying to duplicate her volume. “Shit! I thought you were still asleep.” The woman had scared me out of my mind.
“Watch the channel markers! You’re too close! Careful, careful, you’re going to get us killed!” She furiously waved her arms, knocking me hard into the steering wheel.
Her hysteria was contagious. I released the wheel, only too happy to turn over command. “You steer, you take her in. I can’t handle it.”
I was shaking with fear and anger. I’d been around boats all my life, but Barbara made me feel like a neophyte from some landlocked country.
She slapped me on the back and laughed. This was another one of her tests, I realized. “No, you do it, Lupe. You’re fine. Take her into the marina.”
The wind had picked up, pushing us too far to the west. We didn’t want to attract attention. I cut the motor. With the engine’s roar reduced to a purr, I suddenly felt aware of my surroundings: the cool insistent breeze off the water, the gentle pulse of the waves, the squawking of gulls circling above.
It was all I could do to keep the Mamita on course as the Truman Annex marina entrance grew closer and closer. I could easily see the harbormaster’s office, where we would have to stop for our docking assignment slip. Even the prospect of screwing up that maneuver gave me a chill of fear. Barbara had certainly done a number on me.
Alberto chose the Truman Annex for several reasons, according to Barbara. The main reason was that it was the southernmost marina in Key West, and Cuba lay due south. It was also a public facility as well as a private marina, so it accepted transient boats. Any boat docked there for only one or two nights wouldn’t attract attention. They were used to it.
When I pulled in, the harbormaster was waiting for us. He had spotted us coming and pointed out a slip for me to drive into. I cut the engines completely, and as we came to a stop, Barbara waved at him and smiled with a calm, easy familiarity.
The harbormaster’s name tag identified him as Henry Abbot. He was a great, blond, suntanned bear of a man who oozed friendliness and mellow charm.
“Welcome!” he said, climbing on board and looking around the spotless deck with satisfaction. “Nice to see you back, Barbara.”
“Hi, Henry.” Barbara lit a cigar and leaned back on her cushions. “How have you been?”
“Great. Just great,” he said in his deep voice, which sounded like the sea and days spent outside in the sun. He turned to me and smiled. “Where’s Alberto?”
“He stayed in Miami. This is a girls’ trip.” Barbara stood and put her arm around me, her cigar perilously close to my face. “This is my friend Marta.”
“Nice to meet you, Marta.” Henry extended his huge palm to me. His handshake was soft, and his leathery palm scuffed against my hand.
In another place, another time, I could have gone for this guy. He was like a fireman or a forest ranger, rough and gentle at the same time. And I always had a weakness for big men with big blue eyes. From the look he gave me, I could see he felt the same way.
Henry’s beeper went off, and he glanced down at the display. “Well, I’ll be seeing you,” he said. “If there’s anything you need, anything at all, just call me.”
He peered at me with those blue eyes, and I had to look away before I got into something I didn’t have time for. I don’t apologize for myself—if I were facing a firing squad, I would visualize the soldiers naked. It’s my nature.
Barbara busied herself checking our supplies. When I offered to help, she waved me off.
“You’re making me nervous,” she said. “Why don’t you go look up that friend you told me about? We have hours before we go.”
“You’re sure you don’t need me to stick around?”
She chomped into her cigar like a Marine drill sergeant and shook her head. Obviously she considered me a hassle, or else she just wanted some time alone before we left.
As I leapt off the Mamita onto the dock, Barbara called out, “Leave me some money. I have to buy some things.”
I handed her a thousand dollars that I had set aside for just such a request. Hopefully I would recoup the money from the Morenos.
At the marina entrance I telephoned Sam, and he agreed to pick me up. Henry spotted me waiting under a tree and rode over in his golf cart. He pulled up alongside me and sat there grinning, his eyes hidden by avaiator’s sunglasses.
“You’re Cuban, right?” he asked.
I nodded. “I live in Miami.”
“Is this your first time at the marina?”
I nodded again and wiped beads of sweat from my forehead. It was hard to tell how old Henry was; years of sun had lined his forehead and cheeks with deep grooves that accentuated his deep-set eyes and somehow made him look innocent and open, like a surfer boy settled down into the quiet life.
“Here, hop in,” he said, patting the empty seat next to him. “I’ll show you something you might be interested in.”
I slid next to him on the cart. His tanned arms were covered with thick golden hair. He was more attractive up close, so I tried to fix my eyes downward—feet are usually a passion killer. With chagrin I saw this wasn’t the case with Henry. He wasn’t wearing socks, and his tanned, muscular calves showed above his worn Top-Siders.
Henry drove to the edge of the pier, where the winds blew across open water, and slowed the cart to a stop. “This is where the boats came in during the Mariel boatlift,” he said. “Come on, I’ll show you.”
I realized the significance of where I was. It was the landing point for what came to be called the Mariel, the mass exodus of 125,000 Cubans within a two-week period in 1980. Fidel Castro had announced that all Cubans who wanted to leave their homeland could, if they left from the north-coast fishing port of Mariel. Jimmy Carter responded by declaring that any Cubans who left would be welcomed into the United States. Instantly, exiles living in America mobilized into a flotilla and traveled home to pick up their relatives. Key West was the refugees’ point of entry into their new home.
“I wasn’t here then, but the harbormaster before me was, and he told me stories,” Henry said. We got out of the cart and walked to the edge of the pier. “The boatlift was fifteen years ago, and they still come. Ninety miles of water due north, currents, storms, sharks, Cuban patrol boats, and they still do it. Whole families—men, women, children, babies, even pets. You wouldn’t believe what they sail in. They throw themselves into the sea in anything that floats.”
Henry looked at me for sympathy, his mouth pulled into a frown of disbelief. I swallowed hard. Oh, Henry, if you only knew …
“I guess people do what they have to,” I said. It was a dumb, innocuous comment, but Henry nodded respectfully.
“Well, come on. I’ll drive you back to the gate.”
When Henry and I arrived at the marina entrance I saw Sam pull up in his familiar green Jeep, wearing dark glasses and a Florida Marlins baseball cap. He waved, and I called out his name.
“I’m sorry—I hope I didn’t make you late to meet your friend,” Henry said, stopping ten feet from Sam’s car. He nodded at Sam and waved.
“Not at all, Henry,” I said, and kissed him on the cheek. “You were sweet to take me out there. I’ll always remember what you showed me.”
Henry blushed with pleasure and pulled away quickly when I stepped out of the cart. Sam was waiting for me, and hugged me tight.
Sam hadn’t changed a bit. He was easily a foot and a half taller than me, and he gave off an ease and relaxation that made the pressure cooker of Miami seem like a foreign country a thousand miles away. I worried a little about the cap, though. Sam was vain, and vain men who lose their hair become great experts in headwear.
We climbed into the Jeep and Sam drove out, sending a hail of gravel behind us. “Margaritas when we get home? Just like old times?” he asked as we merged with the sparse traffic.
I hesitated. I thought I should be clearheaded for what lay ahead. “Sure,” I said. Why not? If I was rushing blindly to my death, I sure as hell didn’t want to pass up a last round of small pleasures.
* * *
I leaned back on a wicker sofa in his cool, shaded garden, brightly colored cushions carefully arranged around me, my legs tucked under. I closed my eyes and took a long swallow of the drink Sam made me.
“Salud, Sam.”
“Salud yourself.” He raised his glass. “To the confusion of our enemies.” Now there was a toast I could get behind.
“So, you didn’t tell me much on the phone. Why are you here?”
It was a natural question, and I loathed answering it. When he worked in Miami everyone talked about how they hated talking to Sam sometimes, because when they told the most innocent lie they felt he could detect it. His mystique ran so deep that people intuitively vested him with the divining power of his polygraph machine.
“Nothing important—just a case I’m working on. It should all take me two or three days at the most.”
He pursed his lips and nodded. As always, I had no idea if I’d failed the test. “Anything I can help you with?” he asked.
“Not really,” I said quickly. “But thanks anyway.”
We sat comfortably without speaking, something I rarely experience with anyone. I spotted the open wood shower stall in the corner, big enough for two people, with hanging orchids. I could remember how it smelled in the shower, the richness of the wet wood, the flowers, the fresh ocean air.
Sam saw me looking and smiled. “It still works, in case you’re wondering. Care to try it out again?”
“For old times’ sake?” I asked, taking his hand.
* * *
An hour later Sam and I lay on his bed watching the ceiling fan blades go round and round. A moment of Catholic guilt overcame me, and I thought about Tommy and Charlie and Sam, and what the nuns at my elementary school would have said. But the hell with it, I thought.
“Sam,” I said, stretching. “Why did you leave Miami the way you did?” I had never asked him that question before, one I had always wanted answered.
“I couldn’t take the lying anymore,” he said in a faraway voice. “I couldn’t stand to watch another person trying to beat the system. I’d done it for fifteen years, and one day I thought what it would be like to do it for fifteen more. I made a lot of money, you know—at the end I charged more than a thousand dollars a test, and I could do three or four in a day. It just dawned on me all at once that I didn’t have to put up with the bullshit anymore.”
“Do you miss Miami?” I asked, turning and resting my head on his chest. “This is so different.”
He stroked my hair lightly. “I’m content here. I have enough savings to last the rest of my life, even with this money pit of a house.”
“There were a lot of rumors about you, you know.”
I felt him shrug beneath me. “I’m sure there were. Rumors are started by people with nothing better to do.”
I closed my eyes and tried to take it all in: Sam’s hand on my hair, the soft whir of the fan, the smell of the flowers in the garden outside. If I could have stayed in that moment forever, I would have.
“Remember how we met?” I asked.
“Sure I do.” He chuckled softly, and I listened raptly to his breathing. “It was the first time in my life I was ever happy to get caught in a lockdown.”
Six years before, Sam was at Metro West, a jail miles outside Miami, to administer a polygraph to a client accused of cocaine trafficking. I was there to conduct an interview with a Cuban guy accused of murdering his neighbor, then barbecuing him. When we were each ready to leave, the supervisor told us everyone in the facility had to be detained because of a lockdown. The word sounds like what it is: all the prisoners are sent to their cells and kept there until every single one is accounted for, usually because of some kind of disturbance. In this case, one of them had set his mattress on fire, activating all the alarms.
I was one of ten visitors locked into a small interview room for almost four hours. Sam and I ended up next to each other at a chipped, brown wood table. At first we both used the time to work on reports, but as the hours passed and we realized we were going to be there for a long while, we started talking. We gave each other our best war stories. I knew Sam by reputation, but had never heard he was so good-looking, with intense green eyes and a full, sensuous mouth. After our release from Metro West, we went out for the drink we richly deserved—never mind that it was only midafternoon.
“It’s funny,” I said now. “I can’t go back to Metro West without remembering two things: meeting you, and the recipe for the barbecue sauce my client marinated his neighbor in. It was actually pretty good with chicken.”
I laughed, but Sam didn’t, so I rolled over. Our faces were inches apart. “Lupe, I made my living for fifteen years by knowing when people were lying to me,” he said. “And you’re holding out on me. I think you’re in some kind of trouble. I don’t know what, but you can tell me.”
I was tempted, but it was better he didn’t know. Sam was good-hearted and protective; he would have tried to stop me. After he failed he would have sat in agony until he heard I was all right.
“You’re a sweetie,” I said brightly. “But I think you’ve been watching too much TV. Believe me, I’m here for routine stuff. Little old ladies and puppy dogs.”
“I guess my imagination is more exciting than real life,” he said, and smiled wistfully. He didn’t believe me, but he was too smart to argue. He would have made a great husband.