Chapter 6 – Habanas

MICKEY HAD NOT BEEN in the mood to discuss business that morning before the sun was up. He told Cole to sleep it off and they’d talk the next day. Cole had the day off, so after ending the call with Mickey, he mixed up another Cuba Libre to celebrate the sunrise. By the time he’d stirred it and taken his seat, the sky had turned a lighter shade of blue and wispy clouds were backlit by the rising sun. Cole was drunk but happy, and his mind was alive with thoughts of what might lay in store.

He turned in for some sleep once the temperature started to come up. Cole guessed that in the darkness of the night, it had dropped into the low 60s and it felt clean and crisp. As the day progressed, it would end up somewhere in the upper 70s or low 80s—enough to feel hot under the Florida sun. With the AC humming and the curtains drawn, Cole slept well past noon and finally began to stir shortly before two in the afternoon. Kevin was nowhere to be found, so Cole worked through a pot of coffee, then went for a quick jog to the airport and back.

He’d missed a call from Mickey and had a text message suggesting they meet for a late lunch. Cole showered up and changed into some clean clothes. He pulled on a pair of jeans, flip flops, and his trademark button-down linen shirt. Stepping out the door, the midday sun was warm, but the air felt cooler against his skin and he enjoyed the leisurely walk downtown. It was by far his favorite time of year. While the rest of country was preparing itself for winter, the Keys were coming into their prime. The nights were cool, but each day the sun did its best to keep temperatures comfortable during the day. The Gulf Stream never let the water cool too much to stop anyone from a midday swim. The vacationers still flocked to Duval Street and basked in their long weekends away from the snow and wind up north.

Cole took the long way around to Margaret Street and settled onto a barstool at Turtle Kraals, overlooking the marina. There he ordered a skirt steak and another Cuba Libre. He’d been sober for a few hours by that point and figured the most productive part of his day was already over. Mickey showed up 15 minutes later and pulled up a stool next to Cole. It was mid-afternoon and the two had an entire corner of the restaurant to themselves. A steady breeze rolled in off the water, and the mix of boats bobbed back and forth in their slips. On the sailboats, halyards and shackles slapped against aluminum masts. Feeling dizzy from his drink, Cole likened it to a chorus of off-key bells rung by an orchestra of idiots. It was a sound that Cole loved. He couldn’t help but take a deep breath and smile.

Mickey sat silent for some time as he perused the menu and Cole waited patiently, sipping on his drink. After ordering some ceviche and a Dos Equis, Mickey put his menu down and crossed his arms, looking at Cole with a stern face.

“I don’t get you, Cole.” He paused. “You make good money, you good at what you do, you live the good life, but you still telling me you want to do something else?”

Cole laughed a bit and realized that Mickey accentuated the J in words like ‘you’ when he was irritated. It wasn’t all the time, but right now he really emphasized them. Here Mickey seemed to act more like a concerned father than the ringleader of an international smuggling operation.

“What the fuck do you care, Mickey?”

Mickey tossed his hands in the air, up and over his head in an exaggerated manner. “OK, then, I don’t care. I no give a damn. You just tell me what you want and maybe I can help.”

Cole finished off his drink. He held it almost inverted for an extra second or two to suck down the last few drops of coke and rum. The glass was now empty, the stained lime stuck between the remaining ice cubes. He wanted to open up and pour out his problems, but Mickey was no shrink, and Cole wasn’t about to show any sign of weakness to a seasoned criminal. Delaney was always in the back of Cole’s mind. The honest truth was he didn’t know what he wanted, but every run to Cuba and back only fueled his appetite for open water, fast boats, and adventure. Perhaps it was reckless and stupid, but Cole felt that each time he made a run, he was stuffing it in Potts’ face. He wanted more of that feeling.

Cole knew he was only skimming the surface of the Caribbean underworld. He was ready to take off the training wheels and hoped that Mickey could point him in the right, or more appropriately wrong, direction. He didn’t fully understand why he wanted to make his way south, he just felt an undeniable longing for a new chapter. As nice as it was, Key West felt small and constricting. Every time he cruised past the Coast Guard base, it reminded him of his shortcomings. He felt like it choked him. “What else you got Mickey?”

Mickey laughed. “What the fuck you mean, ‘what else I got?’” Mickey tried to make fun of Cole’s southern drawl but it came out wrong when crossed with Mickey’s Spanish accent. The two of them laughed and it broke whatever tension had built since the conversation started.

“Hook me up with some of your buddies further south.” Cole figured Mickey had connections.       

Mickey’s eyes grew big for a second then back to normal. From his pocket, he pulled out a phone, read a text message, typed a short reply, then put the phone back in his pocket. Shaking his head a bit, he took a long sip from his beer. He began to speak just as he swallowed.

“You’re asking to get into something you might not get out of. Plus in most people’s eyes, you’re a snitch—at least you were a snitch, working for the man. I send you to see some people and they probably just shoot you in the head.” He meant what he was saying. Migrants were one thing, but cocaine, pot, and cash were things people lost their lives over.

Mickey continued, “I send you down there and you screw up, I look bad and you die—that’s how things work, Cole.” He paused. “You are asking for a lot.”

Cole argued back, “I’ve got discipline Mickey—you know that. I get the job done no matter what. All I’m asking for is a contact. Someone to talk to. I’ll take care of myself from there.”

Mickey was quiet and took a deep breath followed by another long sip from his beer. “You ever been to Panama?”

Cole hadn’t. He’d seen its coastline from the bridge of Delaney, but had never set foot on solid ground. Cole thought back to the distant lights on the horizon that he’d seen so many times and tried to hide the excitement that grew as he mulled it over. “No, Mickey. I haven’t.”

“Well, why don’t you buy some tickets. I’ll make a call for you.”

The two finished up lunch and the conversation turned light. Mickey surely had plenty of tips and advice, but he kept them to himself. Cole figured it was Mickey’s style to let him learn those lessons himself. As they parted ways, Mickey looked Cole over and shook his head, as if he already regretted his promise to help Cole on his way south.

A month later, Cole found himself at the Key West International Airport early in the morning. It wasn’t much, consisting of a 5,000-foot runway barely big enough for a jet to get in and land. Most of the traffic was regional airlines and a healthy dose of turboprops moving the tourist crowd in from larger airports to the north. The terminal itself was a single room with a few check-in counters. A duffel bag by his side, Cole quietly waited for his plane and watched the tourists come in and out. Kevin had loaned the bag to him as Cole figured his seabag would stick out too much. He wore a newer pair of jeans, having spent a bit of his money on some new clothes for the trip. His shirt, fresh off the hanger, felt a bit stiff compared to his older ones. Once he sweat in it a bit and put it through a wash cycle or two it would hang off his shoulders like his others.

The airport pressed up against the water and Cole could smell the cool air coming in through the open windows. In the shade of the terminal, it was nice enough that Cole briefly thought of turning off the whole thing. Why do I want to leave when it feels as good as it did on that day? He rested his head against the wall behind him and crossed his legs in front of him. With a ticket, cash, and passport in his hand, he felt committed to at least trying something different. If things didn’t work, he could always come back to Key West. There would always be another winter and a load of migrants waiting in the brush of Cuba’s north coast.

Soon enough, he hopped aboard a small turboprop to Tampa. Climbing up and away from Key West, he looked out the window and saw the Keys below him. For a moment or two he again questioned his decision to leave. The green water, the dotted sandy beaches, and the underwater forests of seagrass and reef seemed so far away now and he missed them already. Before long, the plane climbed through a layer of clouds and the Florida Keys were all but a memory.

From Tampa, he took a larger jet over to Dallas where he had half the day to waste before his flight to Panama City, Panama. With his duffel bag over his shoulder, he wandered the airport for an hour before finding himself completely bored. The smells were like any airport. The food court stunk of pizza and hot pretzels. Kiosks sold crappy pillows and trinkets for passers-by to occupy their time. He thought about settling into a bar stool and drinking himself to a stupor, but the atmosphere of the airport just didn’t seem right. He made his way through the security checkpoint and then outside. It was late December and the air was cold. He still had his flip flops on and felt a bit out of place amongst the honking horns, exhaust fumes, and hustle of Dallas.

Cole waved for a cab as an idea popped into his head.

He hopped in and the cab driver looked into the rearview mirror waiting for Cole to give him directions. Cole gave a light-hearted smile and said, “I need some boots.”

The cab driver asked if he had anywhere in mind and Cole shook his head. “Whatever is close works for me.” And with that, they were off.

Dallas was a huge city and the eight-lane highways were a far cry from the quiet side streets of Key West that Cole had called home for the last five months. It was rather depressing and not at all what Cole had hoped Texas would look like. He knew that outside the city limits, the state was beautiful and an endless unforgiving rugged terrain stretched in every direction. But in the back of a cab amongst the gridlock, Cole couldn’t wait to get on his way.

After some time, the cab pulled into a large department store, Cavender’s, and Cole gave the driver two 20-dollar bills.

“Give me twenty minutes. I’ll be back.”

The driver nodded and reclined his seat back a bit, pulling his trucker hat over his eyes.

Cole walked through the automatic doors and made his way over to the boots. An entire wall was covered in western boots. Cole walked the length of it and back, grabbing a few and giving them the once over. None particularly caught his attention until he found a square-toed pair with a Texas flag color scheme. They were all leather, but the sides were stained with a blue star on the outside and red and white striping on the inner side. He asked the teenage girl behind a counter for a size ten and she brought them out a few minutes later.

“You need to wear socks to try them on.” She was waiting as if Cole was magically going to shit out a pair of socks.

“Well, I guess I need to buy some socks, then. What do you have for warmer weather?”

The girl came back with a three-pack of lightweight wool socks and Cole pulled them up and over his ankles. He hadn’t worn a pair of socks like that in almost six months. When he ran in Key West, he wore the shorter ankle-high ones, and even then it was only for half an hour or so. He realized just how weathered and tanned his feet were from the salt air and sun. Pulling both boots on over his new socks, he walked around for a bit and the girl returned to the counter and consumed herself with something on her cell phone.

On the wall adjacent to the boots, there was another towering section of western hats. Cole stood there in his State-of-Texas boots and chewed on his lip for a minute.

Why not? he thought.

He picked up a few and tried them on, feeling a bit awkward at first but also liking the way they looked. The felt ones were most certainly going to be too warm, so he moved on to some made of straw and others of palm leaves. The majority were white or off-white in color, but a few were stained darker and Cole found one that was just a shade or two short of jet black. It was a palm leaf material that felt good against his head and the leather band inside gripped his forehead, holding it firmly in place on top of his bleached hair.

Cole looked at himself in the mirror, his boots on his feet and a cowboy hat on his head. He pulled the brim just a bit lower to hide his face in its shadow and smiled a devilish grin.

“Yippee Ki-Yay, motherfucker,” he said with certainty and tipped his hat to himself.

He checked out and walked back to the cab, his flip flops now in his hand and his new boots on his feet. It was awkward getting into the cab with his hat on, but he did his best to play the part. The driver looked back in the mirror again and Cole asked to get back to the airport. He must have at least looked passable since the cab driver paid no attention to Cole’s new attire. Cole then stashed his flip-flops inside his duffel bag and they were headed back to the airport.

Back at Dallas International, Cole passed security again and went back to the terminal. He felt a bit awkward still, but no one seemed to give him a second look. Apparently he was pulling off the cowboy thing. He found a Mexican cantina—or at least an airport bar pretending to be one—and pulled up a stool. He wiggled his feet in his boots and rolled his ankles around trying to break in the leather a bit.

The bartender came over and asked Cole what he wanted to drink. She was his age, her hair bleached blond and she had a curvy figure accentuated by jeans hanging low on her hips. Her hands were pressed firmly against the bar, but she kept her distance.

“Captain and Coke please, with a lime.”

She looked at him for a second, her head tilted slightly to one side and said, “I figured you for a whiskey guy.”

“Maybe if you’ll have one with me.”

She laughed for a second, looked down at the floor, then back at Cole.

“You’re trouble, aren’t you boy?”

Cole grinned because he’d made her smile. “Wanna find out?”

“Oh, God. I was right. You are trouble,” She laughed out loud as she spoke and went back to make his drink.

As a matter of fact, I am, Cole thought.

He took his time with the drink. The bargirl didn’t show as much interest in him as he’d hoped, but she made small talk along the way. Cole nursed two more as the hours went by and eventually he ordered a plate of chicken tacos.

“Where are you heading there, Cowboy?” The bar traffic had slowed a bit and she was a few feet away cleaning glasses as Cole was working through the tacos.

“I’m on my way to Panama.” He looked at her momentarily then back down at his plate. He was dangling the bait and playing it cool to see if she bit.

“And what are you doing down there?” She was nibbling on the hook.

“I’m a bible salesman, Miss.” He accentuated his southern accent and smiled his devilish grin again.

She laughed. “You’re a liar is what you are,” she said, moving back to clean up the bar.

Cole finished up his plate, emptied his glass, and left two 20-dollar bills to cover the tab. It was a healthy tip as he’d enjoyed her brief company and the conversation.

“You’re a pretty girl. Have a good one.”

He tipped his hat, then turned before she could respond and walked out of the cantina towards his gate, not looking back. He knew she was watching and it lifted his spirits.

g

Later that afternoon, he boarded the massive jet bound for Panama City. He’d spent extra money for a first-class seat and had another rum drink in his hand before the plane even took off. It put him over the edge and he reclined the leather seat back and quickly fell asleep, his dark cowboy hat pulled over his eyes and his feet crossed in front of him.       

He woke some hours later. It was dark and quiet in the cabin. From 30-something thousand feet, it was near darkness outside. There was still light to the west, but as he sat looking east, the day was near done. A flashing strobe light above the plane flickered every few seconds, and he saw a faint red light at the tip of the wing behind him. There was a screen on the back of the seat in front of him, and he toggled through the menu until a map appeared with an airplane icon indicating their position. They were in the basin, well south of Cuba, Jamaica, and the Caymans.

Half an hour later, the pilot came over the intercom and advised them of their initial descent into Panama City. Cole chugged a bottle of water to clean himself up a bit. Below, he could see the lights of some smaller towns on the Caribbean coast. As the plane descended further, it pushed through and around some towering cumulus clouds and the ride became bumpy. Still high among the clouds, the jet crossed Panama, just a thin dark spit of land separating the Caribbean from the Pacific, and Cole saw the vast expanse of the dark Pacific in front of him. The plane turned right back towards Panama and descended further. The western sky was barely a shade of red on the horizon and entirely black above. As the jet settled on its final course into Panama, Cole stared down at lights of dozens of ships anchored outside the Panama Canal, patiently waiting their turn to hit the canal and continue their voyage east.

After touching down and a long taxi in, Cole grabbed his duffel bag from the overhead and made his way inside the terminal. He could feel the humidity and the heat, even in the nighttime air. It was all new and interesting to him. People moved at a frenzied pace and the culture felt loud and intentionally chaotic. People yelled at each other. As Cole watched, more and more it seemed to be a norm. It was like a big city, but the languages, sights, and sounds were unique. Cole ran his fingers across the stubble on his chin and wiped the fatigue away from his face. He threw his duffel bag over his shoulder and walked briskly towards the exit.

Mickey hadn’t given him much, just a name—David. Down an escalator, Cole walked out the sliding glass doors to the outside. The heat hit him and there was no breeze to soften its punch. Cole unbuttoned two of the buttons on his shirt to let in a bit more air, but it was to no avail. He stood a foot back from the curb and took it all in. Cabs pulled in and out, the women wore too much makeup, men all wore jeans and many of them wore gold necklaces or other pieces of jewelry. Cars honked for the sake of honking. The Spanish language came hard and fast from all directions and Cole stood silently listening to it. The air was muggy and exhaust won out as the dominant smell.

A man in jeans and a Nike t-shirt hopped out of a white van that had just pulled up. He approached Cole with a smile and said in very good English, “You have gotta be Cole.”

Cole looked the stranger in the eye, nodded his head and extended his hand. The man took a firm grip and the two shook hands.

“I’m David and I will show you around a bit. Please come with me.”

The two climbed in. It was a smaller European-style van with windows all around and three rows of seats. David sat in the middle row and Cole was in the first. The driver said nothing as he navigated through the congestion and onto the highway. It was past nine o’clock at night but the traffic was still heavy as the highway paralleled the Pacific towards downtown Panama City. After 20 minutes, Cole could see the city in front of him, its towering buildings and bright lights rivaling that of any big city in the states.

David spouted off random facts about Panama. There was construction everywhere and as they hit the main streets of the business district, thumping music echoed amid the car horns and bright lights. There were casinos, bars, and restaurants along the way. The sidewalks were lined with people going about their business. It took them another 20 minutes to get to the far side of town. As they left the bright lights and turned down some smaller streets, Cole looked around a bit more, trying not to give away the sinking feeling in his gut.

David picked up on it and reassured Cole, “Don’t worry, my friend. We just need to make one stop and we’ll head back to the hotel. Everything is cool.”

Everything was not cool. They were now in the ghetto and only one out of every six street lights worked. There was graffiti on the walls of just about every building and at least half of them looked deserted, their windows busted and the doors either boarded up or kicked in. Fences all had barbed wire across their tops.

David spoke calmly, “Give it a few more years and this will all be luxury condos. The beach is only a few hundred yards from here. Primo real estate.”

The driver took three quick turns, and they pulled up to what was most certainly an abandoned building. Graffiti covered the walls. A man stood outside the door of the building and David motioned for Cole to step out.

“David, what the fuck is this?”

David spoke quickly, “You gotta trust me on this one. Don’t get excited. This will be a few minutes and we’ll be on our way. If you freak out on me, it’s gonna be trouble. Just stay cool and we’re good, OK?”

Out of options, Cole stepped out of the van.

“Hola,” was all he said to the man outside the door and the plainly clothed guard nodded his head back at Cole.

David walked them inside. It was total darkness save for some light from a room at the end of the hallway. The two walked down the dark corridor and turned into a room, where there were a few lights plugged into the wall. Three men stood talking in the middle of the room and looked at Cole as he walked in.

Cole again said “Hola,” and made a slight waving gesture with his thumb, pointer, and middle finger. His mouth was dry. One of the men, in his late 40s by Cole’s estimate, rubbed his chin with his fingers and looked at David. David nodded and spoke rapid Spanish. The two had a quick conversation and Cole could only pick up the words “gringo,” “Estados Unidos,” and of course “Mickey.” They all seemed to say Mickey’s name as if it carried a good deal of weight.

The man finished up talking with David and walked over to Cole. He extended his hand and the two shook. At first Cole thought it broke the tension, but afterwards he could still feel it heating up the room even more than the stagnant air.

“You got some balls, my man.”

The man had his hands on his hips now and shook his head. He spoke the same way Mickey did, substituting a J for the Y in you. But this time it wasn’t funny.

“Why you wanna come down here and drive boats?”

Cole took a deep breath to hold his composure and said, “Well, I’m good at it. I’m comfortable on the water and driving boats like I do makes good money for you and for me.”

The man shook his head no, “You make good money in Florida.”

Cole replied, “I can make better money here.”

“Were you really in the fucking Coast Guard?”

Cole laughed just a bit and replied, “Well, yeah, I was, but they didn’t like me.”

Now the man laughed a bit too. “Well, shit, my friend. I can see why.”

“Are you sure you’re not undercover?” The man seemed calm and cool but the question was a serious one.

Cole thought for a second. Part of him wanted to just laugh, but he knew he had to be convincing. Mickey had warned him about this. Cole wanted to explain how much Potts had hated his guts, how he’d been thrown out with the trash and couldn’t give two shits about the damn Coast Guard, but he maintained his composure.

“I’ve been running a lot of migrants to be undercover, don’t you think? I’ll give you any information on me you’d like if that will assure you that I am no longer interested in doing anything for the fucking Coast Guard.” He emphasized ‘fucking’ when he said it.

“No.” The man shook his head. “We’ve looked into you. You seem legit. And like I said—you’ve got some fucking balls to walk in here.”

The other two in the room walked out, leaving Cole, David, and the new guy in the room by themselves.

The older man continued, “We’ll put you to work. It’ll be a few days. You’ll go on a run with some of my guys, help them out and we’ll see how you do. This is the big leagues, Señor Cole.”

Cole nodded. “Well, Sir, I can assure you that I’m varsity.”

The older man and David laughed, then picked up another fast-paced conversation in Spanish. They used their hands when they talked, just like Mickey. Cole couldn’t understand what they were talking about, but from the more controlled gestures of their hands, he figured things were calm enough not to worry.

The old man turned to Cole again. “There is something you must understand.”

He cleared his throat. “There are very real consequences when you move something that costs a lot of money. Jail is not something you worry about here. If you get caught and go to jail, so be it. You get out one day and things are OK. But if you talk to save yourself or don’t do what you’ve been asked to do, there are very real consequences.”

Cole softly nodded. Understood.

The man motioned for them to walk out of the room. “There is something you must see.”

Cole, David, and the man walked back down the hall they’d just come down and turned left into a dark room he’d passed when he first walked in. As he entered the doorway, tucking his head a bit to fit his hat through the frame, the lights came on. The other two men were in there standing next to a younger guy sitting in a chair. Cole could see that the kid had his hands tied behind his back and his face was a bit beat up. It wasn’t horrible, but clearly the kid had taken a few punches. He had on a pair of jeans and a basketball jersey. He had no shoes on and looked straight ahead without much of an expression on his face.

The older man spoke. “This kid, he fucked up.”

He pointed with his finger at the kid.

The older man walked over to the kid and the first two men stepped back against the wall. The kid took a deep breath and exhaled with a bit of a shudder.

The older man continued. “He got caught and tried to talk his way out of jail. Now, jail in Panama is no fun. Anyone who goes in has a decent chance of getting fucked up. There are different gangs and groups and cartels and all of that shit.” He motioned with one hand in a circular gesture as if the rival cartels were no big deal.

“But Cole, I promise you we will do our best to look out for you if you get caught.”

He pointed at the kid again. “But this kid didn’t trust me. He got caught and he started talking. And because he started talking, I lost some stuff I didn’t want to lose. And when I lose stuff, I gotta explain to my boss why I fucked up. And he’s gotta explain to his boss why he fucked up. And together, we gotta take some steps to make sure none of our people fuck up again. This shit ain’t personal, it’s business.”

He paused and looked at Cole before asking, “Do you understand, Cole?”

“Yes, I do. Clearly.”

The man stared at Cole, nodding gently to indicate he was convinced he’d made his point.

It seemed the meeting was over, but David took a deep breath and Cole didn’t like the vibe that came with it.

The older man repeated himself. “It’s not personal, it’s just business.”

He reached behind his shirt and drew a stainless steel snub-nosed revolver from the small of his back. The kid looked to his right at the gun and yelled. Cole didn’t have to speak Spanish to understand what the kid was saying. He was sorry…It would never happen again…He’d do anything to make it right. The kid was sweating now and squirming in the chair, his legs underneath him trying to get some traction, but there was nowhere he could go. His words fell on deaf ears.

In one smooth motion, the older man pressed the gun up to the kid’s head and pulled the trigger. It was a blur to Cole. The kid screaming was muted by the sound of the gunshot bouncing off the walls of the little room. After the shot, smoke lingered and obscured details from the room. It must have been a magnum caliber to shake the room like it did. Cole’s ears were ringing, and his feet felt unsteady for a second or two from the blast. He was feet away from the muzzle, but it felt as though someone had just punched him in the face. The kid was slumped over and no longer screaming, his head having rolled forward and his body only partly propped up by his two hands tied together behind the chair. The smell of gunpowder dominated the room. Cole saw dark blood all over the kid’s head and turned away in disgust.

Cole’s heart was beating so loud he feared they would all hear it. He was sweating too. The older man wiped the muzzle with his shirt and returned the gun to the small of his back. “We’re done here.”

Cole took one last look at the kid’s lifeless body as it sat in a contorted mess on the chair. He’d been alive ten seconds before, and now he was dead. Mickey hadn’t lied. Cole’s feet felt drunk underneath him and he gritted his teeth to get his balance back, taking a deep gunpowder-laced breath. As they walked out of the building and back into the nighttime air, it was a welcome relief from the heat and stench inside. Cole took another deep breath and looked up at the sky. There were stars and a few clouds were backlit by the moon. The light breeze hit the sweat on Cole’s face and chest, cooling him.

The older man extended his hand to Cole. Cole shook it without thinking.

“We’ll be in touch, Cole. Until then, enjoy yourself.”

“Gracias,” was all Cole could manage. It was surreal. The guy had just shot a kid in the head and now he was telling Cole to enjoy himself.

David patted Cole on the back and motioned him back to the van. The driver was still sitting in his seat, expressionless, reading a newspaper.

Sitting down in their same seats, David perked back up and said, “All right, I’ll show you the hotel. It’s nice, the Marriott downtown. There’s a bar across the street, Habana’s—we’ll have a drink.”