“Maybe I’ve put my head in a lion’s mouth before,” I said.
“Maybe. But this isn’t the same lion. All lions are different.”
“We’re friends, right?”
“Yes. I think so. But Fidel used to say you shouldn’t trust someone merely because he is a friend. It’s good advice. You should remember that.”
I nodded. “Oh, sure. And believe me, I know. Looking out for number one is usually what I do best. I’m an expert in survival. But from time to time I get this stupid urge to do a good turn for someone. Someone like your friend Alfredo López. It’s been a while since I did anything as selfless as something like that.”
“I see. At least I begin to think I do. You think that by helping him you’ll be helping her. Is that it?”
“Something like that. Perhaps.”
“And what do you think you can tell a man like Quevedo that might persuade him to release López?”
“That’s between me and him and what I rather quaintly used to call my conscience.”
Sánchez sighed. “I did not take you for a romantic. But that is what you are, I think.”
“You forgot the word ‘fool,’ didn’t you? But it’s more what the French call ‘existential’ than that. After all these years I still haven’t quite admitted my own insignificance. I still believe what I do makes a difference. Absurd, isn’t it?”
“I’ve known Alfredo López since 1945,” said Sánchez. “He’s a decent enough fellow. But I fail to see how Noreen Eisner prefers him to a man like you.”
“Maybe that’s what I want to prove to her.”
“Anything is possible, I suppose.”
“I don’t know. Maybe he is a better man than me.”
“No, just a younger one.”
21
T
HE SIM BUILDING in the center of Marianao looked like something out of
Beau Geste
—a white, two-story, comic-book fort wherein you might have discovered a company of dead legionnaires propped up along the blue castellated rooftop. It was a strange building to find in an area otherwise given over to schools and hospitals and comfortable-looking bungalows.
I parked a few streets away and walked along to the entrance, where a dog was lying on the grass shoulder. Dogs sleeping on the streets of Havana were neater and tidier about the way they did this than any dogs I had seen before, as if they were keen not to get in anyone’s way. Some were so neat and tidy about how they slept on the street that they looked dead. But you stroked any of them at your peril. Cuba was the very well-deserved home of the expression “Let sleeping dogs lie.” It was good advice for everyone and everything. If only I had taken it.
Inside the heavy wooden door, I gave my name to an equally sleepy-looking soldier and, having delivered my request to see Lieutenant Quevedo, I waited in front of another portrait of F.B., the one with him wearing the uniform with the lampshade epaulettes and a cat-that-had-all-the-cream smile. Knowing what I now knew about his share of casino money, I thought he probably had a lot to smile about.
When I had tired of being inspired by the self-satisfied face of the Cuban president, I went to a big window and stared out at a parade ground, where several armored cars were parked. Looking at them, I found it hard to see how Castro and his rebels had ever thought they stood a chance against the Cuban army.
Finally I was greeted by a tall man in a beige uniform, with gleaming leather, buttons, teeth, and sunglasses. He looked dressed up for a portrait of his own.
“Señor Hausner? I’m Lieutenant Quevedo. Would you come this way, please?”
I followed him upstairs, and while we walked, Lieutenant Quevedo talked. He had an easy way about him and seemed different from the picture Captain Sánchez had painted of the man. We came along a corridor that looked as if it could be a
Life
magazine pictorial biography of the little president: F.B. in sergeant’s uniform; F.B. with President Grau; F.B. wearing a trench coat and accompanied by a trio of Afro-Cuban bodyguards; F.B. and several of his top generals; F.B. wearing a hilariously outsized officer’s cap, making a speech; F.B. sitting in a car with Franklin D. Roosevelt; F.B. gracing the cover of
Time
magazine; F.B. with Harry Truman; and, finally, F.B. with Dwight D. Eisenhower. As if the armored cars weren’t enough for the rebels to deal with, there were the Americans, too. Not to mention three American presidents.
“We call this our wall of heroes,” Quevedo said, jokingly. “As you can see, we have only the one hero. Some people call him a dictator. But if he is, then he’s a very popular one, it seems to me.”
I halted momentarily in front of the
Time
magazine cover. I had a copy of the same magazine somewhere in my apartment. There was a critical remark about Batista on my copy that was absent from this one, but I couldn’t remember what it was.
“You’re wondering where the title went, perhaps,” observed Quevedo. “And what it said?”
“Was I?”
“Of course you were.” Quevedo smiled benignly. “It said, ‘Cuba’s Batista: He Got Past Democracy’s Sentries.’ Which is something of an exaggeration. For example, in Cuba there are no restrictions on freedom of speech or freedom of the press or freedom of religion. The Congress can override any legislation or refuse to pass what he wants passed. There aren’t any generals in his cabinet. Is this really what dictatorship means? Can one really compare our president to a Stalin? Or a Hitler? I don’t think so.”
I didn’t reply. What he said reminded me of something I myself had said at Noreen’s dinner party; and yet, in Quevedo’s mouth, it sounded somehow less than convincing. He opened the door to an enormous office. There was a big mahogany desk; a radio with a vase on top; another, smaller desk with a typewriter on it; and a television set that was switched on but had the sound turned down. A baseball game was in progress; and on the walls were pictures not of Batista but ballplayers such as Antonio Castaño and Guillermo “Willie” Miranda. There wasn’t much on the desk: a pack of Trend, a tape-recording machine, a couple of highball glasses with American flags embossed on their outsides, a magazine with a picture of mambo dance star Ana Gloria Varona on the cover.
Quevedo waved me to a seat in front of the desk and, folding his arms, sat on the edge and looked down at me as if I were some kind of student who had brought him a problem.
“Naturally I know who you are,” he said. “And I believe I’m right in thinking that the unfortunate murder of Señor Reles has now been satisfactorily explained.”
“Yes, that’s right.”
“And are you here on Señor Lansky’s account, or on your own?”
“My own. I know you’re a busy man, Lieutenant, so I’ll come straight to the point. You have a prisoner named Alfredo López here. Is that correct?”
“Yes.”
“I was hoping I might persuade you to let him go. His friends assure me that he has had nothing to do with Arango.”
“And your interest in López is what, exactly?”
“He’s a lawyer, as you know. As a lawyer, he did me a good service, that’s all. I was hoping to be able to return the favor.”
“Very commendable. Even lawyers need representation.”
“You were talking about democracy and freedom of speech. I feel much the same way as you, Lieutenant. So I’m just here to help prevent a miscarriage of justice. I’m certainly not a supporter of Dr. Castro and his rebels.”
Quevedo nodded. “Castro is a natural criminal. Some of the newspapers compare him to Robin Hood, but I myself don’t see it. The man is quite ruthless and dangerous, like all communists. Probably he has been a communist since 1948, when he was still a student. But in his heart he’s worse than a communist. He’s a communist and a natural autocrat. He’s a Stalinist.”
“I’m sure I agree with you, Lieutenant. I certainly have no desire to see this country collapse into communism. I despise all communists.”
“I’m pleased to hear it.”
“As I said, I’m hoping to do López a good turn, is all. It just happens that I might be able to do you a good turn too.”
“A quid pro quo, so to speak.”
“Maybe.”
Quevedo grinned. “Well, now I’m intrigued.” He collected the pack of Trend off the desk and lit one of the little cigars. It seemed almost unpatriotic to smoke such a diminutive cigar. “Please, do go on.”
“According to what I read in the newspapers, the Moncada Barracks rebels were poorly armed. Shotguns, a few M1 rifles, a Thompson, a bolt-action Springfield.”
“That’s quite correct. Most of our efforts are directed toward preventing ex-President Prío from getting arms to the rebels. So far we’ve been very successful. In the last couple of years we’ve seized over one million dollars’ worth of arms.”
“What if I was to tell you the location of an arms cache that contains everything from grenades to a belt-fed machine gun?”
“I should say that it was your duty as a guest in my country to tell me where those arms can be found.” He sucked on the little cigar for a moment. “Then I should also say that I could certainly arrange for your friend to be freed immediately once the arms cache is found. But might I inquire how it is you come to know about these weapons?”
“A while ago I was driving my car in El Calvario. It was late, the road was dark, I’d probably had a little too much to drink, and I was certainly driving too fast. I lost control of my car and skidded off the road. At first I thought I had a flat or a broken axle, and I got out to take a look with a flashlight. In fact, my tires had churned up a lot of dirt and broken through some wooden planks that were covering up something buried underneath. I lifted one plank, shone the flashlight inside, and saw a box of Mark 2 FHGs and a Browning M19. Probably there was a whole lot more, only I didn’t figure it was safe to stay there for very long. So I covered the boards with earth again and marked the spot with some stones so that I could find it. Anyway, last night I went to check, and the stones hadn’t been moved, which leads me to suppose that the cache is still there.”
“Why didn’t you report this at the time?”
“I certainly intended to, Lieutenant. But by the time I got back home I decided that if I told the authorities, someone might get the idea that there was a lot more to tell than I’ve told you, and I lost my nerve.”
Quevedo shrugged. “There doesn’t seem to be much that’s wrong with your nerves now.”
“Don’t be too sure of that. Inside, my stomach is turning over like a washing machine. But as I told you, I owe López a favor.”
“He’s a lucky man to have a friend like you.”
“That’s for him to say.”
“True.”
“Well? Do we have a trade?”
“You’ll take us to where this arms cache is hidden?”
I nodded.
“Then, yes. We have a trade. But how shall we do this?” He stood up and walked around his office thoughtfully. “Let’s see now. I know. We’ll take López with us, and if the weapons are where you say they are, then you can take him with you. As simple as that. Do you agree?”
“Yes.”
“All right. I’ll need a little time to organize everything. Why don’t you wait in here and watch the television while I go and set things up? Do you like baseball?”
“Not particularly. I can’t relate to it. In real life there are no third chances.”
Quevedo shook his head. “It’s a cop’s game. Believe me, I’ve thought about it. You see, when you hit something with a club, it changes everything.” Then he went out.
I picked up the magazine on the desk and got a little better acquainted with Ana Gloria Varona. She was a little bombshell type with a backside for cracking walnuts, and a large chest that was crying out for a child-sized sweater. When I had finished admiring her I tried to watch the baseball. But I figured it was one of those curious sports in which the history is obviously more important than the game. After a while I closed my eyes, which usually takes some doing in a police station.
Quevedo came back about twenty minutes later, alone and carrying a briefcase. He raised his eyebrows and looked at me expectantly. “Shall we go?”
I followed him downstairs.
Alfredo López was standing between two soldiers in the entrance hall, but only just. He was filthy and unshaven and had two black eyes, except that wasn’t the worst of it. Both his hands were freshly bandaged, which made the manacles on his wrists look pointless. Seeing me, he tried to smile, only the effort was probably too much for him and he almost fainted. The two soldiers grabbed him by the elbows and held him up like the accused at some sort of show trial.
I wanted to ask Quevedo about his hands and then changed my mind, anxious not to say or do anything that might prevent me from achieving what I had set out to do. But I had little doubt that López had been tortured.
Quevedo was still being pleasant. “Do you have a car?”
“It’s a gray Chevrolet Styline,” I said. “I’m parked just down the street. I’ll drive back here, and then you can follow me.”
Quevedo looked pleased. “Excellent. To El Calvario, you say?”
I nodded.
“Havana traffic being what it is, if we are separated, we shall meet at the local post office.”
“Very well.”
“One more thing.” The smile turned wintry. “If this is some kind of trap. If this has been an elaborate hoax to lure me out into the open and have me assassinated—”
“It’s not a trap,” I said.
“Then the first person to be shot will be our friend here.” He tapped the holster on his belt with meaning. “In any event, I shall shoot you both if the weapons cache is not where you say it is.”
“The weapons are there, all right,” I said. “And you’re not going to be assassinated, Lieutenant. People like you and me are never assassinated. We’re murdered, pure and simple. It’s the Batistas and Trumans and King Abdullahs of this world who get themselves assassinated. So take it easy. Relax. Because this is your lucky day. You’re about to do something that’ll make you a captain. So maybe you should ride that luck and buy a lottery ticket or a number on the
bolita
. If it comes to that, maybe we should both buy a number.”