Authors: Don Bruns
“Yeah.” I knew we were possibly walking into the lion’s den, but there was no other choice. We were being hunted and we had to find out why. “Jackie Fuentes said that the two overweight Cubans had visited her house a number of times when her husband lived there. Somehow they
were
connected with Fuentes.”
We got out of the truck and James and I retrieved two boxes of mail from the back. I started to pull the back door down as James yelled.
“Hold on. We can’t give him the Café Cubana envelope.” He held it up like it was slimy and untouchable. “Come on, amigo. It’s torn open. Christ, we cannot, cannot go to this guy with another piece of opened mail.”
“We didn’t see a problem with this when we opened it. Ah, fuck it.” I took the offending manila envelope from his fingers and tossed it in the back of the truck. “Hell, he doesn’t know what mail came to Jackie’s house. Now, pick up the box and let’s get rid of this other stuff.” I pulled down the back door of the truck, leaving the brown envelope lying by itself in the middle of the floor.
We entered the magnificent lobby where an entirely new arrangement of hundreds of flowers blossomed from the vase in the center of the vast room. I glanced at the vivid painting on the wall and marveled at the details. Seahorses and clams, neon fish with flashing eyes, and wispy strands of plant life all worked together in a potpourri of colors. We rode the elevator in silence, neither of us wanting to concentrate on what or who might be behind Rick Fuentes’s door.
He answered the door looking as if he’d stepped off the cover of
GQ
. Gray linen slacks broke over highly polished black alligator shoes. He wore a black silk shirt, open at the collar, and a narrow silver necklace with a simple mother of pearl cross. In my jeans,
Dive Bahama
T-shirt, and sandals, I felt woefully underdressed.
“Gentlemen.” He let us in. “You’ve brought something?”
James nodded. “The rest of your mail.”
He motioned to a narrow entrance table and we put the boxes down.
“Come. Sit.” This time he escorted us into the living room and we sat in overstuffed chairs, surrounded by furniture that was made to look at, not use. My mother would have had fits if we were even
in
a room like this. Plush carpeting, soft fabrics, muted tones in the textured walls—it was a room to view, not to sit in.
I struck first. “Mr. Fuentes, have you heard anything about Vic?”
“No.” He pounced on it. “I was hoping that was why you were here. Have you heard anything? Anything at all?”
“Let me ask you something else. What is Café Cubana?”
You could see the surprise on his face. “I’m sorry. What is the question?”
“Very simply, what is Café Cubana?”
Fuentes cleared his throat. “Café Cubana is a business venture put together by several investors. It happens to be a private concern and I’m not at liberty to discuss it with you at this time.”
“Could this business venture have something to do with the Cuban Social Club blowing up two nights ago? Or is it possible Café Cubana could have something to do with your son’s apparent kidnapping?”
“This is why you came to see me?”
James finally spoke. “This, and the $2,500.”
Fuentes stood up and walked to a polished mahogany desk. He reached into the top drawer and I froze. If he turned around with a gun—it was a check. I seriously about had a heart attack.
“I promised you I would pay you. This is a check for $3,000. I appreciate what you did and how you may have put yourself on the line.” He handed the check to James and stayed on his feet, obviously waiting for us to get up and leave.
“Mr. Fuentes, we were threatened by two Hispanic men tonight. One of them had a gun.” I hesitated to go much further. It was one thing to say we were threatened. It was probably very dangerous to tell him that one of our team had killed one of theirs. “It had to do with your mail that Jackie asked us to store.”
“I don’t think I understand. Two men threatened you over my mail?”
“Apparently they thought we had some of your mail that dealt with a business deal on Café Cubana.” James gave me a concerned glance. I kept going. I’d said they
thought
we had mail. “The two men told us it was a coffeehouse chain with Cuban sandwiches and coffee.” That part was true. So far I hadn’t lied.
“It is. Did you see such mail?”
It was time for someone to tell that first lie.
I looked at James and he hesitated, clearing his throat. Those cigarettes. “We, uh, stored everything in Jackie’s—your wife’s—storage unit except that mail over there.” He pointed toward the narrow table. “And we have no idea what was in your mail.”
“Other than my son’s finger.”
“Hey. We explained that to you. The envelope was”—he paused—“leaking.”
Silence.
Finally, I spoke. “We have no information on your son. But because of you and your son we’re in this situation a little deeper than we want to be.”
James kept shaking his head. I waited to see if he wanted to add anything. He didn’t.
“I am truly sorry that you were threatened. I’m not certain that was my fault.”
“Actually, it was my fault.” James spoke up. “This entire business venture was my idea. However, you’re apparently dealing with some dangerous people and a dangerous situation and because of that, Skip and I are in some deep shit.”
Fuentes studied James. “Deep shit.”
“Deep shit.”
I kept going. “Mr. Fuentes, what exactly is your business?”
Fuentes glanced at his wristwatch, a thin gold band and even thinner gold dial. He seemed to be thinking. Finally, he sighed.
“There are some things I can tell you. The two men who threatened you, they are—were—business associates.”
“No.”
“Yes. But,” he hesitated, “not by my choosing. It’s a very complicated, difficult story. I’m sorry they threatened you. You see, and this is very difficult to say, they have threatened me as well.”
James’s eyes lit up. I could see his interest as he leaned closer. “Why are you telling us this?”
“You know Vic. You have a personal relationship with my son and you understand the situation he’s in. Am I right?” He looked directly at me, staring intently at my eyes.
I found myself shaking my head up and down. Vic had been there when I needed him and now it was my turn.
“Believe me, I don’t know who else to talk to. I would hate to involve you any further, but you need to know that the two men who threatened you tonight may have kidnapped my son.”
“And cut off his finger.”
“Yes.”
“And what does Café Cubana have to do with this?”
“Everything.”
His phone rang. I couldn’t believe it. We were about to get the story and he gets the perfect out. The little blond, Cynthia, stuck her head around the corner.
“It’s the front gate, Rick.”
He stood up and left the room.
“Is he going to tell us what’s going on or not?” The frustration in James’s voice was obvious. “Jesus, this guy is either in a lot of trouble and doesn’t know how to get out of it, or he’s causing a lot of trouble and we’re fucked.”
“No middle ground with you?”
“No. But I hope to hell he’s
in
a lot of trouble, because I don’t want this guy to be on the other side.”
“I hear you. We need someone on our side. James, we’re looking at accessory to murder.” I kept trying not to think about it, but the thought hung out there.
“There’s that too.”
Fuentes walked back into the living room, a puzzled look on his face.
“The two men who threatened you? Did one of them have his arm in a sling?”
“No.” We echoed each other.
“Two men just asked the front gate guard for entrance to the building. They told him they wanted to meet with me. He said they were big men, had Spanish accents, and one of them had his arm in a sling, and did not look well. When he told them he was not to call my number after nine thirty, they left a message.”
Neither of us said a word.
“They drove a blue Buick and said they’d be back, and if I didn’t turn over my three accomplices, I could expect more body parts in the mail.”
CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO
I’
VE ALWAYS HOPED THAT AGE brings wisdom. I hope that when I’m thirty-five or forty I’ll have a much better grasp on a situation than I do at twenty-four. And then I remember my father left home when he was thirty-seven. Was it wisdom that caused him to leave? Or was it the lack of wisdom?
Did my father realize, at thirty-seven, that he had no more wisdom or maturity than he did at twenty-four when he got married? Do you reach a stage in your life when you find that your emotional maturity has peaked? Would I handle today’s situation in a more mature manner in my thirties or forties? If not, what’s the point in growing up? Age, just for the sake of age, seems pointless. Loss of hair, muscle, and skin tone, loss of endurance, sexual appetite. If that were all we had to look forward to, what was the point?
“If I had been wise, I would have turned the project down.” Rick Fuentes put his glass to his lips as if toasting his wrong decision.
We’d retired to the balcony, sitting on cushioned lounge chairs, sipping Amaretto on the rocks and looking out at the harbor. Amaretto. This for two guys who drank beer almost exclusively unless someone offered wine, usually from screw-top bottles. From fourteen stories up we watched blue and green lights bounce off the still water and cast wavy patterns on the murky surface. A large ship rested on the horizon, its bright lights shining like small pinholes in a black cloth. James had a dream of one day living like this, and at this moment, even with all of our problems, I could understand his passion. It beat the hell out of our cement slab and the dirt-brown ditch.
Fuentes swirled his drink. “I tell you this due to the fact you have put yourself in danger because of my son.”
Frank and Joe Hardy would have figured out a way to get the old man to talk. James and Skip had pretty much stumbled into the situation by accident.
“My business is to raise money for business ventures. I’m certain you knew that. And Café Cubana is simply one of those projects. The gentlemen who came to me with the business plan were all successful men. Each, in his own way, had built a small, successful enterprise, and they had pooled their resources to form the new business.”
“Why did they need you?” If this group was successful, why would they need more money?
“They were $20 million short.”
James drew in a raspy breath. “Twenty million? You could raise that?”
He chuckled. “Of course. I’ve built an extensive list of investors over the last thirty years. These people have made rather large fortunes investing in my recommendations. The idea was sound. With the popularity of coffeehouses such as Star-bucks, and the apparent longevity of the interest in these ventures, I was well on my way to raising the capital.”
James was leaning forward, obviously relishing the chance to learn from a master. His father’s blood ran through his veins. “And this was to be a chain of coffee and sandwich shops all up and down the East Coast?”
“Yes. And a chance for each investor to double and triple his money in a very short period of time. Very seldom have I seen such a well-developed concept and potentially successful business. My investors were salivating to participate.”
James sat back. “See, it takes money to make money. That’s our problem.”
“In this case you would have been wise to refuse the offer.” Fuentes drained his glass. He stood up and walked to the bar on the balcony, pouring liberally from the bottle. “They had no intention of building the cafés.”
It made no sense.
Fuentes drew a deep breath. He studied the two of us for a good sixty seconds, not saying a word. Finally, “Do you know about
Los Historicos
?”
James nodded. “The newscaster mentioned them when she was talking about the fire at the Cuban Social Club.”
Fuentes nodded. “These men all came from families that lost property when Castro took control of Cuba. Their families left Cuba vowing to go back one day and reclaim what was rightfully theirs.”
“And they attempted to do that during the Bay of Pigs,” James said.
“Yes. It was a disaster. Many of my countrymen were killed, and although it has been discussed over and over again, no one has ever mounted a credible attempt since then.”
It was way before our time. I’d read about it in eighth grade history class, but my entire image of Cuba was of a rundown country that people tried to escape from—not return to. “People are trying to get out of there. Why would someone want to go back?”
He stared out at the water and I sensed a sadness in his eyes. “Wet foot, dry foot. If you are stopped at sea, you must go back to be killed or locked up in Castro’s jail. If you make it to United States soil, you are allowed to stay. It’s very sad. However, these are not people who have anything to go back to. These new refugees, they own nothing.
Los Historicos
have history. History and property.”