The Cuban Affair

by Nelson DeMille

I said, “I hope they’ve had good weather for the tournament.” “Do you enjoy fishing?” “I don’t fish. My customers fish.” “But do you enjoy what you do?” If I did, I wouldn’t be on the Autopista. “I like being on the water.” “My condo overlooks the water.” “So does my boat.” “Tonight we go for a midnight cruise on The Maine.” “Looking forward to that.” We were making good time, but there was no hurry. We had time to kill. I thought about Jack and Felipe and the three fishermen who should be out on the water now, competing with the nine other boats. This was day four of the Pescando Por la Paz, but today was the last day for Fishy Business, one way or the other. Jack and Felipe had been waiting for us, but they didn’t know when—or if—we’d show up. I wondered if Jack was worried about me—or worried about his money. Well, I had two surprises for him; I made it, and the money didn’t. Actually we didn’t even know if the fleet was still there. I said, “Turn on the radio. Maybe we can hear something about the tournament.” She turned on the vacuum tube radio and static filled the car. She figured out that the chrome dial tuned in the stations and she played with it for awhile, but all I heard was Cuban music, and a few excited people who Sara said were shit eaters spouting propaganda. About twenty miles out of Santa Clara,