The Cuban Affair

by Nelson DeMille

Amber, who was wearing a tank top, was sipping a black coffee, surveying the crowd. The Green Parrot’s regular clientele are eclectic and eccentric and mostly barefoot. The owner, Pat, is a bit crazy himself, and he tells the tourists that the parachute hanging on the ceiling is weighed down with termite turds.

But, hey, it could be worse. This is paradise. Better than two tours in Allfuckedupistan. Better than freezing my ass off in Maine. And definitely better than 23 Wall Street, where I worked for a year after graduating from Bowdoin College. If I’d stayed with Hamlin Equities I’d now be dead from boredom.

A well-dressed man came through the open double doors and I knew it was Carlos. He was good-looking, maybe late thirties, with a full head of well-styled brown hair and pale skin. He wore neatly pressed beige linen slacks, Gucci loafers, and an expensive-looking Polo shirt the color of my lime wedge. I had the impression of a man who had stood in his air-conditioned walk-in closet this morning trying to figure out what to wear to Key West to blend in. Unfortunately he failed. But no one here is judgmental, and in fact some of the gay clientele seemed intrigued.

Amber gave Carlos his Corona with a lime and a smile, and slid mine across the bar. Carlos and I clinked and he said, “Cheers.” I noticed he was wearing a Rolex. I asked him, “You been to Key West?” “No.” “How’d you come?” “I drove.”

“What we call All Souls’ Day in the U.S.” “Right. Sounds better.” A fishing tournament is usually four to six days, but Carlos explained, “The tournament fleet first makes an overnight goodwill stop in Havana, then the fleet sails to the tournament in Cayo Guillermo, a day’s cruise east of Havana. Do you know this place?”

fish on ice. You supply the food and drink, and I need to see your license and permits for Cuba.” I reminded him, “Florida does not impose a sales tax on charter fishing, so thirty thousand is the total with no extra charges except a tip for the first mate at let’s say ten percent. I don’t take tips.” I also told him, “I’d have to cancel some previous bookings.” “Your website shows only one booking in that time period.” “Really? I need to update that. So, that’s the price.” “You drive a hard bargain, Mr. MacCormick.” “Captain.” “Captain.”

“Excuse me?” “You heard me.” I said to Amber, “Hold that tab.” I said to Carlos, “Let’s get a table, amigo.”

We took our beers to a back table and sat. I can’t imagine how many shady deals have gone down in this place over the last hundred and twenty-five years, but if the Green Parrot could talk, it would say, “Show me the money.” “Two million,” I said. “Correct.” “For a fishing tournament.” “No. That’s thirty thousand. Certified check up front. The two million is cash, payable on completion of a job in Cuba.” “Sounds like a tough job.” I asked, “With whom would I be doing business?” Carlos took

they have termites. And no one here cares what we’re talking about. Look, Mr. Macia, you have offered me two million dollars and it will not surprise you that I could use the money, but—” “You can pay off your bank loan on The Maine.” “But I will not do anything illegal for the money.” “I would not ask you to. I am an attorney.” “And your amigos? Are they attorneys?” “No. But I can assure you, the only laws you’ll be breaking are Cuban laws. Does that bother you?” “Only if I get caught.” “And that’s the point. If you don’t get caught you are two million dollars richer, and you have broken no American laws.” He smiled. “Unless you don’t pay your income tax on the money.” On the subject of death, taxes, and getting caught, I asked Carlos, “How dangerous?” “That’s for you to determine when you hear about the job.” “How dangerous, Carlos?” “Cuba is dangerous.” “You expect me to risk my life for a measly two million taxable dollars?”

“Yes, you’re from Portland. And you have no family responsibilities here, and no one to answer to except yourself. Also, we know that as a former Army officer you are a man we can trust.” “Sometimes I drink too much.” “As long as you don’t talk too much. Also, you have no ties to the anti-Castro groups, and I assume you have no positive feelings toward the Communist regime. Correct?” “Between you and me, Carlos, I don’t give a damn one way or the other.” “So you say. But if I had to bet money—and I do—I’d say you’d like to see those Communist bastards gone.” He smiled again.

at me. “You’ll have to negotiate that with my clients.” “Okay. And how’s my first mate compensated?” “That’s up to you.” He informed me, “Mister Colby does not need to risk his life, and therefore does not need to know many of the details.” “Who else is risking their lives?” “A few others.” “You?” “No. I am persona non grata in Cuba.” “Right.” Well, I’d promised myself in the hospital that I’d be more careful in the future. But . . . Carlos glanced at

back to Miami after dark was dangerous. But for me, the danger bar was so high that even now, four years after Afghanistan, I felt there wasn’t much I couldn’t handle. But maybe that’s how I wound up in the hospital. Carlos said, “My client, who will fly with you to Havana, can speak to you tonight. She will be very honest with you.” She? “Also, to be honest, we are interviewing others for this job.” “Take the lowest bidder.” I stood. “And please take care of the bill.” Carlos stood. “I can have my two clients at your boat in fifteen minutes. You should hear what they have to say.” “I’ve heard enough.” He looked very disappointed. “All right. I’ll let my clients know. Or . . . I have an idea. You can let them know yourself. Can we charter

went out to Whitehead. Close by was the Zero Mile Marker for U.S. Highway One, the literal end of the road that started in Maine. I’ve had a lot of profound thoughts about that, usually fueled by a few beers. And I just had another thought: A journey of a hundred miles to Havana begins with a single misstep.