Carl Hiaasen – Naked Came The Manatee

“We have to call the FBI,” she said, concerned.

“No cops,” Jake said. “Bring in any kind of badge and that’ll get Fay dead. I know those guys. That’s why we called you.”

“Jake, I’m no Rambo. What can I do?”

“Look, Britt, nobody in Miami has better contacts. We need you to check something out for us. Quietly. You’ll have to sit on it for a few days, but then you’ll have the story of a lifetime, and hopefully we’ll have Fay back, and maybe a little something extra for our trouble.”

Deal nodded and popped a handful of Advil. “Those lowlifes on the boat know who we are,” he muttered. “We’ll be hearing from them soon, without a doubt. We need to know who they’re working for, what the hell we’re dealing with here.”

“They’ll probably contact us, to arrange a swap,” Jake said.

“Swap?”

“That’s what we have to show you.” Jake swept an accumulation of beer cans and pizza crusts off the cluttered tabletop and placed the metal canister in the center.

Opening the box, he lifted the lid, curling his wrists as he did so, as though unveiling a rare work of art.

The room was so hot that they could feel the whoosh of cool air, as though somebody had opened a freezer. But it was something else that prickled the hair on the back of Britt’s neck. Could be it be the faint, stale aroma of cigar smoke?

Britt stared into the expressionless eyes. Fidel Castro was the man who had killed her father, stood him in front of a bullet-pocked wall on San Juan Hill and ordered his execution by firing squad when she was only three years old. “Think it’s really him?” she whispered.

They could not be sure from the photos she had brought.

“Was there anything unusual on the wires out of Havana?”

Britt shook her head. “Rumors are always sweeping Miami that Castro is dead, dying, or in Switzerland having sheep-glands injections to maintain his virility.” Jake raised his eyebrows.

“Don’t laugh,” Britt said. “He has quite a reputation.”

She stared into the canister. “I’ve never actually seen the man in person.”

“Nor I,” Jake said.

“What about Magda Montiel Davis?” she said. “She’d know him.” Davis, a local lawyer, had kissed Castro, gushing like an infatuated schoolgirl at a reception in Havana. She had had no inkling at the time that Cuban cameras were rolling, that Fidel would gleefully sell the footage to Miami television stations, and that enraged exiles would greet her return with threats of death, bombs, and mob violence.

All three studied the frozen face.

“What’s Mickey Schwartz doing these days?” Jake said thoughtfully.

Schwartz had built a successful three-decade acting and modeling career based on the fact that he was a dead ringer for Castro. His most recent gig was a Florida lottery commercial in which he wore fatigues and blew contented smoke rings after using dollar bills, presumably lottery winnings, to light his cigar.

“This could be him,” Jake said, and closed the container. “Wre don’t want it to thaw out.”

“Good thinking,” Deal said.

“Maybe Castro was dying,” Britt suggested, “he knew it and wanted to be frozen until they could cure what killed him. There’s a doctor into cryogenics here in Miami.”

“Why wouldn’t they send his entire body?” Deal said. “It would be easier to revive than finding him a whole new body.”

“Maybe somebody screwed up,” she said. “Remember that pop singer from Caracas? He intended to have his body frozen but there was an accident with a circular saw during the packaging. All they could salvage was his head. It’s still frozen here somewhere.”

“This isn’t getting Fay back,” Jake muttered, painfully pacing the length of the small kitchen. He paused at the refrigerator to take out a beer, and tossed one to Deal. Britt passed, no longer hungry, or thirsty. Her mind was racing. Maybe this was the big one.

“Well, I tell you,” she said, after peering again into the metal container. “It’s either him or Mickey Schwartz.”

“Why would those guys so desperately want the head of Mickey Schwartz?” Jake asked.

They stared at one another.

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