Mike had lived in Miami for a while, so he was prepared for his Cuba visit. Same difference, he said to himself, as he approached the front gate. This house and others in the neighborhood reminded him of those in Coral Gables, with their red tile roofs, quaint iron works, and privileged Cubans.
Robertico Robles walked in a few minutes later. Mike smiled and returned his enthusiastic handshake. Something about Robertico’s slick attitude made Mike think this one would not be as easy to convince as the others. He was glad Robertico was amenable to using English. Even though Mike spoke Spanish rather fluently—one of the reasons he had been chosen for the job—he always preferred to negotiate in English. He thought it gave him the edge. They sat down in what must have been a library in the back of the house. Because of the empty shelves, their voices echoed throughout the room.
“So, Mike,” began Robertico, without wasting time—something Mike found unusual in a Cuban—”what has happened to the canisters? The surgeon hasn’t received them.”
“I know,” said Mike.
“We used your people,” continued Robertico, still maintaining an almost offhand tone, “and now the goods are gone.”
“I know, I know, let me explain,” said Mike.
“Fidel is getting anxious. I’m not sure how much longer he’ll wait before calling off the deal,” Robertico said, his voice rising for the first time.
“We had an unexpected accident along the way, with a manatee—”
“A what?” interrupted Robertico.
“A manatee, you know, a sea cow,” said Mike. “Anyway, we have it under control. We know where the canisters are. We just need a little more time to recover them without anyone else finding out.”
“I don’t know anything about sea cows, or land cows,” said Robertico. “All I know is a deal is a deal and this is the second time you guys have messed up.”
“Yes,” agreed Mike.
Robertico was getting agitated, fidgeting with a button on his white double-breasted jacket. Mike couldn’t help but notice the canary-yellow T-shirt underneath.
“When we met last month with El Maniz, he assured us this would be an easy operation,” said Robertico.
It took Mike a few seconds to realize who Robertico meant by the Peanut Man: the former president who doesn’t quit. The one who keeps on going and going…
Robertico continued, his face flushing red. “Without the head, there is no proof that he is dead. And without proof, the deal is off. Fidel will stay put. As long as his enemies know he lives, power is his only protection.”
“Yes, I know,” Mike interrupted. He felt the sweat flowing from his armpits. “But this is only a small detour. Most of the work is done.”
“Of course,” said Robertico, “especially since we supplied you with the head to begin with.”
“You didn’t expect us to do that?” Mike said, seeing an opportunity to regain the momentum. “After all, we just don’t do that sort of thing in the States. Now you, on the other hand… ”
“Sure, sure,” said Robertico, waving his hand dismissively. “But let’s stick to the point.”
“Well, we never anticipated Castro would reject the head after we altered it.”
“Of course he rejected it. There was something missing,” said Robertico, lifting his cigar high in the air.
“Yes,” said Mike. “But it was such a small detail. We didn’t think it was important.”
“Not important! Anyone close to him would have noticed,” said Robertico. “The head has to be perfect.”
“It will be perfect,” said Mike, nodding.
“But now you have lost it.”
“We’ll get it back, I assure you. Give us another week,” insisted Mike.
“Forty-eight hours. That’s all he’ll agree to. If Fidel doesn’t have the head fixed and in his hands in forty-eight hours, the deal is off!” With that Robertico took a deep puff from his cigar, as if in slow motion, and walked out.
This was one tough bird, Mike mumbled to himself.
Fay rushed the words out, her eyes fixed on the silver canister on the glider.
“Granny, where did you find that canister?”
The glittering object was pulling at Fay; she had seen it before.
“Booger found it in the water and I lugged it up from the beach, just now.”