“Take the back stairs,” Bernal commanded.
The police station was all but empty on a Sunday night and they saw no one on the stairwell. The two men emerged from a doorway on the northwest side and crossed the jail parking lot, concealed by a tall hedge. Bernal walked stiffly, the shotgun pointed down and held close to his right leg; from a distance he looked like a man with a slight limp.
Garcia’s unmarked police car was parked on Fourteenth Street. “You drive,” Bernal said. “And stay off the freeways.”
They headed south, crossed the Miami River drawbridge, and stopped at the busy traffic light at Northwest Seventh Street.
“Which way?” Garcia asked.
Jesus Bernal hesitated. “Just a second.” Across his lap lay the shotgun, its barrel gaping from the crook of his arm. The gun was an over-and-under model, cut back to fourteen inches. Al Garcia didn’t need the training manual to figure out what a sawed-off could do. It was pointed at his kidneys.
“Turn right,” Bernal said hoarsely. Garcia could make out the faint cross-hatch imprint of the tennis racket on his abductor’s face. He also noticed that Bernal’s nose was badly broken, though his teeth were straight and gleaming.
They spoke Spanish to each other.
“Where we going?” Garcia asked.
“Why, you worried?” Bernal said tautly. “You think a badge and a gun makes you a hero! Makes you a genuine American! I beg your pardon, Mr. Policia. You are no hero, you’re a coward. You turned your back on your true country.”
“What do you mean?” Garcia asked, biting back anger.
“Do you not have family in Cuba?”
“An uncle,” the detective replied. “And a sister.”
Bernal poked the shotgun into Garcia’s neck. The barrel was cold and sharp. “You abandoned your own sister! You are a shit-eating worm and I should kill you right now.”
“She chose to stay behind, my sister did.”
“No creo—”
“It’s true,” Garcia said. “She married a man in the army.”
“Such shit! And your uncle—what lie have you invented for him?”
“He is a doctor in Camaguey, with a family. Four children. This is not a lie.”
“Such shit!”
“Put the gun down before somebody sees it,” Garcia warned.
Reluctantly Jesus Bernal lowered the sawed-off. He held it across his knees, below the dashboard.
“You think it was easy for me?” Garcia said. “You think it was easy to leave, to start over? I came here with nothing.”
Jesus Bernal was unmoved. “Why are you not fighting for your family’s liberation?” he demanded.
Rather than say something he might eternally regret, Garcia said nothing. Psychology was not his strong suit; he was a firm believer of the fist-in-the-face school of criminal therapy. Jesus Bernal was a mangy bundle of nerves.
He smelled like he hadn’t bathed for a month and his black hair was a dull curly mat. His high-topped sneakers tapped the floorboard, while his free hand knotted and reknotted the tail of his threadbare undershirt. He fidgeted like a little kid whose bladder was about to burst.
“What do you think about this, Mr. Policia? Me catching you, instead of the other way around!” Jesus flashed his new dentures. “Cut over to the Trail and we’ll head for the Turnpike.”
“But you said no freeways.”
“Shut up and do as I say.” Bernal reached over and ripped the microphone from Garcia’s police radio. He threw it out the window. “You get lonely, you talk to me.”
Garcia shrugged. “Nice night for a drive.”
“Hope you got plenty of gas,” Bernal said. “Garcia, I want to ask you something, okay? How does a scum like you sleep at night? What kind of lullabies does a buitre sing? When you close your eyes, do you see your sister and your uncle in Cuba, eh? Do you feel their torture and suffering, while you get fat on American ice cream and go to jai-alai with your Anglo pals? I have often wondered about traitors like you, Garcia.
“When I was very young, my job was to visit the businessmen and collect contributions for La Causa. I had four blocks on Calle Ocho, three more on Flagler Street downtown. A man named Miguel—he owned a small laundry—once gave three thousand dollars. And old Roberto, he ran bolita from a cafe. Zorro rojo, the red fox, we called him; Roberto could well afford to be a generous patriot. Not all these businessmen were happy to see me at their door, but they understood the importance of my request. They hated Fidel, with their hearts they hated him, and so they managed to find the money. This is how we survived, while traitors like you ignored us.”