“No shit?” Jesus Bernal said brightly. “Well, God bless Las Noches de Diciembre, each and every one.”
But the Nights of December never got to open their gifts. Hitting the newsstands of Nassau that afternoon was the Miami Sun, featuring Skip Wiley’s doctored Christmas column. Within thirty minutes the prime minister himself called an emergency cabinet meeting and declared that the story about the fisherman Rollie Artis was “an insult to the sovereignty and self-respect of the Bahamas.” The minister of home affairs immediately drafted a deportation order, to which each cabinet member affixed his signature. At approximately six P.M., just as Jenna’s plum pudding ignited, six uniformed Bahamian immigration officers burst into Wiley’s palatial manor house and ordered him out of the commonwealth forever. No amount of proffered cash or traveler’s checks would change their minds.
It wasn’t until much later, on the midnight flight to Haiti, that Jenna got up the courage to show Skip Wiley what had been done to his column.
“Bloodworth!” he gasped. “That wretched nematode!”
“It sure was a mean trick,” Jenna allowed.
“Sacrilege!” Wiley said, his brown eyes smoldering.
“But clever,” Jenna remarked. “Wouldn’t you say?”
“Well, now it’s our turn to be clever,” Wiley said, slipping the column into his jacket. “Jenna, as soon as we get to Port-au-Prince, send a message to Tommy back at camp. Have him Federal Express me the Nielsens from last New Year’s Eve. And the Arbitrons, too, if he can get his hands on ‘em.”
“What now, Skip?”
“Don’t worry, darling, the strategy stays the same.” Wiley patted her knee. “Full speed ahead.”
21
From a bare-bulb warehouse off Miami Avenue, Jesus Bernal placed a phone call to the secret headquarters of the First Weekend in July Movement.
“El Comandante, por favor,” he said.
From the other end came thick Cuban voices, the sound of chairs scraping, a door opening. The telephone clanged as if someone had dropped it into a steel drum.
“Hey!” Jesus Bernal said angrily. “Oye!”
“Que pasa, chico?” It was the Mixmaster rasp of the comandante himself. In his mind’s eye Jesus could picture the old bastard sucking on a wet cigar, his strained twisted fingers like a vulture talon clutching the receiver. Jesus Bernal could picture those mean brown eyes, narrowing at the sound of his voice.
‘It’s me,” Jesus said in Spanish. “Have you seen the newspapers, Comandante?”
“Si.”
Proudly Jesus said, “I am famous.”
“So is Ronald McDonald.”
“I was expelled from the Bahamas,” Jesus declared.
“For what? Stealing coconuts?”
Jesus began to fume. “It is important work.”
“It is girl’s play.”
“I bombed a Miami policeman!”
“You bombed his fucking feet,” the comandante said. “I read the papers, chico. All these years and you are still the worst bomber I ever saw. You couldn’t blow up a balloon.”
After a pause, the old man said. “Tell me, who is this El Fuego?”
“I am El Fuego,” Jesus answered.
The comandante cackled. “You are a shit-eating liar,” he said, again in Spanish.
Jesus grimaced. “All right. El Fuego is a powerful Anglo. He is also a crazy man, he wants to give Florida back to the Indians and the raccoons. He recruited me for the dirty work.”
“And to write the communiques.”
“Claro.”
“It is the one talent you seem to have.”
Jesus Bernal smiled hopefully. There was a long silence on the other end. He heard the sound of a match striking wood; the old man’s damn cigar had gone out.
“The FBI has been asking about you,” the comandante growled. “It’s a bad idea, you calling me.”
Jesus Bernal swallowed hard. “I want to come back to the movement. My work here is finished. This organization, it is not disciplined, Comandante. There is drug use … and liquor. And the crazy man, El Fuego, he’s always making jokes.”
“I’m not surprised. It is all very funny.”
“Please, Comandante, read the papers! Haven’t I proven myself?”
“You bombed a fucking golf course,” the old man said.
“A vital strategic target,” Jesus countered.
“Coño! A Russian freighter is a strategic target, but a golf course is … a goddamn golf course. And these were not Communist soldiers you killed, they were rich Americans. I’m surprised Fidel himself didn’t send you a medal.”