Raul Mendoza pushed his office door closed, barely muting the sound of files grinding to dust in Nelly’s office. He turned the deadbolt’s knob; its bolt clicked home. Rounding the coffee table, he dropped onto the couch. Its cushion hissed like air escaping a punctured tire.
Raul leaned forward and reached for a cigar smoldering in the ashtray. “How may I help you?” he asked, bringing the cigar to his lips, rotating it as he puffed. He made soft kissing sounds, reawakening the red glow beneath the inch of ash at its tip. He leaned his head back and blew a cloud toward the ceiling. Holding the cigar at arm’s length, he turned his gaze to Brian and grinned. “Cigar?”
Brian shook his head. “Thank you, but I don’t smoke.”
“Cigars aren’t smoked, they’re loved, caressed.” He brought the cigar to pursed lips. Puffed twice then gestured toward the humidor. “There are many beauties in there waiting for the right lips.”
“I wouldn’t appreciate it.”
“Rum?” He pointed at the decanter. “Anejo. You won’t find better.”
Brian shook his head. “A little early for me.”
“No tobac, ni rum. You are in Miami, you know.”
“Yes, I’ve been told.”
“You’ll get used to us.” He leaned forward, uncapped the decanter and poured three fingers into a glass. “How can I help?”
Eyes adjusted to the bright sun light; Brian pointed at high-masted sailing yachts tied at the docks outside the window. “That’s quite a view.”
Raul swirled the rum in his glass and waved the cigar at the window. “Water brings me peace. I am a man of the sea. A Balsero.”
“Balsero?”
He downed the drink in one swallow — winced, then smiled. “Si, Balsero… Those who fled Cuba by raft. My parents fled the dictatorship in nineteen ninety-four. They brought me on a raft. I am Balsero.”
“On a raft all the way from Cuba? Wow.”
He shrugged. “Seawater is in my blood.”
“I bet.”
“Mine are an island people.”
“Cuba?”
“Key Biscayne. Do you know it?”
“Heard the name.”
“Home of Bebe Rebozo.”
“Who?”
“You don’t know Bebe Rebozo?”
“Should I?”
“In Miami? Yes. Of Course. Confidante of President Richard Milhouse Nixon. Admittedly a Tampa Cuban.” He shrugged. “Still, a patriot. Hounded to his dying day by the repressive American regime.”
“He was your neighbor.”
“We lived on the same island.”
“You knew him?”
“Died when I was ten. Still, our connection runs deep.”
Brian nodded, “I’ll have to look him up.” He pointed toward the marina. “It would take a lot of money to own one of those.”
“Tell me about it… Dockage fees, crew costs, insurance, maintenance.” He waved away the words as if a mosquito buzzed his ear. “People say a boat is a hole in the water into which you pour money. And, still, I love it.”
The shredder in Nelly’s office ground, coughed and stopped.
“Raul, call your boys. I need more bags.”
“I’m on it.” He smiled at Brian, placed the cigar in the ashtray, crossed the office, dropped into a chair behind his desk. He bent forward, disappearing. Brian heard a drawer open and close. Raul sat up and placed a black rotary dial phone on the desk’s top. “Last landline in the building. Maybe in all of Miami. My words are not drifting through the air, waiting to be caught in some nosey investigator’s net. They’re corralled by copper and rubber. Safe from…” he waved his hand.
Raul cradled the receiver between his ear and shoulder. He dialed slowly, deliberately. After the last number he leaned back in his chair and propped his deck shoes on the desk. Nodding, he smiled at Brian and held up an index finger. “This will just take a moment.” He glanced down and smiled wider. “Oye, chico.” He paused. “Si.” Pause. “Si.” Pause. He laughed. “Ah, no.” He shook his head. “Conjo, pendejo.” Pause. “Si, necesitamos más bolsas. Si. Si. Perfecto. Ciao, chico.” He laughed… “Y tu… bye-bye.” Hanging up the phone, he cupped his hands around his mouth, and shouted, “Nelly, can you hear me?“
“Yes, and so can all of Coconut Grove.”
“They’ll be here in ten minutes.”
“Ten minutes?”
“That’s what he said, but it’ll be more like an hour.”
“And to think they shot a man like Lincoln.”
“Yeah. That’s a real shame.” Raul rolled his eyes and shrugged. Recrossing the room, he picked up his cigar, lay across the couch and blew a plume of smoke toward the ceiling. “Please, Brian Newell. Tell me how I can help you.”
