Powder Burn - Carl Hiaasen [14]
The old men always listened to the same Cuban exile radio station, and it was the talk shows they liked best. They sat, like a family for dinner, around the scarred tambol, gleaming chavetas cutting and shaping the cigars, the gray heads nodding agreement with each new forecast of disaster for el tirano. Castro. El verdugo. Pig.
It was the old men’s pride that they understood so much more than the exiles who needed the radio for their news. The man who worked in the back would always know first when there was news. A crop failure. A plane crash. Important sabotage. Defections. He always knew, and he would always tell the tabaqueros who screened for him and protected his lair.
Never any details, mind you. Details were secret. They could be dangerous. There were many spies in el barrio. A nod. A smile of victory. Thumbs up. A shrug. They were enough; the old men understood. It was a difficult struggle.
When the man came that morning, he was impassive. It was not hard to explain: The radio spoke of a new Cuban victory in Africa. How that must have hurt. He touched Jesús lightly on the shoulder, took a Churchill from Raúl’s rack and disappeared without a word into the office.…
He made two phone calls that morning. The first was to an office in a skyscraper overlooking Biscayne Bay.
“Law office.”
“Mr. Redbirt, please.” The English was flawless.
“Who is calling, please?”
“My name is Jones, Morgan Jones.”
“I’ll connect you now.”
“Good morning,” he said, “I understand there are problems.”
“Jesus Christ, it’s about time you called. The whole goddamn thing is unraveling. I don’t know what to do.”
“Tell me.”
“The shipments are all cockeyed. One week we can’t find an ounce. The next week I’m up to my ass in the shit. There’s cops and Colombians all over town. We can’t tell who to buy from. We don’t know what stuff is good. People are getting ripped off. Everybody’s nervous, and the customers are getting restless.”
“It is only a temporary problem. It will be resolved. You may reassure the customers from me that the problems will be resolved.”
“Reassure them from you? I don’t even know who the hell you are! How long do you expect me to run this kind of operation with a phone call every couple of months from somebody I don’t know?”!
“As long as I tell you to. That is how we have operated in the past. And that is how we will continue to operate.”
“No way. Things are very complicated; people are getting killed. We have to meet.”
“No, my friend, we will not meet. You will do as you are told.”
“I can’t. I—”
“Would you rather go back to chasing ambulances? Or perhaps you would like the police to learn about how you are a criminal lawyer in every sense of the word.”
“Now look, I didn’t mean…”
“Order will be restored.”
“How long, for God’s sake?”
“A month, perhaps a little longer. I count on you to keep peace until then. Supplies may be tight.”
He hung up and painstakingly lit the fresh cigar. Then he made the second call. It was to Bogotá, Colombia. He dialed direct, station to station, and this time he spoke Spanish.
“Juan? This is Ignacio.”
“How can I serve you?” There was sarcasm in the smooth, liquid Spanish that was the only thing about Colombia he admired.
“Let us not play games. These are serious times.”
“Of course they are serious. Your animals shoot my people in the streets. They kill gringos. They rob my ships; they kidnap my mules. That is not just serious. That is madness.”
“I know, I know. But you must understand that it is not my people who do these things. It is what the gringos call the freelancers. They are everywhere; children. Anyone who can drive a boat or fly a plane. They are like swarming ants. I cannot respond for them.”
“Which is why I put my own people in Miami. I must know who I am dealing with. I will not treat with children.”
“That is something we can work out. There is plenty of room for both of us—you there,