Six Bad Things_ A Novel - Charlie Huston [8]
—I say my father was importer and exporter of goods, but truth is different.
He does another shot of tequila and chases it with sangrita.
—Truth, he was “business” man.
He says it so I hear the quotation marks.
—Wanted me in “business” with him. Mother was actress, married him for money. Big fucking deal, you know. Everybody in Russia married for money if they could. Mother was so happy I wanted to be artist like her. Pissed father off, pissed him fucking off. But I go to film school. Make film about dancer marries gangster. He dies before he can see film. Fucking “business” man.
I nod my head.
—Businessman, huh?
He’s crying now, big Russian tears.
—Big-shot “business” man.
He slips off the swing, almost hangs himself on the ropes. I steady him and get him standing. He wipes the tears from his eyes.
—Thanks you. Got to put up tent. Sleep.
He stumbles away from the bar.
Pedro comes over.
—Didn’t pay his tab.
—Get him tomorrow, he’s not going anywhere.
—Russians. Can’t drink tequila.
—But don’t get in a vodka-drinking contest with one.
“Business” man.
I chew on that for awhile, until Pedro’s brother buzzes up in his dune buggy with Rolf. They take fuel cans and fishing gear out of the buggy and start hauling it all down to the waterline. I go over and lend a hand.
—Hola.
Rolf bumps fists with me.
—Que pasa, dude?
—Nothing.
He grabs one end of an ice chest, I grab the other and we lift it out of the buggy. Rolf is an American expat: a dreadlocked, nipple-pierced, surf bum vagabond from San Diego who washed up on the Yucatán about ten years ago. He mostly works up in town as a diving instructor for the tourists. He got into business with Pedro’s brother because he likes the action.
They do actually run night-fishing excursions, but I can tell from the amount of fuel I’m now shouldering out to the boat that they won’t be catching anything tonight. Pedro’s brother, Leo, is up in the boat. He has the same flat face and short round body as his brother, but the roundness covers muscles made hard by hauling fishing nets. He easily one-hands the fifteen-gallon fuel can I’ve carried to the boat and tucks it away in the stern. Rolf splashes up, pushing a sealed plastic tub that bobs low in the water. I boost up onto the gunwale and help Leo pull it aboard. Through the translucent plastic I can see a GPS rig, a high-power halogen spotlight, battery cells, and the AK-47 they bring along for these trips. Leo nods his thanks as we clunk the tub down in the bottom of the long-hulled, open fishing boat. I jump back into the water and head for shore. Looking back at Leo, I give him a thumbs-up.
—Via con Dios.
—Always, man, always.
Then he’s yanking the engine to life. I pass Rolf on his way to the boat with a six-pack, the last of the supplies. I bump fists with him again.
—How many?
—Just two. Supposed to be offshore in a raft. We’ll see.
—Luck.
—Fuck that, dude. See you in the morning, you can buy me a beer.
—You got it.
At the bar Pedro and I watch the boat grind off into the surf.
American policy says that any Cuban who can reach U.S. soil legally or illegally will be granted residency, but they’re sticklers on that “soil” part. Get stopped in the water a foot from dry land, and forget it. And since 9/11, those Coast Guard gauntlets around Florida have become a bit more intense. The average Cuban peasant will still get in his raft and cross his fingers. But if you have a couple bucks, you can get guys like Leo and Rolf to help you out. They’ll shoot out to Cuba, pick you up, and bring you back to Mexico, from where, the thinking goes, it’s a lot easier to get to America. And if you fail, it’s still a hell