Fifty Grand

“Your boss, Captain Hector Ramirez, recommended that we deny you an exit permit. He said you wanted to go to Mexico but he suspected you might be a risk for defection.”

Hector sold me out.

“Well?”

“Captain Ramirez thought as much, yes.”

Raúl Castro sips his coffee and examines me like an M.E. performing a difficult autopsy. After a while he smiles, not unkindly.

“We overruled him,” he says. “We. The DGI.”

“What?”

“The Foreign Ministry denied your application to travel to Mexico, but we overruled them.”

My head spinning. “The state security police got me the exit permit?”

“Yes.”

“Even though you knew I was going to go to America?”

“Ah, so you admit you went to America?”

Damn it. The only way in Cuba was to deny, deny, deny. For years if necessary.

“I didn’t go to America,” I say again, quieter now.

A dog starts barking in the garden.

“Someone take him for a walk!” Raúl yells.

“Your dog?” I ask desperately, trying to change the subject. Raúl nods. “What type?”

“A mutt. All other breeds are bourgeois,” he says smugly.

“As bourgeois as that big black Chrysler outside.”

Raúl grins. “You saw my car. There’s a story behind that vehicle that, alas, must be saved for another time. Now, I’ll ask again, what is the name of the person who killed your father?”

“I don’t know.”

Raúl taps the table, rubs his chin. He decides to try a different tack.

“How do you think we’ve survived for nearly fifty years on this island, mano a mano with the most powerful country on Earth? We are a poor country, with few resources. How did the Revolution survive with so much stacked against it?”

“I don’t know.”

“Because, Comrade Mercado, we are smart. Everyone underestimates us. Again and again. You did well in Mexico City, you suspected that we would put a tail on you and you were right. What you did not appreciate was my personal involvement in this case. You did not appreciate that the DGI would anticipate your caution.”

“What do you mean?” I wondered.

“We wanted you to see the tail. We wanted you to see him. And we allowed you to think that you’d got rid of him, but you missed the real tail, Comrade Mercado. You’re good, but you’re just a police officer and we are the Guardians of the Revolution. We are the DGI.”

A second tail.

No. He’s bluffing. He’s trying to trick me.

“I, I don’t believe you,” I tell him.

“We followed you to Terminal Norte, where you took a bus to Gomez Palacio. You found a coyote and you went across the desert that night. You had an unexpected and unpleasant episode at a place called Bloody Fork-don’t you love those English names?-and our operative says you did very well at that encounter. In fact, after that episode he recommended that we continue the family tradition and recruit you.”

Family tradition. Our operative. Pick a question.

“Your operative?” I ask.

Raúl yawns, the big jowly fold of skin under his neck swaying from side to side.

“Our operative in the coyote van.”

Our operative in the coyote van.

My Guardian Angel.

Oh my God.

Paco.

An agent for Cuban intelligence.

The phony trips to Denver, his skill with the rifle; the man in the rental car, Mr. New York Plates-his contact. Now it all makes perfect-

“I see by your face that you understand,” Raúl says.

Best course now is the truth. Fast. To save my life. To save Ricky, Mom. Truth.

“Yes. I went to America.”

He nods. “Take off your hat,” he says. “I want to see.”

I take off the beret. He looks at the bandage above my ear.

“A graze. Don’t think you’re special, Mercado. I once saw a man who was shot between the eyes. The bullet exited through his lower jaw and two weeks later he was back fighting with us in the mountains,” he says.

“He was lucky.”

“Yes and no. Later we had to hang him for rape… Now, who killed your father, Officer Mercado?”

“A man called Youkilis, a-”

“My patience has its limits,” he interrupts. “I’ll ask that question once more and this time, if you do not tell me the truth, I’ll consider it a crime against the state. A conspiracy that involves your whole family. Do you understand?”

“Yes, Comrade Castro.”

“Who killed your father, Officer Mercado?”

“It was, it was… It was an actor, a Hollywood actor called Jack Tyrone. He lived in Fairview, Colorado. He was driving home drunk, he hit Dad and knocked him into a ravine, and then he drove off. In America they call that a hit-and-run.”

“I heard the death was unpleasant. If it’s not too painful I’d like to know the full details. How did your father die?”

“Dad’s pelvis and legs were broken. His rib cage was shattered. He tried crawling back up to the road but couldn’t make it. Blood filled his lungs. He drowned in his own blood. Slowly. It took him hours to die and when they found him his face was frozen.”

A flicker as he tries to conceal a reaction. He nearly succeeds, but not quite. He waits for a beat or two to feign casualness.

“A Hollywood actor called Jack Tyrone.”

“He’s young. Thirty. Up and coming. You won’t have heard of him.”

“No, I am familiar with him. Not, of course, through his films.”