90 Miles to Havana (22 page)

“You see the red wires by the wheel? When I give you the signal, connect them. Red to red,” he says.

I stub my toe on the bucket of nails, and then limp to the bundle of red and white wires slithering out from behind the peeling dashboard. Tomás makes his final adjustments, then calls out, “Fire her up!”

A yellow and blue spark flies across the gap between the red wires as Tomás scrambles over the groaning engine, feeding it gas, adjusting screws.

“Try it again!” he says.

The engine spews blue smoke again, and then dies. I watch Tomás trying to adjust the carburetor. “That carburetor looks older than the one that we had on our boat, and Bebo said that it was ready for the trash heap.” Tomás doesn't look up. I can't figure out why Tomás can't see the wolf in Dog's face. He might be smart about inventing machines that bounce tomatoes around and fixing up boats, but he sure isn't too smart about people.

“Get back to the wires. We're almost ready,” Tomás says.

I grab the bundle of wires and he yells, “Go ahead!”

When I connect the red wires the engine roars to life. It's running rough, like it's about to shake itself into a thousand pieces.

“She's going to blow! Shut her off!” Tomás yells.

I pull the wires apart; the engine sputters and dies.

“Great! Did you hear that?” Tomás sings as he dances around the deck. “It won't be long now.”

It took a few days but I convinced monkey man to let me draw on the path to the beach; the only problem is that I have to give him half of the money I collect. It made me mad at first because I'm doing all the work and it's not even his hotel, but I have no choice. Ramirez never comes here.

Today I drew a picture of a big marlin fish jumping and a tiny fisherman, half its size, looking determined to pull the big fish into the boat. It looks just like the one painted on the plate that I broke. The tourists seemed to like it so I went to the other side of the pool and drew another one.

After I collect the two dimes and three nickels, I go find the monkey man. He insists that I empty my pockets in front of him so that he can count the money himself.

“Why, do you think I would cheat you?” I say.

“Wouldn't you?” he says.

As he counts the money I realize that I did the same thing to Dog, and that's why Tomás got mad at me. I guess I just assumed he looked like a crook. But still I think I'm right about Dog and the monkey man is wrong about me.

Monkey man counts and then divides it up. He stacks most of the coins on his side. “I need the coins to make change,” he says as he gives me a few coins and two one-dollar bills.

I scoop up my half of the money, and count the change. I have enough to make one short call. When he leaves I sneak around to the phone booth and sit down inside. I look over my numbers, trying to decide which one to call. On the back cover of my notebook I find a number written in a different hand than my mother's. Now I remember that Bebo wrote that number down on the last day that I talked to him in the kitchen. It's his mother's number. He said he was going to stay with her while he was waiting for school to start.

One, two, three, four rings
—I think he said that his mother lived in the country—
five, six
—and that she had a garden—
seven, eight, nine
—maybe he's . . .

“¿Hola?”

“Bebo! I can't believe it. You're the first one, the only one. Is that really you?”

“This is really me, but the question is who are you?”

“You don't recognize my voice?” I say. “It's good to hear your voice!”

“Julian!
¿Amigo, que dices?
I didn't recognize your voice. You sound all grown up. What are those Yankees feeding you?”

“Oh, you know, meat loaf, oatmeal—American food.”

It's good to hear Bebo laugh even if he's ninety miles away.

“Bebo, have you seen my parents?”

“Chico, the last time I saw them was two weeks ago. I went to your father's office to get some things I left behind. He was moving out.”

“Did he say where he was going?”

“
Sí
, he said he was going to San Miguel. They're staying in a house that we built. The guy he built it for left the country.”

“Did he leave a number?” I ask.

“No, he said there's no phone there.”

“No phone?” I can't believe it. “How am I going to get in touch with them?”

“I could take a bus there. What do you need to tell them?”

“You would do that for me, Bebo?”

“Of course, you're my friend, Julian. You would do the same for me.”

“Tell them to go to . . .” but then I stop when I remember Tomás telling me that sometimes people listen in on calls. I've rehearsed what I was going to say but I imagined I was going to say it to my mother. What if I say something wrong and I get Bebo in trouble?

“Take your time, Julian, I understand,” Bebo says calmly. I think he does understand. Bebo could always read my mind.

“Tell them Tomás's father has Mami's little bird in
Reglas
and if she wants it, she has to take the first ferry there on the twelfth,” I blurt out real fast.

“That's all I need, Julian; you don't have to say anything else. I'll take care of it today. You can call me back tomorrow at the same time. So how are your brothers?” Bebo asks, changing the subject, but before I can answer I hear a click and the operator comes on to ask for more money. I know that I have no more quarters but I search my pockets anyway. Then I hear the dial tone and I know he's gone.

As I walk back to Armando's tent I don't know whether to feel happy or worried. What if Bebo doesn't find them? What if they say no? What if they say yes? What if they get caught? What if the boat sinks? My brain is stuttering on an endless list of what-ifs. I sit down in the shade of the tent. Inside I can hear Armando talking but I don't pay attention because he's always talking to himself, reciting facts or repeating words over and over like a Cuban parrot.

Then I hear Tomás's angry voice. “I need your share for the gas.” I peek inside and Tomás is standing over Armando, with his fists clenched.

“Look, Tomás, I told you already, I can't do anything about it. His
novia
does not want to come, and my brother will not leave without her.”

Tomás looks like he's going to hit Armando. “You promised. You gave your word!”

I close the flap. Now I'm convinced that I can't say anything about my phone call. I have to wait.

When I look inside Armando is frantically searching through his notes. “Ah jes, here it is. When a door closes, a window opens.”

Tomás whirls around. “This is what I think of your window that opens!” He pulls the notes off the tent, crumples them up, and throws them out the window. “Everyone else gave me their money already.” His voice is scary calm. “I let you go until the end because I trusted you, but I need every nickel that was promised. You know that I can't make the trip without it.”

“Sorry, amigo, but I've already spent that money,” Armando whispers as if he's letting us in on a big secret. “English lessons.” Then he announces cheerfully, “They start next week!”

Tomás is rocking from side to side. It looks like he can't decide whether to rush Armando or turn around and leave. I step inside and stand in between him and Armando. “Tomás, I have some money,” I say and dig my bills out of my pocket. “Here, this is for you. I have more on the boat.”

Tomás puts his hands down, opens his fists, and I push the money into his hand.

Tomás looks at the folded bills. “Thank you, Julian, but I'll need a lot more than this.”

I gently push him outside. “I have more on the boat. Let's go home.”

When we step out onto the sand, he exhales and stares at the sea. I can feel him trying to push his anger out to the blue horizon, so it can float away with the ivory clouds. Then he inhales slowly and says, “I have to find a way.”

We're sitting in a booth at Pirate Angel's. Tomás is working his numbers on a napkin.

“Without Armando's share, it's going to be really close,” he says and then crosses out all the numbers and starts again.

Dr. De La Vega is balancing a knife on his finely tapered but pruny fingers. “Tomás, I've given you everything I have.”

His boss, Mr. Papanapalulis, twists the ends of his bushy mustache and asks, “How much?”

“We need a life raft, spare spark plugs, and cables, then I have to fill both gas tanks.” Tomás writes a figure on a napkin and hands it to him.

“That's a lot of money!” Mr. Papanapalulis says, and
then scratches the gray stubble on his chin. “When we come to this country from Greece many people help. That's why I hire the doctor; he's a lousy dishwasher but someday he'll be a great doctor. We all need to help sometimes so I give you twenty-five, but that's all. If my wife finds out I give you our house money”—he pulls his index finger across his throat.

Tomás shakes his hand. “Thank you, I'll pay you back as soon as I can.”

The doctor puts his arm around his boss. “This is a good man!
Amigo
, when I get my doctor's license I promise to operate on any organ you want, for free!” Then he plants a loud smacking kiss on top of his shiny head. Mr. Papanapalulis quietly chews on the end of his mustache, contemplating the offer as he starts walking back to the kitchen. When he sees that the doctor is still sitting in the booth, he bangs on the counter. “Back to work!” he roars. “Remember, in Miami there are many doctors that want to wash dishes!”

As the doctor gets up he slips a ring from his finger. “My wedding ring,” he says as he pushes the ring across the table toward Tomás. “You said the guy at the pumps would trade jewelry and things for gas. This will buy a few gallons.”

Tomás shakes the doctor's hand. “I'll try to talk him into not selling it until I can buy it back. But I can't promise anything.” Tomás gets up. “
Gracias, amigo
. Someday I will repay your kindness.”

The doctor shrugs his shoulders. “Amigo, all we can do is try,” he says and then slides out of the booth.

“Good-bye, Julian.”

Tomás is already heading for the door.

“Good-bye, Doctor. Good luck with your tests,” I say and then hurry to catch up with Tomás.

“It's starting to rain,” I yell, but Tomás doesn't answer. He must be juggling miles, dollars, and gallons of gas in his head. As I run to catch up, I see a dark sedan idling by the curb. The two men inside are looking straight at us.

“Tomás,” I yell, “it's Ramirez, the guy in the car. He's a policeman. We've got to run!”

When he sees the car, Tomás snaps out of his numbers trance and pulls me into the driveway of a used car lot. “
¡Caramba!
That's all I need now. Don't look at them. Don't run until I tell you,” he whispers, as we walk past the sales trailer. “Stay low and head for the vans. They won't see us there.”

We duck down low and run in between the sedans toward the tall vans in the back of the car lot. I can see the back fence but then a large man in a black plastic raincoat jumps out from behind a van and blocks our path.

“Hey! What are you doing here?” he yells in English.

Tomás dives to the right and I run to the left. Tomás is one step ahead, so the man grabs me instead. I'm kicking and squirming as the giant lifts me up over his head and starts running back to his trailer by the road. From up here I can see over the tops of the vans and the dark sedan just
turning into the lot. I look down, and Tomás is running toward us with a broom. He pokes the broom handle in between the man's legs. The man stumbles, lets go, and now I'm flying through the air. I land and then bounce back up on my feet. The man is trying to get up but his legs are tangled up in his raincoat. Tomás throws the broom at him and then I follow Tomás to the fence.

As we negotiate the sharp barbs on top of the chain-link fence, the men in the black suits are jumping over the giant.

We twist and slide our way through a tangle of thorny bushes. Ripe, red berries stain our clothes and skin, as a squawking blue jay, angry that we've disturbed its banquet, dives and pecks at our heads.

“We're on the wrong side of the river,” Tomás groans.

We dive in and start swimming across. Tomás is way ahead of me when the strong current in the middle of the river grabs me. I swim as hard as I can but I still end up downstream from the boat.

Tomás is waiting for me inside the cabin when I trip down the steps and, before I can say anything, he pounds his fist on the counter. “You didn't tell me that they're looking for you, Julian.”

“Why? They're not looking for you, Tomás,” I say.

“Julian, if they caught us just now they would have dragged me in with you! Even if I got away they would come after me.”

“Why? You didn't do anything!”

“First thing they'll ask you is where are you living?” Tomás waves his hand around the cabin. “When they come down here they'll know right away what I'm up to. If the Coast Guard takes my boat away, what do you think is going to happen to all those people waiting on the dock? I told you right from the beginning, the more people in the chain the riskier it gets. One little mistake, one weak link, and we all sink.”

I look away hoping he won't ask me about my parents. If I told him that I had to leave a message with Bebo he would see it as one more link in the chain. He wouldn't understand that Bebo is my friend. I trust him.

Tomás doesn't say more than three words to me for the rest of the afternoon. We work late into the night clearing the decks, checking off the things on his long list that have to be done before he can leave. He was still up when I went to bed.