Frame 232 (28 page)

Noah scanned his memory but could recall no mention of such a person by either Sheila or Jason. It was entirely plausible that she had retained legal counsel following her mother’s death. But anyone could have learned about that. It was not beyond imagination that the caller was another reporter sniffing around for details. Noah had experienced enough of their odious tactics in the last few days to believe anything was possible.

“. . . concerning my client.”

“I’m sorry,” Noah said. “What was that?”

“I need all the information you have concerning my client.”

“Unfortunately I can’t say I have any recollection of Sheila mentioning
 
—”

“Do not stonewall me, Mr. Gwynn,” Moore said, firing it back so rapidly that it was obvious he had anticipated resistance. “I have known Sheila Baker since the day she was born, and I knew her folks long before that. I helped her daddy set up his first business. I managed the fund that put Sheila through college. And I was the executor for her mama’s estate after she passed. One of the tasks I performed in that capacity
 
—” this came out particularly inflected:
cuh-paa-sih-TEE
 
—“was to give Sheila the key to a safe-deposit box that
her mama opened in 1976. Now I see on the news that my girl has disappeared and is possibly the victim of a kidnapping. And this after romping around the country with your Mr. Hammond. Can I assume all this has to do with what she found in that box?”

“Well, I
 
—”

“I want to be clear here, Mr. Gwynn. I will not hesitate to open litigation if I feel it warranted. And make no mistake, I know more about the law than any of your high-priced hotshots. Now, I’ll ask you again
 
—does this have anything to do with what she found in that safe-deposit box?”

“Yes, it does.”

“And would you kindly give me all the information you have so I can begin making inquiries on my end? Time is not to be wasted here.”

Noah tried to find further reason to be doubtful, but nothing came. If this person was in fact a reporter, he would’ve served humanity better in the movie business. But he wasn’t, and Noah knew it. Time and age and the wisdom of experience had taught him to recognize the ring of truth when he heard it.
And he’s right
 
—time is not to be wasted. On that point there can be no argument.

He took a deep breath and began at the beginning. And this time, he left out nothing.

THE OLD WORLD
colonization of Cuba began in the early 1500s with the Spanish, who built villages around the natural inlet that is known today as Havana Harbor. It soon became a stopping point for weary travelers sailing under Spain’s flag, as well as a shipbuilding center and something of a treasury.

As this original configuration of Havana
 
—redubbed “Old” Havana centuries later
 
—grew and prospered, so did its immigrant population. These early settlers then bore a generation that were not immigrants at all, that generation was eventually buried by its own kin, and Cuba was off and running. Villages became towns, and towns became cities, and the majority of new construction was fashioned after Spain’s interpretation of architectural baroque. Facades featured bold and striking projections rendered in towers, colonnades, and balconies. There were high domes and ornate naves and sprawling courtyards. Civic planners often began a neighborhood with a central square, then moved outward in radiating lines via narrow cobbled pathways. The latter were intended to be traveled on foot, and thus most that remain are impassable by modern forms of transport.

These early influences remain in Old Havana to this day, although the years have exacted a heavy toll. Some of the original structures have collapsed and, with no serious inclination or available funds to rebuild them, exist now as piles of rubble. Others have enjoyed the benefits of renovation to varying degrees. This has occurred not only because of a love of their beauty and respect for their heritage but also to make them safe for continued use. Many have been recast in the pastel colors so loved by the Cuban people. But even these have succumbed to harsh weather and lack of vigilance, making them appear like the ruins of a more prosperous time.

Perhaps the most curious facet of Old Havana’s urban landscape, one that seems to stand in unresolved contrast to its beautiful if crumbling architecture, is the ubiquitous presence of preembargo U.S. vehicles
 
—swollen old Chevys, fin-tailed Fords, and sturdy, confident Oldsmobiles. These stand as evidence of an age when Cuba was viewed by a generation of Americans as a vacationer’s paradise, a Caribbean pearl gleaming with the lure of cheap liquor, exotic women, postcard beaches, and a bustling casino industry run by unseen entities who made sure everyone had a good time while keeping the proper authorities fat and happy on a clandestine payroll. In the decades since the feud between Kennedy and Castro, a few of these vintage vehicles have been lovingly maintained in a near-pristine state. Most, however, are faded and pitiable relics, held together by body filler, random household items, and the irresistible force of economic necessity.

Walking down an uneven sidewalk lit by weak sodium lights, Hammond passed one of these exhausted classics, a ’52 Chevy Deluxe badly in need of a paint job. A young couple in the front seat doing what young couples have done since time immemorial took no notice of him. He strode wearily
by and turned down an alleyway that had a stream of water running down its spine. Some of the doors and windows on either side were shuttered by iron gates as if to confirm after-hours criminal activity in this narrow corridor. Others gave no such evidence
 
—a few of the windows stood open and had colorful flower boxes attached to the sills, and clothes had been hung out to dry on poles secured by electrical wire. One dwelling appeared to be freshly painted, whereas another had been gutted so completely that the doorways and window frames looked like empty eye sockets.

Hammond took no more interest in these details than he had the amorous couple in the car. Every muscle ached, every joint was sore, and his head throbbed with frustration and anger. He had spoken to nearly forty people so far, yet the amount of solid information he had gathered on Olivero Clemente wasn’t enough to fill one side of an index card. He had been polite, had spread some money around, but no one was talking.

These people knew who Clemente was; of that he was certain. But they were feeling protective, like they were all members of the man’s personal security detail. Hammond was keeping notes and had already encountered several examples of blatant misinformation. The lead he was following now had sounded promising, as they all did at first
 
—a tip from a punky-looking kid who said he knew a bartender who could tell Hammond everything he wanted to know. The bartender’s name was disseminated for twenty dollars. It cost Hammond another ten for directions to his place of employment.

He emerged from the alleyway into a tiny courtyard. Several structures surrounded it, all in apparently operable condition. There was a neoclassical fountain in the center that looked as though it hadn’t functioned in ages. There were
more people here too. A middle-aged couple enjoyed each other’s company at a candlelit café table under an archway, the man leaning back smoking a cigar, the woman holding a glass of wine. On the opposite side of the courtyard, two sun-leathered men sat on upturned crates, hunched over a game of chess, the board on a crate of its own. And there were children, in spite of the lateness of the hour, running around the fountain clad only in ratty cargo shorts, the outlines of their ribs clearly visible against the smooth brown of their skin.

It took Hammond several moments to figure out which of the buildings housed the bar. The absence of posted address numbers only heightened his irritation, as did the fact that advertising of any kind was forbidden in this country. The only way you really knew what was where was by living here. Since he didn’t meet that criteria, logistics made even the most basic tasks tiresome. He wondered how a person could hope to accomplish anything in such a deliberately halting society.

His destination, he finally determined, was a three-story building that looked like something out of an old spaghetti western. The triple-arched front porch supported a large balcony occupied by more café tables and more young couples unafraid to display their affections in public. The women wore bright salsa dresses, the men tight black pants and white silk shirts with broad-wing collars. Behind them stood a pair of open doors, and beyond that a formerly elegant dance hall now served as a discotheque. Hammond could not see this, but he could hear the pounding beat of Latin-flavored hip-hop and could see the swirling lights.

As he approached, one of the young men began hurling expletives down. The girlfriend, perched on his lap, giggled and kissed him on the cheek. Hammond heard and understood every word but offered no response. The idiot was still
crowing when Hammond went up the three brief steps and pulled the screen door open.

The bar’s interior possessed as much character as the town around it. The carpet, still beautifully patterned in spite of being worn shiny, led to a long bar built from a dark and handsome wood of some exotic variety. The mirror behind it had become so aged that it offered no more than a pensive reflection. Crystal chandeliers hung from a high ceiling that had been smoke-cured to an inconsistent light brown. In the back, a spiral staircase ran up to the discotheque. Hammond could still hear the music through the ceiling, albeit in a mercifully muted form. It was further smothered by the more civilized
danzón
music that drifted through a handful of large and strategically spaced speakers on this floor.

The crowd here was older than the adolescent herd upstairs. The men wore Panama hats to conceal their retreating hairlines; the women wore dresses that wrapped around their increasingly plump frames and makeup that, along with the poor lighting, made them almost desirable again. Some patrons were already thoroughly drunk, others well on their way. A few heads turned when Hammond entered, but most paid him no mind. The fact that there were other customers of Caucasian lineage was a contributing factor. This was something Hammond had also read about in his guides
 
—American citizens who visited Cuba illegally, traveling through third-party countries and making sure their passports weren’t stamped by Cuban authorities, all to take advantage of the tropical clime, easy companionship, and perpetually desperate economy.

Hammond found an unoccupied sliver of space at the bar and wedged himself in. A very young bartender, looking more respectable than any of his kin with slicked-back hair and a smart red vest, approached.

“Qué se le ofrece?”
What would you like?

“Una Coca-Cola, por favor.”

Some heads turned, and the boy paused. The confusion printed on his face seemed to say,
You mean, without alcohol?

As if to clarify, Hammond added,
“En una lata o una botella, no abierta.”
In a can or bottle, unopened.
He didn’t particularly like soda, but he liked alcohol even less and had no intention of drinking anything that required tap water.

The bartender gave a stoic nod and squidged off down the rubber mat. While he was gone, Hammond spotted the person he was looking for. At the other end, leaning on one elbow and chatting with customers, was a man in his early sixties. He was heavy around the waist and had dark hair that was too fine to control in such a humid environment; it ran in every direction. Like his young coworker, he was clad almost regally in pressed black pants, a white shirt, and a red vest with gold buttons. But the most arresting feature by far was the dark patch that covered his right eye.

His younger colleague reappeared and set down the Coke, which came in a frosted can, along with a ridiculously small glass half-filled with ice.

“How much?” Hammond asked, continuing with his excellent Spanish.

“One,” came the reply, along with a raised finger.

Hammond removed a five from his pocket and set it down, watching the boy’s face. There was an instant
 
—fleeting but detectable
 
—when the kid’s eyes widened at the sight of American currency.

“You can keep the rest,” Hammond said, “but please do me one favor. The gentleman down there, with the eye patch. Would you ask him to come over here?”

The boy nodded and snatched up the bill. When the
older bartender turned to appraise Hammond, the person he’d been speaking with
 
—a man of remarkable bulk
 
—leaned over to get a look at Hammond for himself. Neither of them projected a particularly welcoming deportment. The bartender tossed one last remark to his friend, then pushed himself away and came forward at a leisurely pace.

Upon his arrival, he set his hands well apart on the bar and said,
“Qué quiere?”
What do you want?

“Information,” Hammond said. He had reached into his pocket and taken out another folded bill
 
—a ten this time.

The bartender’s good eye gave the note only the briefest acknowledgment. It was an impressive display of self-control when one considered the average salary in Cuba was about less than twenty dollars per month. “What information, exactly?”

Hammond reached in again and took out a third bill
 
—a twenty. This was shown in a flash, almost like a magician’s trick, then laid over the ten and kept under his palm.

Again, the man seemed unmoved.

“I’m looking for someone.”

The bartender smiled. All the teeth were there, but it had been many years since they possessed their original color or positioning.

“Many people come in here looking for someone,” he said.

“I doubt many come looking for this one. His name is Olivero Clemente.”

This time there was a reaction, one that managed to be subtle and dramatic at the same time. The man’s one eye narrowed while the eyebrow rose. The smile vanished, the mouth re-forming into a twisted expression of revulsion.
And the man leaned back slightly, as if he’d just detected an unpleasant odor.

Hammond had seen similar reactions earlier in the night.
He knows,
he thought.
The kid I paid was right
 
—he knows Clemente, and he knows him well.

“I have nothing to tell you.”

“You’re lying,” Hammond said. It came out too quickly and with too much acid, but he was past the point of caring.

“What was that?”

“I know you know him. I was told by others that you would know about him, know where I could find him. I insist that you tell me.”

There was a brief pause in their volley, during which the bartender gave Hammond a look of incredulity that said,
Are you serious?
Then he smiled again. “Good-bye,
señor
,” he said and began to turn away.

Hammond reached over and grabbed him, a move so abrupt that several people gasped. The bartender turned back, clearly shocked, looking first at the hand holding him and then at its owner. The mountainous figure of a man that he had been speaking with earlier rose from his stool at the other end of the bar. Hammond was aware of this and of the fact that he was even larger than originally estimated.

“It is most important that I speak with him,” Hammond said in a low, steady tone. “It may be a matter of life and death.”