Randy Wayne White - North of Havana

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Praise for
RANDY WAYNE WHITE

"Randy Wayne White and his Doc Ford join my list of must-reads. It is no small matter when I assert that White is getting pretty darn close to joining Carl Hiaasen and John D. Mac-Donald as writers synonymous with serious Florida issues and engaging characters."
Chicago Tribune

"Randy Wayne White is a fine storyteller whose taut episodes are illuminated by humor and a strong sense of place."
Peter Matthiessen

"White is a wildly inventive storyteller whose witty, offbeat novels come packed with pleasure."

"White is the rightful heir to John D. MacDonald, Carl Hiaasen, James Hall, Geoffrey Norman ... his precise prose is as fresh and pungent as a salty breeze."
Tampa Tribune-Times

Also by Randy Wayne White

SANIBEL FLATS
THE HEAT ISLANDS
THE MAN WHO INVENTED FLORIDA
CAPTIVA

Nonfiction
BATFISHING IN THE RAINFOREST

NORTH of
HAVANA

RANDY WAYNE WHITE

BERKLEY PRIME CRIME, NEW YORK

If you purchased this book without a cover, you should be aware that this book is stolen property. It was reported as "unsold and destroyed" to the publisher, and neither the author nor the publisher has received any payment for this "stripped book."

NORTH OF HAVANA

All rights reserved. Copyright 1997 by Randy Wayne White. This book may not be reproduced in whole or in part, by mimeograph or any other means, without permission. For information address: The Berkley Publishing Group, a member of Penguin Putnam Inc., 200 Madison Avenue, New York, NY 10016.

The Penguin Putnam Inc. World Wide Web site address is http://www.penguinputnam.com

ISBN: 0-425-16294-X

Berkley Prime Crime Books are published by The Berkley Publishing Group, a member of Penguin Putnam Inc., 200 Madison Avenue, New York, NY 10016. The name BERKLEY PRIME CRIME and the BERKLEY PRIME CRIME design are trademarks belonging to Berkley Publishing Corporation.

PRINTED IN THE UNITED STATES OF AMERICA

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Author's Note

I have visited Cuba several times, including a long stay in Mariel Harbor during the extraordinary and tragic 1980 refugee boat lift. Even so, writers whose knowledge of Cuba far exceeds my own have unknowingly contributed to this novel through their work. Highly recommended are Castro's Final Hour, by Andres Oppenheimer, Fidel Castro, by Robert E. Quirk, and the Cruising Guide to Cuba, by Simon Charles, a book that revealed Sanibel Island's topographical twin. Any factual errors or misrepresentations of fact in this novel are entirely my fault, or of my own creation, and their fine books played no role.

I would also like to thank the great people of Useppa Island, Florida, who allowed me room to work, particularly my friend Ginny Amsler, who read the early drafts and provided advice and support. I would also like to thank my buddies on Cabbage KeyBob, Thea, Kim, Terry, Joleen, Jerry, Angel, Mike, and Judywho always welcomed me with a cold beer and warm attention when, after a withering day of work, I came zombie eyed up the mound. Finally, I would like to thank Rogan Whitea lifelong friendfor helping me finish this book.

For friends who are equal to Marion Ford's tough definition of the word: Dr. Brian Hummel, Rob Wells, and Debra Jane White. Also: Robert Bunk Fizer, a proud fellow member of the jumping-out-of-the-boat-at-night club, who bailed a final time.

I had never seen primitive man in his native place till then.
H. M. Tomlinson The Sea and the Jungle

Our worst enemies are not the ignorant and the simple, however cruel; our worst enemies are the intelligent and corrupt.
Graham Greene The Human Factor

The islands of Sanibel and Cayo de Soto exist, but they are used fictitiously in this novel. Havana, Mariel Harbor, and the Cuban countryside are, I hope, accurately described and reflect my own observations and experiences there. In all other respects, this novel is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or to actual events or locales is entirely coincidental.

NORTH of
HAVANA

T omlinson telephoned at three minutes before ten Friday evening, December 20, to tell me that he was stranded in Havana, broke, frustrated, sailboat impounded, seriously discommoded, wholly bummed out and if I wasn't too busy, if I wasn't right in the middle of boxing a shipment of sea anemones or if my manatee research project could be conveniently interrupted, maybe, just maybe, I could get my butt to a neutral country and catch a plane to Cuba.

I thought: Cuba? Nope; no way. I will not go back to Cuba.

Tomlinson was talking: "You heard of a person being held against his will? I'm being held against my bill, man. Like they're holding No Ms hostage until I can float the nut, plus charging me storage to boot! As in muchos si-moleons, comprende?"

"The government?"

"These guys dressed in baby shit brown. Like storm troopers"

"Who confiscated your boat, I mean." I was beginning to get a sick feeling in my stomach.

"Aren't you listening? Yes. The cubanodamn government. Man, it pains me to admit it, but socialism has gone to hell since I left the loop. I just thank the good Lord that Chairman Mao isn't alive to see it. Talk about a reality check! These pud duckers give me any more crap, I'm going to contact my old comrades from the SDS, Boston cell, and raise a serious stink. Who do they think came down here and cut their goddamn sugarcane in nineteen seventy-one? Wouldn't you think they had my name on file? Jesus Christ, we ate nothing but beans. We slept in barns. They had donkeys that bit like dogs! A machete scar meant something in those days."

Tomlinson was rantingconduct out of character. Lately, though, he had been doing many things out of character. As his neurosurgeon, Maria Corales, had told me, "You can expect some odd behavior. He's been out of the hospital only what? A year? The beating he took, his brain was so traumatized that it could be another yearor morebefore he's back to normal. So be kind to him. Be understanding."

So I listened kindly. And I tried to understand. But I kept thinking: Jesus, Cuba...

Tomlinson was calling, he said, from the Hotel Nacional, the old Meyer Lansky casino and brothel in downtown Havana, built during prohibition to service America's thirsty leisure class. It was his fifth night in the hotel, but he was thinking of switching to the Havana Libre up the street. At a rack rate of two hundred bucks a night, neither he nor his female companion could afford the Nacional much longer, and it had taken him that long to figure out a way to contact me.

"The phone system here," he said, "is not unlike whacking off. It's a hell of a mess and leaves something to be desired."

Not long ago, an American communications conglomerate received a lot of press about opening direct-dial phone service to Cuba. It was one of those hands-across-the-water events that implied a new relationship with our island foe of the old Cold War years. It also implied that Cubans had the freedom-never mind the financial meansto reciprocate. Not so, according to Tomlinson. You couldn't just pick up a Havana pay phone and dial your friendly AT&T operator. So what he'd finally done was find a guy who helped him work out a phone patch through the Vancouver British Columbia Marine Operator, a bit of satellite pinball that now had our digitized voices ricocheting through the ionosphere, then back and forth across the continent Person-to-person. Collect.