Cuba Straits (A Doc Ford Novel Book 22), by Randy Wayne White
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Cuba Straits (A Doc Ford Novel Book 22), by Randy Wayne White
Free Ebook Online Cuba Straits (A Doc Ford Novel Book 22), by Randy Wayne White
The remarkable new novel in the Doc Ford series by New York Times–bestselling author Randy Wayne White. Doc Ford’s old friend, General Juan Garcia, has gone into the lucrative business of smuggling Cuban baseball players into the U.S. He is also feasting on profits made by buying historical treasures for pennies on the dollar. He prefers what dealers call HPC items—high-profile collectibles—but when he manages to obtain a collection of letters written by Fidel Castro between 1960–62 to a secret girlfriend, it’s not a matter of money anymore. Garcia has stumbled way out of his depth.First Garcia disappears, and then the man to whom he sold the letters. When Doc Ford begins to investigate, he soon becomes convinced that those letters contain a secret that someone, or some powerful agency, cannot allow to be made public.A lot happened between Cuba and the United States from 1960–62. Many men died. A few more will hardly be noticed.From the Hardcover edition.
Cuba Straits (A Doc Ford Novel Book 22), by Randy Wayne White - Amazon Sales Rank: #15542 in eBooks
- Published on: 2015-03-24
- Released on: 2015-03-24
- Format: Kindle eBook
Cuba Straits (A Doc Ford Novel Book 22), by Randy Wayne White Review Praise for BONE DEEP “White keeps the action churning forward as Doc encounters both human and animal foes, but the real interest here is the archaeological backdrop. Masterfully seeding the plot with information on Florida’s ancient natural history—and its contemporary environmental challenges—White delivers a novel that perfectly blends story and landscape. We often say that fine nonfiction has the narrative drive of a good thriller, but we rarely have occasion to say that a fine thriller has all the mind-boggling fascination of compelling nonfiction.”––Booklist (starred review) “A descent into the world of overzealous and unethical fossil collectors leads to a boat-napping, stolen artifacts, and increasingly dire threats . . . White does a fine job detailing Florida’s unique history and geography.”––Publishers WeeklyPraise for NIGHT MOVES “Fans will still be riveted by Ford and Hannah’s tango-like mating dance. And the climax is a corker, too. Over his last several Doc Ford novels, White has vaulted to mainstream bestseller status. This one is likely to maintain the pattern.”—Booklist “Captivating . . . [an] intriguing installment.”—Publishers Weekly “White weaves in and out of the two mysteries — the murder attempt and Flight 19 — telling the story with the same tight, vivid prose his fans have come to expect. The result is another strong addition to one of crime fiction’s most consistent series.”—Associated Press “Drawing on his usual mix of science, ecology and Florida lore, White reels in an exciting story in "Night Moves” . . . [the novel] illustrates why, after 20 novels, Ford's double life and White's attention to the Florida scenery continue to intrigue readers.”—South Florida Sun-Sentinel
About the Author Randy Wayne White is the author of twenty-one previous Doc Ford novels; the Hannah Smith novels Gone, Deceived, and Haunted; and four collections of nonfiction. He lives on Sanibel Island, Florida, where he was a light-tackle fishing guide for many years.
Excerpt. © Reprinted by permission. All rights reserved.
1At sunrise in November, Marion D. Ford, wearing shortsand jungle boots, jogged the tide line where Sanibel Islandcrescents north, and finally said, “Screw it,” tired of windand pelting sand. To his right were colorful cottages—red, yellow,green—The Castaways, a popular resort during season, but this wasTuesday and a slow time of year. He went to the outdoor shower,thinking he’d hide his boots and swim through the breakers. Hewas ten pounds overweight and sick of his own excuses.A porch door opened: a woman backlit by clouds of cinnamon,the sun up but not hot enough to burn through. “Want some coffee?”She cupped her hands to be heard. “Your dog’s welcome, if he’s sociable.”No idea who the woman was. Wearing a sweatshirt, with anarticulate, strong voice that suggested Midwestern genetics: a descendantof dairymaids good at sports and baking pies. Late thirties, arental compact in the drive, only one pair of sandals outside the door:a woman on a budget vacationing alone.Ford said, “Can’t. I’m punishing myself.”The woman replied, “You, too?” and walked toward him, startedto speak but stopped, got up on her toes, focusing on somethingout there in the waves. “What in the world . . . is that someone drowning?”Beyond the sandbar, Ford saw what might have been a barrelbut one thrashing appendage told him was not. He removed hisglasses. “A loggerhead, I think. This isn’t mating season, so it mustbe hurt.”“Logger-what?”“A sea turtle.” Ford handed her his glasses, jogged to the breakers,and duck-dived, still wearing his damn boots. The dog, which was aretriever but not a Lab or golden, swam after him. That was a mistake, too.The turtle, barnacles on its back, was tangled in fishing line, and,yes, drowning. Ford had to alternately battle his dog, then the turtle,which hissed and struck like a snake while he maneuvered the thingthrough waves into the shallows. The woman was impressed. “Youseem to know what you’re doing.”“On rare occasions. Do you have a knife?”“You’re not going to . . . ?”“Of course not.”The woman galloped to the cottage, her sweatshirt bouncing incounter-synch, legs not long but solid. Nice. She watched Ford cut theturtle free, inspect it for cuts, then nurse the animal back through thesurf, where he side-stroked alongside for a while. The woman was waiting with a towel, coffee in a mug, and water for the dog.“Why not come inside and dry off? Or a hot shower, if you like,but you’ll have to forgive the mess.” The look the woman gave himwas unmistakable—not that Ford often got that look from womenhe didn’t know. “Three mornings straight I’ve watched you run pasthere,”—an awkward smile—“so I finally worked up the nerve. Isit always this windy in November?”Ford cleaned his glasses with the towel. “Nerve?”“Old-fashioned, I guess. You know, speaking to strange men andall that.” Another look, eyes aware, before she added, “I’m here all alone.”Ford tested several excuses before he followed the woman inside.He was thinking, Why do the lonely ones choose islands?That night in Fort Myers. off Daniels Road, he was at HammondStadium, where the Minnesota Twins train, one of the practicefields, listening to his friend Tomlinson ramble on about something,but not really listening.“Which is why,” his friend concluded, “I won’t even watch a gameon TV without wearing the ol’ codpiece.”Mentioning fish got Ford’s attention. “You caught a cod? Theydon’t migrate this far south.”“No, man—my cup. Until a woman finds an expiration date onmy dick, I simply will not risk the Hat Trick Twins.” Tomlinsonrapped three bell tones from between his legs to illustrate, whichproved nothing, because they were sitting in a dugout, under lights, wearing baseball uniforms, not in a bar watching TV. On the fieldwas a Senior League team from Orlando, a left-hander warmingup while the umpires kibitzed, game time stalled for no apparentreason. Tomlinson muttered, “Geezus, what’s the holdup?” He grabbedthe fence, yelled, “Hey, blue—while we’re still young, okay?” beforereturning to Ford. “You seem distracted, ol’ buddy. Romantic problemsor is it something unusual?”Ford replied, “This morning I found a turtle tangled in fishingline—one of those crimped wire leaders tourists buy at Walgreens. Iassumed it was a loggerhead because they’re so common. Now I don’tthink so.”“Was it dead? Goddamn pharmaceutical companies. They’d sellPop-Tarts to diabetics if it bumped their numbers.”“The turtle was only about fifty pounds but already had barnaclesgrowing. See what I’m getting at? Even a young loggerhead orhawksbill would be closer to a hundred. Or maybe I’m wrong aboutthat, too. I had him in my hands but didn’t bother to notice details.Embarrassing, how little I know about sea turtles. Wouldn’t you expecta biologist to notice what the hell species it was?”Tomlinson knew the pitcher from Orlando or would not haveyelled, “Joe . . . Hey, Joey—put some color in that rainbow. Slow-pitchis for commies, dude.” This ultra-left-wing Zen Buddhist priest (he’dbeen ordained in Japan) and dope-smoking boat bum was a differentperson when he exited reality and entered a baseball field.Joey flipped Tomlinson the bird.Ford mused, “Now I’m thinking it might have been a Kemp’sRidley turtle, or even a Pacific Ridley. Two of the rarest in theworld—the thing snapped at me like a dog, which is typical accordingto the literature. And its shell was too round. Had it right there inmy hands; swam with it and still didn’t dawn on me. If that’s not ametaphor for something, I don’t know what the hell is.”Ford hunched forward and retied his spikes, Tomlinson saying, “Ishould’ve never gotten rid of my old Kangaroos. These new Mizunospinch my toe rings. I hate that.” Then hollered through the screen,“Oh great, now I’ve got to piss again. Guys . . . I have a Masonic meetingtomorrow. Any chance we’ll be done?’”Ford sat up. “Know what’s odd? Two days ago, I was readingabout sightings of Pacific Ridleys in the Cuba Straits. I just remembered.Olive Ridleys, actually, but they’re the same thing. A few nestsdocumented along this coast, too. Even north of Sarasota.”Tomlinson reverted to his role as Zen master. “Nothing accidentalabout coincidence, Doc. Hey—just listen, for once. You’re beingnudged toward something. Or away. Or into a new avenue of study.Karma seldom grabs a rational man by the balls.”“I didn’t say it was a coincidence.”“Oh?”“Not the Cuba part.” Ford checked the bleachers—only a coupleof wives in attendance—then found the main field, where stadiumlights created a silver dome. Minnesota’s minor league team, the Miracle,was playing St. Pete, a few hundred fans in attendance. He said,“You’ll see when he gets here.”“Who?”“If he shows up,” Ford said, “you’ll understand. A friend from Central America. He was drunk when he called, which might explainwhy he’s late. Or might not.”That made perfect sense to Tomlinson. He nodded, fingering ascar on his temple hidden by scraggly hair—a figure eight which heinsisted was an infinity symbol.“Saving that Ridley is the coincidence. If it was a Ridley. The datagoes back to 1953—one was caught in nets off Pinar del Río onCuba’s western coast. A few years back, a Ridley was photographedlaying eggs near Sarasota. They’re not supposed to be in the Gulf orCaribbean, but sea turtles are like underwater birds. They travel anywherethey want; flawless navigation systems, which suggests a magneticsensitivity that’s still not understood. It crossed my mind I’venever actually seen a Ridley. Not confirmed anyway, which is whyI’m pissed at myself about this morning.”Tomlinson’s attention focused. “Really? You sure that’s the onlyreason?” He said it as if envisioning a woman who was lonely andalone in her vacation cottage. Then added, “I hope you’re not thinkingabout going back to Cuba. That’s risking jail, man; a firing squad,from what I remember. Or has something changed?”Ford shrugged, adjusted his protective gear, and buckled his pants.“I’ll ask Victor to catch the first few innings. He might have gone tothe wrong field.”“Vic? No . . . he went to his car to get eye black. What about Cuba?You know I’m right.”“Not him. The guy I was talking about.”Tomlinson said to Ford, whose spikes clicked as he walked away,“Not if I’m called in to pitch, you’re not leaving. Hey . . . Whoa! Do you have a death wish or get dumped again? Dude . . . I can talk youthrough this.”There is a fine line between getting dumped and a relationshipended by the unanimous vote of one.Ford thought about that as he walked past the spring trainingclubhouse, across the parking lot to the stadium, into a tunnel of noiseand odors: popcorn, beer, and grilled brats. Cuba was also on hismind. What Tomlinson said would’ve been true a few years ago butmight be okay now with the right cover story—or a companion withthe right political ties.The man he was searching for had those ties.Ford spotted him in the outfield cheap seats, alone above the bullpen. The nearest cluster of fans was three sections closer to third base.The man had been watching relief pitchers warm up, not the game,but was now arguing with two security cops.No doubt who it was, even from a distance. The man’s size and hischoice of seats would have been enough.Baseball spikes are tricky on aluminum. It took Ford awhile to getto left field and intervene on behalf of the man who was an oldenemy and sometimes a friend—General Juan Simón Rivera, recentlyarrived from Central America via Havana.“Tell them,” Rivera said in English when he spotted Ford. “Tellthem who I am. Perhaps they will understand that diplomatic immunityincludes baseball and cigars.”He’d been smoking a Cohiba, that was the problem. Ford replied in Spanish. “You want me to blow your cover, General?”This was safe to ask in front of two Anglo sheriffs deputieswho resembled farmhands.Rivera, the former dictator of Masagua, a tiny country that exportedbananas and revolution, got control of himself. Decided,“Hmm. A man of my intellect is seldom a donkey’s ass, but goodpoint. Yes . . . better to indulge these fascists—for now.” Spoke loudlyin slang Spanish, then waited with regal impatience while Ford pacified the cops.When they were gone, Ford endured a bear hug; they exchangedpleasantries—who was married, how many wives, how many kids.Rivera, finally getting to it, said, “I’m surprised you recognized me.I’ve come incognito for a reason.”Instead of signature khakis and boots, he wore a yellow Hawaiianshirt, a Disney visor, and flip-flops. Not enough to disguise a huskyLatino with a gray-splotched beard and wild Russian hair, but Fordplayed along.“A European tourist, General, that’s what I thought at first. Veryclever.”“Yes, I know.”“Oh, it took me awhile.”Rivera expected that. It was a game they played, informal formality,but each man knew the truth about the other. He said, “Sometimesa wolf must blend with the sheep. Yet, not clever enough to foolyou, my old catcher friend.” He noticed Ford’s uniform “Why are younot on the field? I might even agree to pitch a few innings . . . if youhave a large uniform. It doesn’t have to be clean, but it cannot be aneven number. I’m partial to the numbers three, nine, and thirtyseven.”With his hands, he gestured: I think you understand.Santería, a mix of Catholicism and voodoo, was big on numerology,especially when it came to baseball. Rivera was devoted to thegame. In Central America, he had built his own field in the rainforestand drafted soldiers based on their batting averages. He fanciedhimself a great pitcher whose politics had ruined his shot at the major leagues.Ford replied, “General, my teammates would be honored. But,first . . . why are you here?”“Always the same with you, Marion. Rush, rush, rush. Only bachelorhoodhas spared you ulcers, I think.” Rivera nodded to the bullpen, where a pitcher who looked sixteen but was almost seven feettall, sat with his hat askew. “That is Ruben. He’s one of my protégés.The Twins have offered him a tryout, but a mere formality. Ruben’sfastball rivals my own, yet he is a southpaw, as you can tell from hissombrero.”A joke. Gorro was Spanish for “cap.” The general was in a pawky mood.“He can’t be from Masagua. I never saw anyone from Masaguamuch over six feet—except for you. Are you his agent?”Rivera touched an index finger to his lips. “Unfortunately, thesituation requires that Ruben pretends he doesn’t know me. I can’texplain right now.”Ford could guess where this was going but waited.“I have an interesting proposition, Marion.”Ford said, “In Cuba.”“I told you as much on the phone. A nice chunk of silver in U.S.dollars if you agree.”Ford sensed trouble but also escape: turtles, isolated beaches, aland without cell phones—if he wasn’t arrested. “I’ll listen, but I don’tdo that sort of work anymore. Not if it’s dangerous. Or politicalwork—count me out if politics are involved.” He hadn’t ruled outhuman trafficking in deference to his own curiosity.“Politics?” Rivera said. “I spit on the word. I piss on their speeches.To hell with their silly games. I am a freedom fighter—always—buthave learned there are benefits to this free enterprise system of yours.A man is allowed to change, isn’t he?”“Only the small-minded hate change, General.”In clumsy English, Rivera replied, “You can say that twice. Wewill feast ourselves several days in Cuba. A week at most, every expensespaid. But, first”—he hesitated while shifting to Spanish—“I have a little problem here that must be dealt with.”“In Florida?”“Let us hope so.” Rivera leaned closer to speak over the noise ofthe PA system. “I have lost a baseball player. Temporarily, I’m sure,but it would be unwise to contact your police.”“How long has he been missing?”“Not ‘missing’; ‘wandered off.’ Since this morning, when I visitedhis motel—a place not far from here, with a large red sign. Withoutshoes or money, the lunatic could not have gone far.”“He’s crazy?”“Well . . . no more than most, but he’s not as smart as normal men.And honest, very honest, which makes him unpredictable.”Ford had spent much of his life on the water and in baseball dug-outs, which is why he asked, “Were his glove and bat missing? Hecould have worn spikes instead of shoes.”“I didn’t think to check. I was too angry because a briefcase Ientrusted to him was also gone. Nothing of value—some letters, afew photos. What I think is, the crazy fool took my orders to protectthe case too seriously and carried it with him when he wandered off.”Rivera demonstrated the size of the case by holding his hands apart.“An old leather briefcase. Not big, but well sewn.”Ford wondered about that, looking down into the bull pen wherethe seven-foot-tall pitching prospect, sitting alone, was scrutinizing aGatorade label. “Well . . . if the kid looks anything like Ruben, heshouldn’t be too hard to find.”“No, he is a shortstop, and not so young. There is no birth certificateto prove his age, but his brain has not matured. Figueroa Casanovais the name he uses—but we are wasting time. Tomorrow, wewill find Figuerito. Tonight, we must discuss this trip I’ve proposed.”Ford’s mind returned to Cuba. The government there respectedJuan Rivera; with Rivera, he’d probably be safe. But there were otherconcerns. “Would we be traveling . . . together?”Rivera misread Ford’s wariness and was insulted. “In my country,generalissimos do not travel like Yankee flamenco dancers or maricóns.Separately, of course, so bring a woman—two or three—allyou want. I will provide you with a rental car and gas. Details canwait, but on a certain day we will rendezvous in the west of Cuba. Aday or two there, shake a few hands, then back to Havana. Have youtraveled the Pinar del Río region?”Ford knew what “shaking hands” meant but pictured dirt roadsand rainforest when he replied, “I’d have to think back.”“Magnificent countryside, and vegetables from the garden. There,every village has its own baseball campo, so you will have manyopportunities to swing the bat.” Rivera removed a cigar from hisshirt, bit the tip off, chewed and swallowed. “Inferior pitching, ofcourse, but on an island ruled by Fidel for fifty years, what do youexpect?”That was an odd thing for Rivera to say, and it was heresy in Cuba,but Ford was warming to the idea. He’d felt restless for weeks, butstill had to say, “This can’t be legal.”No, it wasn’t. He could tell by Rivera’s attempt to skirt the subject,which is when Ford decided, “Tell me anyway.”2In his lab, Ford dropped three brine shrimp pellets into an aquariumwhile speaking to Tomlinson, who had an ice pack bag on hisknee and a pitcher of beer on his lap. There had been a collision athome plate, but just bruises.Ford said, “Rivera is smuggling Cuban baseball players into theU.S. He didn’t admit it, of course. He came up with another story—abizarre one you’ll like—but I’m sure that’s what he’s doing. Now theheat’s on in Cuba and Rivera wants me to go along, probably as abeard. Or who knows, with him.”“How bizarre?”“The cover story? Just so-so, by your standards. He says in the latefifties, three American ballplayers buried their motorcycles and someguns the day Fidel Castro came to power. You know, rather thanhave their valuables confiscated. Thompson submachines, presentation grade. But let’s stick with the smuggling thread and I’ll fill youin later.”Tomlinson moved the ice pack, fidgeting. “Were the bikes Harleys?If they were Harleys, the story is bullshit. No baseball jockwould bury his Harley.”Ford took a patient breath. “Anyway . . . the U.S. has loosenedsanctions, but Cuban players still need legal asylum from a thirdcountry before Major League Baseball will sign a contract. Mostescape through Mexico. The drug cartels handle everything—boats,papers, even sports agents. But now Rivera has set up his own cut-rateversion through contacts in Masagua. Or—could be—Nicaragua.Pretty much the same political players both countries. Oh—getthis—for start-up money, he’s been smuggling Cuban hard goods:cigars, paintings, historical items. Anything he can sell on the Internetwhile the Castro regime collapses.”Wind slapped waves against the pilings, sifting odors of saltwaterand iodine through the floor. Tomlinson was still wearing baseballpants but had traded his spikes for Birkenstocks. He adjusted the icepack and wiggled his toes as if they were cold. “For a while,” he said,“I thought you were talking about the Juan Rivera I know—big guyfrom Masagua, a pitcher with a decent slider? The famous general.It’s such a common name.”“That’s him. You were pissed because he wouldn’t give you a uniformwhen we were down there, then almost hit one out. That wasmore than, what, ten years ago? Now Rivera’s caught in a squeezebetween the Cuban government for stealing players and the Mexicancartels for horning in on their business. That’s why he wants help, Ithink.”Tomlinson smiled, gave a sideways look. “Naw, you’re messingwith my head.”“Ask him tomorrow when he shows up. If he shows. We’re supposedto help him find a shortstop who wandered off this morning.”“You’re serious.”“After all your cracks about my lack of imagination, what do you think?”That clinched it. Tomlinson placed the beer pitcher on the floor—a man trying to control his temper. “You’re telling me that JuanSimón Rivera, the Maximum Leader of the Masaguan Revolution . . .the generalissimo of the goddamn People’s Army . . . is smugglingballplayers and selling shit on eBay—”“On the Internet . . . Yeah, he admitted that much—”“And profiting from the flesh trade? Gad, that’s freakin’ humantrafficking, man.”“Well, depends on the ballplayer, I suppose.” Ford thought thatmight get a smile. It didn’t. “I could be wrong. Like I said, he gave methat story about motorcycles and machine guns. I can tell you the restnow or wait until we drive in to look for his missing shortstop.”Tomlinson didn’t hear the last part. He got to his feet, chewed at astring of hair while he paced, limping a little. “That bastard. Is therenot a shred of Euro socialist integrity left in our leaders? A feedingfrenzy of mobster behavior—that’s what’s happening. Even to advanceUtopian goals, it is totally bogus.” He cringed and sighed. “Thankgod Fidel and François Mitterrand aren’t alive to see this day.”Ford, attempting subtlety, replied, “A lot of people would agree.”He flicked on the aquarium’s lights and noted movement amongclusters of oysters at the bottom of the tank that had appeared lifelessbut was now coming alive. “Watch this. It took only two days to conditionthe stone crabs—see that big female creeping out? Lights meanit’s feeding time. At five days, even the barnacles started to respond.”Among the oysters, a mini-forest of lace blooms were sprouting,robotic fans that sifted amid a sudden flurry of crabs—dozens ofcrabs—most of them tiny.Tomlinson said, “There you go—a feeding frenzy. I rest my case.Living entities perverted by the system to hide from the light—atleast until some poor, innocent shortstop walks into the money trap.Now I understand why Rivera didn’t have the balls to look me in theface tonight and say hello. Which is why I assumed it was a different guy.”Instead of pitching for Ford’s team, the generalissimo had remainedin the main stadium but was gone by the end of the game—a gamethey might have won if, in the ninth inning, down by two runs,Tomlinson hadn’t tried to steal home. By all standards, a truly boneheaded play.Ford asked, “Are you mad at the general or still mad at yourself?”“Sure, rub it in. I didn’t buy a plane ticket to fly back here and lose.Be aggressive—that’s just smart baseball.”In October, Tomlinson had sailed his boat, No Más, to Key Westfor the Halloween freak show known as Fantasy Fest. That was threeweeks ago, but he couldn’t resist returning for a tournament that attractedteams from around the country, games played day and nightat the best fields in South Florida.“Stealing home with two outs? Down two runs?” Ford tried tosound neutral.“Surprised everyone but the damn umpires, didn’t I? Dude, spon-taneity, that’s just who I am.” Tomlinson looked into the emptypitcher. “You’re out of beer, Doc. Hate to say it, but I warned youthis morning. Me sleeping outside in a hammock takes at least asix-pack—and that’s before I knew we’d be searching for some poordugout refugee from the slave trade. What’s the shortstop’s name?Just from how the name flows, I can tell you if he’s any good.”Ford, walking toward the door, replied, “The 7-Eleven’s still open,if you’re desperate. I’ve got to find my dog.”Ford’s lab was an old house on pilings in the shallows of Dinkin’sBay, just down from the marina, where, on this Tuesday night, peoplewho lived on boats were buttoned in tight but still awake, watchingmonitors that brightened the cabins along A dock.The dog was there, curled up next to the bait tank, probably tiredfrom swimming all day. A picnic table allowed a view of the bay.Ford sat, opened his laptop while explaining to the dog, “I didn’trenew my Internet service because it’s so damn intrusive. And I don’twant to be there when Tomlinson sneaks a joint. Or comes back withmore beer.”The dog’s eyes sagged open. His tail thumped once. He went backto sleep.“People say you need Internet for research? What the hell’s wrongwith going to the library? I like libraries—or used to.” Ford, usingtwo fingers, banged at the keys. “Next time—I mean this, by god—Tomlinson is getting a hotel room and he can either ride his bike orcall a cab. What kind of grown man asks to do a sleepover? His exactword: sleepover. Then bitches at me about not buying enough beer.”More hammering on the keys before he scanned the boats, someheld together by epoxy and tape, others expensive yachts. “Crappyreception out here. You’d think one of these people could afford adecent router. Hey”—he was speaking to the dog—“Hey, if I’ve gotto sleep in the same house with him, you do, too. Your too-tired-towalkcrap isn’t going to fool me twice. The way he snores, I get it, butI’m the one who needs sleep.”Ford zipped the laptop into its case, loaded the dog into his truck,and drove to Blind Pass, telling himself he would cast for snook alongthe beach on this good outgoing tide despite a waxing moon.From the parking lot of Santiva General Store he could look acrossthe road to the beach and colorful cottages of The Castaways, red,green, and yellow, although they appeared gray at eleven p.m. on thisbreezy night.From the back of the truck, Ford selected a spinning rod—an intentionaldeception. All the cottages were dark but for one where awoman, opening the screen door, said, “I was hoping you’d stop by.”She had yet to request or offer an exchange of last names, or personalhistories, which created a vacuum of protocol that, to Ford, feltlike freedom.He asked, “Need any help?” No lights on, the woman was in thebathroom, searching for something—a towel, it turned out.“Not with you around. Wasn’t it obvious? That was a new onefor me.”“It seemed natural, just sort of happened.”The woman, voice husky, said, “I wouldn’t mind if it happenedagain,” and came back into bed.Maggie, that was her first name. Whether it was her real name orshort for “Margret” or “Marjorie,” he hadn’t risked inquiring. Intimacywith a stranger was a cozy tunnel untethered to the past, openat both ends. Secrets, if shared, would necessarily vanish at first light.Seldom had Ford felt so relaxed.Later, they talked some more. Him saying, “I know the Cuba ideasounds far-fetched, but it’s an actual business proposition. Usually, I’dput it down on paper, a list of pros and cons, instead of bouncing it offyou. You mind?”Without using names, he had condensed Rivera’s unusual coverstory.Maggie started to ask “What kind of business are you . . .” butcaught herself and opted for a safer option. “Machine guns and motorcycles,huh? I guess we’re all Huck Finn at heart. I’ve alwayswanted to go to Cuba—not that I’m fishing. I’ve got this place bookedthrough Sunday.” She tested the silence for awkwardness, then added,“Havana is beautiful, from the pictures. Have you been?”He dodged that. “There are direct flights from Tampa now. Thatwould make it easier.”“But is it legal? And, once you get there, is it safe? I read an articleabout an antiques dealer—he’s from Miami, I think—that he’s injail, accused of stealing documents from the Castro estate. Paintingsand stuff, too. And this other man who tried to smuggle in electronicequipment. Almost four years he’s been in prison.”Ford’s attention vectored. “Which Castro?”“Well . . . I’m not sure, but they’ve both been sentenced to death byfiring squad. Not the Castros, the men I’m telling you about. Or sentencedto life. Some terrible punishment. I’d have to find the article.”Ford settled back. “It wouldn’t have made the news if it was true.”“You mean it would have made the news.”Too late to correct his slip. “Could be. You hear all kinds of rumorsabout that place.”“What I’m saying is, you need to confirm with your friend thatwhat you’re doing is legal. If he is a friend . . . or she is a friend. Eitherway.” Her hand found Ford’s thigh. “Sorry, none of my business. Tellme the rest.”He did, paraphrased a summary he’d written on a legal pad earlierin the lab:On December 31, 1958, three American pitchers playing for theHavana Sugar Kings were delayed by extra innings and accidentallytrapped when Castro’s army came to power. The players—two fromthe Midwest, one from the Bronx—weren’t politically savvy but knewit was dangerous to return to Havana until things cooled down.They were cautious for good reason: Cuba’s recent dictator, flauntingCaribbean League rules, had personally signed their contractsafter bribing them with cash and presents. Bribes included newHarley-Davidson motorcycles and three gold-plated Thompsonsubmachine guns, each personalized and engraved, loyal beyonddeath—fulgencio batista.At the end of seventeen innings, when news about the coup circulatedinto their dugout, that inscription took on a darker meaning.Fulgencio Batista was the recently deposed dictator.Everyone in Havana had seen their hot rod Harleys and gaudyrifle scabbards. No denying that. So the three Americans wavedgood-bye to the team bus, mounted their bikes, and laid low in westernCuba for a week. Ultimately, they swore a blood oath and eitherhid or buried their valuables before returning to the United States.Because of the embargo, they never went back.Ford ended the story, adding, “My friend has a contact who claimsto know where the stuff is. It would be fun, I think. Not for themoney—if we recover anything, it should go to the players’ families.That part we haven’t discussed. Problem is, my friend might haveinvented the whole business just to lure me down there so I can helpwith something else.”Maggie, rather than ask the obvious, decided to have fun with it.“They buried their motorcycles . . . my god. That sounds unlikely.Probably hid them, don’t you think? Even if they didn’t, you shouldgo. Adventure for its own sake. We get trapped in ruts, doing what’sexpected instead of what we really want.” She squeezed his hand. “Idon’t mean to sound maudlin, but I’ve wasted too many years afraidto step off the high board.”Ford, loosening up, said, “Might be fun. There’s a species of turtledown there I’ve never seen. Occasionally found in Cuba anyway. APacific Ridley. Not that I’m an expert—you were wrong this morning.So yeah, why not? As long as I don’t have to spend too much timewith this guy. He can be a lot of work.”“Then your friend is a man.”“Times two. I thought I made that clear.”Maggie—if that was her name—lifted the covers and sprawledatop him, her breath warm. “Good. I don’t care what happens tomorrow,but tonight—I’ll admit it—I’m glad you’re not going with someballsy woman.”“Jealous?”“Envious,” Maggie replied, “of any woman with that much nerve.This is my first vacation without training wheels”—she was repositioningher hands—“and, so far, I like the taste of freedom.”
Where to Download Cuba Straits (A Doc Ford Novel Book 22), by Randy Wayne White
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297 of 312 people found the following review helpful. BEST DOC FORD EVER, A FLORIDA CLASSIC By Gerald Hess I was stunned to see so many negative reviews regarding what is among the funniest, most compelling books I've ever read until I took a closer look and realized many if not most of these "reviewers" could not have possible read the book. Jealousy, envy, or perhaps yet more "sock puppet" reviews paid for by some pissed-off would-be writer. (Amazon is infamous for allowing this.) Who knows. But back to the book: This may be the best Doc Ford novel ever. It is certainly the most original and funniest. Marion Ford is smarter, slyer, tougher than ever, yet in a way that reveals the small self doubts that plague us all at a certain age. In the first scene, he has his first one-night-stand (that I remember) and also rescues a drowning sea turtle that, because of weather conditions and his haste to save the animal, he fails to note physiological markers that would tell him whether it is a young loggerhead turtle, or a mature green turtle. The scene itself is compelling enough, but this subtle touch tells us (in very few words) more about Doc's personal discontent, and his frame of mind, than an entire chapter of self reflection (which would be typical of less accomplished writers.) Tomlinson is hilarious, particularly with the introduction of Figueroa Casanova, a Cuban shortstop who, while not the brightest of men, has taken a vow to never lie. Figueroa -- "Figgy" -- is in possession of an antique leather briefcase. On the brass lock are the initials FAC. Only Tomlinson would correctly suspect (or intuit?) this initials stand for Fidel Alejandro Castro. And, by god, he is right. Inside are love letters written by Fide and Raul Castro in the early 1960s. Ever the romantic, Tomlinson decides these love letters rightly belong to the woman to whom they were written. Like contrasting Don Quixotes, these two remarkable characters set off on a sailboat journey during which they are seduced by a trio of Key West Siren witches (Cercis as in the Iliad) and then set adrift -- a literary Homeric touch that is as delightful as Doc Ford's determination to save Tomlinson from his own misguided quest. Doc fuels and provisions his boat -- as only a man with his dark past could -- and sets off for Cuba . This trio of timeless characters is on a collision course with a Russian KGB agent, and a deep, dark secret about Fidel Castro that has to do with baseball and the power of propagated mythos. Upon reflection, it might be White's rare gift for creating truly literate and literary works that are NOT typical Clive Cussler potboiler thrillers that outrages less demanding readers. However, those of you who love seamless writing, description so vivid you can smell the mix of mangrove musk and cigars, will love Cuba Straits which, like White's "The Man Who Invented Florida," is destined to become a Florida classic. A side perk: the author's knowledge of Cuba, baseball, Fidel Castro and the Cuban people answers, I think, the popular question "What will happen when Fidel finally dies?" The future is right there for us to see in Cuba Straits.G. Hess
88 of 92 people found the following review helpful. Cuba Straits is Great! By William Randy White has done it again. Doc Ford and Tomlinson on the loose in a Cuban high adventure which was interestingly written before the recent loosening of relations between our countries. Randy knows research and his latest work will keep you entertained and thrilled.
68 of 71 people found the following review helpful. Randy Wayne White has spun a great yarn. Its not a normal Doc Ford novel By TA Randy Wayne White has spun a great yarn. Its not a normal Doc Ford novel. Its great to see a writer expand the protagonist after so many novel.
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Cuba Straits (A Doc Ford Novel Book 22), by Randy Wayne White
