Cuba Straits Read Online Free Page A

tournament that attracted teams from around the country, games played day and night at the best fields in South Florida.
    “Stealing home with two outs? Down two runs?” Ford tried to sound neutral.
    “Surprised everyone but the damn umpires, didn’t I? Dude, spontaneity, that’s just who I am.” Tomlinson looked into the empty pitcher. “You’re out of beer, Doc. Hate to say it, but I warned you this morning. Me sleeping outside in a hammock takes at least a six-pack—and that’s before I knew we’d be searching for some poor dugout 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.”
    •   •   •
    F ORD’S LAB was an old house on pilings in the shallows of Dinkin’s Bay, just down from the marina, where, on this Tuesday night, people who lived on boats were buttoned in tight but still awake, watching monitors that brightened the cabins along A dock.
    The dog was there, curled up next to the bait tank, probably tired from swimming all day. A picnic table allowed a view of the bay. Ford sat, opened his laptop while explaining to the dog, “I didn’t renew my Internet service because it’s so damn intrusive. And I don’t want to be there when Tomlinson sneaks a joint. Or comes back with more beer.”
    The dog’s eyes sagged open. His tail thumped once. He went back to sleep.
    “People say you need Internet for research? What the hell’s wrong with going to the library? I like libraries—or used to.” Ford, using two 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 or call a cab. What kind of grown man asks to do a sleepover? His exact word:
sleepover
. Then bitches at me about not buying enough beer.”
    More hammering on the keys before he scanned the boats, some held together by epoxy and tape, others expensive yachts. “Crappy reception out here. You’d think one of these people could afford a decent router. Hey”—he was speaking to the dog—“
Hey
, if I’ve got to sleep in the same house with him, you do, too. Your too-tired-to-walk crap isn’t going to fool me twice. The way he snores, I get it, but I’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 along the beach on the good outgoing tide despite a waxing moon.
    From the parking lot of Santiva General Store he could look across the road to the beach and colorful cottages of The Castaways, red, green, and yellow, although they appeared gray at eleven p.m. on this breezy night.
    From the back of the truck, Ford selected a spinning rod—an intentional deception. All the cottages were dark but for one where a woman, opening the screen door, said, “I was hoping you’d stop by.”
    •   •   •
    S HE HAD YET to request or offer an exchange of last names, or personal histories, which created a vacuum of protocol that, to Ford, felt like freedom.
    He asked, “Need any help?” No lights on, the woman was in the bathroom, searching for something—a towel, it turned out.
    “Not with you around. Wasn’t it obvious? That was a new one for me.”
    “It seemed natural, just sort of happened.”
    The woman, voice husky, said, “I wouldn’t mind if it happened again,” and came back into bed.
    Maggie, that was her first name. Whether it was her real name or short for “Margret” or “Marjorie,” he hadn’t risked inquiring. Intimacy with a stranger was a cozy tunnel untethered to the past, open at 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 idea sounds far-fetched, but it’s an actual business