Cuba Straits Read Online Free Page B

proposition. Usually, I’d put it down on paper, a list of pros and cons, instead of bouncing it off you. You mind?”
    Without using names, he had condensed Rivera’s unusual cover story.
    Maggie started to ask “What kind of business are you . . .” but caught herself and opted for a safer option. “Machine guns and motorcycles, huh? I guess we’re all Huck Finn at heart. I’ve always wanted to go to Cuba—not that I’m fishing for an invite. I’ve got this place booked through 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. That would make it easier.”
    “But is it legal? And, once you get there, is it safe? I read an article about an antiques dealer—he’s from Miami, I think—that he’s in jail, accused of stealing documents from the Castro estate. Paintings and stuff, too. And this other man who tried to smuggle in electronic equipment. 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 by firing squad. Not the Castros, the men I’m telling you about. Or sentenced to 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 rumors about that place.”
    “What I’m saying is, you need to confirm with your friend that what you’re doing is legal. If he is a friend . . . or
she
is a friend. Either way.” Her hand found Ford’s thigh. “Sorry, none of my business. Tell me the rest.”
    He did, paraphrased a summary he’d written on a legal pad earlier in the lab:
    On December 31, 1958, three American pitchers playing for the Havana Sugar Kings were delayed by extra innings and accidentally trapped when Castro’s army came to power. The players—two from the Midwest, one from the Bronx—weren’t politically savvy but knew it was dangerous to return to Havana until things cooled down.
    They were cautious for good reason: Cuba’s recent dictator, flaunting Caribbean League rules, had personally signed their contracts after bribing them with cash and presents. Bribes included new Harley-Davidson motorcycles and three gold-plated Thompson submachine guns, each personalized and engraved LOYAL BEYOND DEATH—FULGENCIO BATISTA
.
    At the end of seventeen innings, when news about the coup circulated into 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 gaudy rifle scabbards. No denying that. So the three Americans waved good-bye to the team bus, mounted their bikes, and lay low in western Cuba for a week. Ultimately, they swore a blood oath and either hid 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 claims to know where the stuff is. It would be fun, I think. Not for the money—if we recover anything, it should go to the players’ families. That part we haven’t discussed. Problem is, my friend might have invented the whole business just to lure me down there so I can help with 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 should go. Adventure for its own sake. We get trapped in ruts, doing what’s expected instead of what we really want.” She squeezed his hand. “I don’t mean to sound maudlin, but I’ve wasted too many years afraid to step off the high board.”
    Ford, loosening up, said, “Might be fun. There’s a species of