A Cuban Death Read online

  A Cuban Death

  by

  David Anderson

  This book 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.

  A CUBAN DEATH

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  Copyright © 2013 by David Anderson.

  All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce this book, or portions thereof, in any form. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, downloaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, without the express written permission of the author. The scanning, uploading and distribution of this book via the internet or via any other means without the permission of the publisher is illegal and punishable by law. Please purchase only authorized electronic editions, and do not participate in or encourage electronic piracy of copyrighted materials.

  Cover Design by David Anderson

  Edited by Joanna Anderson and Ian Anderson

  ISBN: 978-0-9916719-2-2

  “The only things that the United States has given to the world are skyscrapers, jazz and cocktails. That is all. And in Cuba, in our America, they make much better cocktails.”

  -- Federico Garcia Lorca

  Acknowledgments

  I would like to express my appreciation to my family, without whose love and support I would accomplish nothing. So thank you Anne, Ian and Joanna.

  The following people have been of great assistance: Michael and Diane Sale for their invaluable help with the policing aspects and Carole Saindon with Justice Canada for her help in untangling what would happen with Canadian police officers in Cuba and vice versa.

  Any errors in the story are solely my responsibility.

  And, as always, I must mention Wilson, my faithful Sheltie, whose companionable silence on our long morning walks helps immensely..

  for Louisa Anderson

  May 16, 1917 – September 1, 2013

  one

  The young man stood in the doorway, swaying slightly, surveying the scene. The disco assaulted his senses with its flashing colours and insistent, pounding beat. He looked around for a face that he recognized but didn’t notice anyone. He saw instead dark corners, a bar off to one side and bodies gyrating energetically under the rotating mirrored ball on the ceiling. Coloured spotlights, aimed downwards, illuminated the room, constantly flashing on and off.

  It was a basic nightspot, just a dance floor, light and sound – all one could expect from a resort disco in Cuba. But it worked for him. What he liked most of all was the heat. The tropical night air enveloped him like a sultry, sensuous blanket. Outside were chirping tree frogs, the sound of surf and a light wind; inside was all throbbing light and sound. Overhead fans were trying unsuccessfully to keep the place cool.

  Somewhat unsteadily the young man moved into the room. The heat and humidity hit him like a wall. He made his way to the bar and eased himself carefully onto a stool. “Cerveza,” he said to the bartender. “Dos, por favor.” He had to speak loudly in order to be heard.

  The middle-aged man nodded unsmilingly and filled two plastic cups and set them on the bar. Then he went back to wiping down the counter. A younger man, dressed in the same white shirt, bowtie, red vest and black pants as the bartender, came out from a small room at the back. A burst of rapid Spanish followed, all of it lost on the young Canadian whose knowledge of the language was rudimentary. Abruptly he lost interest, picked up one of the cups and swivelled in his chair to inspect the room.

  From this perspective he could see more. With the cup to his lips, sipping, he immediately noticed the two young women dancing together. He smiled. He hadn’t seen them at first but he was pleased that they were here again. He’d been hoping. Maybe they were from the nearby town of Trinidad, or possibly they were guests at the resort. He didn’t know and didn’t care. They were sexy as hell and that was all that mattered. He watched them moving together, their long legs flashing in the lights. As before, they had some kind of sparkly things on their legs and short skirts which were swirling around madly as they danced. Tonight they had on peasant blouses, tied up so as to show their flat bellies. They moved towards each other and then back, in a continual, sensuous rhythm.

  The first beer finished, the young man started in on the second, his eyes on the women. They were so different from Kathy; she would never be seen in public dressed like that. Thinking of his girlfriend, he frowned and took another gulp of beer. What a fight they’d had this afternoon! What had started it? His drinking – yeah, that was it.

  “Mike, slow down! Are you trying to set a record for most booze consumed in a week?” Kathy had been looking at him with disdain, almost contempt. “I didn’t come here to see you spending the whole time drinking the place dry.”

  Her look angered him, especially the disgust on her face. So what if he’d had a few drinks? That’s what an all-inclusive resort vacation was all about, wasn’t it? Free food, free booze, whenever you wanted it. She had no business telling him what to do.

  He’d defended himself, she attacked some more and the argument escalated until some really hurtful things were said. He thought he’d done most of the hurting but he couldn’t really remember. Kathy had gotten up and told him she would be sleeping elsewhere tonight.

  “And how will that look?” he demanded. “”Do you really think Sean and Char want you in their room tonight?” Lying on a chaise lounge by the pool, he was squinting, trying to see Kathy clearly against the sun.

  “I don’t care how it looks,” she said. “I won’t stay with you when you’re like this.” Crying, she gathered up her things and hurried away.

  That was late in the afternoon. They avoided each other for the rest of the day. Usually they ate dinner together in the buffet restaurant but the resort had numerous eating spots so he grabbed some fast food at the beach bar. He didn’t know where Kathy had been, probably with their friends Charlotte and Sean and Aaron and Deb.

  What had she told them about his absence? He finished his beer and thought gloomily that she had likely told them all about the argument. He caught the bartender’s eye. “Mas cerveza, por favor. Two more again.”

  The other matter flashed into his mind but he rather fuzzily pushed it aside. Not now.

  The bartender, whose nametag identified him as Adeiny, retrieved the empty glasses and poured another two beers, all without an interruption in the animated conversation he was having with his colleague. Mike turned around again to watch the two girls. The music had stopped briefly – it was always briefly, he had noticed – and there was considerable movement as people got drinks or moved off the floor. The two chicas were standing casually chatting, the lights glinting off their legs. As he watched, they left the dance floor and moved to the far end of the bar. The music started up again, the distinctive Caribbean beat stirring his blood.

  Mike had finished the first of the two new beers; he picked up the second one and watched the women. Adeiny set two mojitos in front of them without being asked. They were definitely locals then. They had their backs to him as they sipped their drinks and watched the crowd. Even sitting down they were unable to keep still, their should
ers moving to the rhythm of the music.

  Mike made up his mind. He drained the last of his beer and stood up. He staggered and had to grab the edge of the bar to steady himself. Whoa – he’d had too much booze. He grinned to himself. That’s what Kathy would say anyway. He thought differently. Gathering himself, he moved down the bar towards the two girls and stood in front of them.

  “Hola,” he said, and he gave them his best smile. “May I buy you two a drink?”

  The two women looked at him and shook their heads. Their eyes went back to the dance floor. Up close to them, Mike could see they were younger than he had thought they were. Early twenties, probably. Both girls had long dark hair and they were perspiring in the heat of the disco.

  “Oh, come on,” said Mike. “Un otro mojito?” He leaned close to them as he said it so as to make himself heard above the music.

  One girl put her hands up as if to ward him off. The other shook her head vigourously. “No!” she said loudly. “Piss off.”

  Mike felt a hand on his shoulder and he was suddenly staggering as he was turned around. He found himself facing three young men wearing identical unfriendly expressions. Two of them had their arms crossed in front of them like bouncers, but the third one – the one who had spun him around – had his arms by his sides and he was clenching and unclenching his fists. This last man spoke loudly and with a distinct accent.

  “The senorita say no,” he said. “Vayais!” Alert and unsmiling, the man’s dark eyes were fixed on Mike’s. His two companions crowded in a little closer.

  Mike put up his hands and swayed backwards. “Whoa! Back off, Pedro. Just asking a girl if she wants a drink, is all. Girls, I mean. There’s no harm in that.” He turned around drunkenly to look at the two Latino girls again.

  As if on cue, the women put down their drinks, stood up and started to move back onto the dance floor. Mike took one step to follow but he could go no further as a large hand grabbed each of his arms. He was once again turned around, more roughly this time, and found himself facing the three young men. There was no mistaking their anger this time. The one who had spoken to him before jabbed him sharply in the solar plexus. Mike felt the air go out of him in a rush and he couldn’t breathe. He bent over, gasping for breath, and then the other two men grabbed him again and straightened him up.

  “You will go,” said the puncher. He took Mike’s chin in his hand and said, “Now.” Mike could only stand, feeling nauseated and swaying slightly; he seemed helpless to react somehow. His stomach hurt. Suddenly he bent over and vomited on the floor, narrowly missing his sandals. The three men stepped back hastily.

  “So puerco!” said the puncher disgustedly, the only one of the men who had spoken. He gestured at the other two and the three of them manhandled the young Canadian out of the disco and shoved him roughly down the steps. Mike stumbled and collapsed into a garden. He raised his head groggily and got up on all fours, but then he lost his balance and subsided wearily into the dirt.

  Everything went dark.

  two

  Detective Richard McDonald pulled on his running shoes and readied himself for another hard walk along the beach. Ever since the injury, he’d pushed himself to recuperate, and he’d been hoping to start jogging by the end of this week’s vacation. That was his goal every morning: to move a little faster, go a little further. It wasn’t easy – walking in sand was difficult. He thought it was good for him, though. But he had to wear shoes – yes, footwear was definitely a must.

  The first morning he had strolled along the beach barefoot, thoroughly enjoying the feel of the cool sand and the surf on his feet. He had paid for his rashness that evening with stiff and sore calves, to the point where any kind of walking was painful, and he had resolved to wear his runners from then on.

  Looking down at his feet, McDonald realized his sneakers were wet and sprinkled with sticky sand and he knew he would have a job to empty them out when he got back to the pool. But his legs weren’t sore and that was important. While recuperating from a nasty stab wound to his thigh, he had to be careful not to overdo it.

  It shocked him how unfit he had become in such a short time. His thirty-seven-year-old body hadn’t recovered as quickly as it would have ten years ago. Mind you, the injury had been serious, an almost complete severing of his femoral artery. Without Celeste Chappell’s intervention, he would have been dead. It was no surprise that his progress wasn’t as swift as he wanted.

  McDonald was a homicide detective with the York Police Services, and he had been on surveillance duty in the back yard of his superior’s separated wife, Celeste. Attacked by surprise, he had been stabbed and nearly bled out. Celeste had found him in time and managed to stanch the arterial flow. It had been a near thing, though, and he was aware that he owed her his life. A long hospital stay followed, then home leave, and then he’d decided on a week in the sun.

  So here he was in Cuba, humping along a beautiful beach in the early morning light as fast as his wasted leg would allow him. He dodged stranded jellyfish and hoped to see some bikini-clad swimmers, knowing all the while it was too early for them. Coming on holiday also gave him a chance to meet women. That, and to pick up some genuine Cuban cigars.

  The Playa de Trinidad on the south coast was a no-frills Cuban resort. A three-star place at best, it offered so-so food and only the most basic alcoholic drinks. You could blame the American embargo for that; everything from scissors to Scotch was in short supply. Still, it was inexpensive, the beach was terrific, the weather hot and the people were friendly. It beat the hell out of a Canadian winter. He had left behind freezing rain and ice pellets and twenty centimetres of dirty snow on the ground.

  Nearly back at the resort, McDonald nodded to an older woman who was setting out on the route he had just completed, and gave her a cheery, “Hola!” He greeted everyone that way, never sure of others’ nationality.

  The woman replied, “Guten Morgen,” but barely looked at him as she continued her morning stroll. She was probably German, then. The place was full of them, as well as Canadians like him, some Brits, a few French and some South American families. Most of the guests were older; he was one of the youngest of the tourists.

  McDonald was sweating and looking forward to his swim in the pool. Wearing his trunks as he was, he could just peel off his tee-shirt, slip off his shoes and socks and do his lengths. He would dry off in the sun – no towel necessary. Then it would be up to his room to change, and after that, a large and filling breakfast from the buffet, taken outdoors on this fine morning. Such had been the pattern every day of his vacation so far.

  McDonald grinned to himself, remembering the one day his routine had changed. He had woken up in a different bed and had been too busy to go exercising on the beach. A Parisian divorcee, Lucie by name, she was on holiday by herself, forty-something, chic, a little overweight maybe, but sexy, skilled and looking for a one-night get-together with no strings attached. This she had made sure of, as she had flown back to France the same day he had woken up in her bed. He thought it was deliberate that she had waited until her last night to approach him. That had been Monday morning, and it was now Thursday, his holiday in the sun almost over; he flew back to Canada on Saturday afternoon.

  The path he walked on now snaked around head-high flowering shrubs on its way from the beach to the pool. The resort consisted of several dozen cabanas clustered together and two multi-storey buildings. McDonald passed through the cabana section and turned the corner to the pool area. Here he stopped, unsure exactly of what he was seeing.

  Normally at this time of day the pool area was deserted, with rows of empty lounges lined up neatly waiting for the sun-worshippers who would arrive later when the sun was higher. Now he saw a crowd of people – maybe ten or eleven altogether – gathered on the walkway. McDonald moved up to the back of the nearest people, stood on tiptoe and looked over their shoulders.

  They were staring at a man’s body. McDonald could tell immediately that the man was dea
d, and it wasn’t just the pool of blood that told him so. It was the position of the corpse which was lying face down on the brick sidewalk; the right arm was trapped under the head at a strange angle, with the left by his side. It was the absolute stillness of the body, that familiar look which meant that all life had fled. It was the horrified expressions on the faces of the few tourists that he could see, and their hushed conversations.

  Two officials held back the group of spectators; McDonald recognized the white shirts, dark trousers and shiny shoes which identified them as resort security officers. Even as he watched, one of them spoke loudly and forcefully, gesturing for the crowd to back off. The other spoke on his cell phone; he had his back turned to the body, obviously getting instructions.

  This man disconnected and turned to join his colleague. The two of them moved purposefully and the spectators started shuffling backwards. Orders kept coming from the two security guards and McDonald found himself retreating with the others. He briefly considered offering his services, not that there was any indication that a crime had been committed, but then he realized how foolish that would be. He couldn’t speak Spanish, these two guards couldn’t speak English if they were like the others he had seen, and they wouldn’t thank him for hanging around. Right now it was obvious they intended to clear the area. Besides, he was on vacation, on holiday from this sort of stuff. Why on earth would he want to get involved?

  As McDonald turned on his heel and started to walk away, he looked over his shoulder. Other resort staff were arriving and he was in time to see a blanket put over the body. No doubt additional steps would be taken to cordon off the area and keep the nasty sight from the guests. He kept walking. A swim in the main pool was definitely out of the question for the moment. It was a good thing there were two more pools, smaller ones to be sure, but perfectly adequate in a pinch.