Read Online Cuba Straits by Randy Wayne White - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Randy Wayne White
Ads: Link
such words. “That’s even more upsetting. No one’s supposed to know I’m here.”
“Santería, my brother.” Figgy whispered the words as if they explained everything.
To Tomlinson, they did. Santería, voodoo, were mystic religions, and even a
Santero
, which was a novice priest, would have powers far beyond the norm. A Russian, not so much, but formidable—the guy had resembled the fruit of a Cossack screwing a grizzly. Tomlinson took stock. He squinted again, seeing rows of stones and flags and miniature stone mansions that were . . . mausoleums?
A
cemetery
. . . Christ, how had they stumbled this far off course?
Figgy nudged him. “No . . . he’s behind us.”
A turn of the tiller. Streetlights on Southard spilled pools of yellow onto asphalt, each pool smaller, block after block. Banyan trees shadowed sidewalks and the occasional utility gizmo, such as a fire hydrant or a post office drop box. After many seconds, Tomlinson relaxed and pointed. “Is that what scared you? It’s just a mailbox, for christ’s sake. How tall is this guy?”
“Even bigger than me, but that’s not him. He must’a moved, the son of a dog.” Figgy shuffled closer to the drop box, shoes clicking like a shod horse.
“Tell me something. Did Cerci give you a pill to eat?”
“Maybe. And some dollar bills that got the wrong pictures on them.”
Deutschmarks,
Tomlinson translated. “Not the German. I’m talking about the Cerci with small
chichis
. Or she could have roofied your beer. Frankly, I don’t think that my little Wolverine is the squared-away feminist she pretends to be.”
Figgy did it again: froze. His head swiveled shoreward to an antebellum house dark beneath trees, a few stars, but no moon showing.
“Madre de Dios,”
he murmured.
“Now what?”
“He’s coming, brother—
run
.”
The Cuban’s spikes sparked toward the cemetery, briefcase swinging, while Tomlinson hollered, “Dude . . . you can’t outrun mescaline.”
Too late. Unless . . . unless the little shortstop’s fears were reality-based. If so, darker forces might be at work here.
Beelzebub—still on my trail, huh? Good!
Tomlinson, a pacifist by choice but a spiritual warrior by nature, had been anticipating such a visit. He hollered toward the shadows, “Pleased to meet you—now kiss my ass.”
A fence of wrought iron separated the house from the street, metal cool to the touch. The gate wasn’t locked when he tried it. Beside the porch, bushes parted with the tinkling of wind chimes. Two creatures appeared in the form of human shapes, one bear-sized, the other smaller. Teeth flashed a Rottweiler grin, followed by a cough of Russian.
Tomlinson stood his ground. Waited, expecting the worst, but the specters retreated. Soon vanished, as if circling behind the house.
More wind chimes on this dense, still night.
Tomlinson yelled after them, “Now who’s the pussy?”
U pstairs in the rental cottage, Gen. Rivera said to Ford, “He came to assassinate me with a Beretta? I, too, like Berettas. At least that shows some respect.”
Ford put the gelatin listening devices in the freezer and closed the door. “You need to pack up and get out of here, that’s what it shows. Where’s your suitcase?”
“You don’t understand. I was on the phone with . . . well, a person I trust. He warned me about something they might try to do to me. Radiation poisoning—a horrible thing. Your hair falls out, and you shit yourself to death.” At the window, Rivera opened the blinds to see where the Suburban had been parked. “You should have brought that
puta
to me. I know ways to make men talk.”
Hector had talked, but Ford hadn’t volunteered all that he’d learned. “Poison? Why?”
A shrug. “A microscopic grain of something, an isotope—already the name is gone. They jab you with a needle or slip it into food. From their rocket program. It’s the way that . . . the way they do things now.”
Jesus
“Santería, my brother.” Figgy whispered the words as if they explained everything.
To Tomlinson, they did. Santería, voodoo, were mystic religions, and even a
Santero
, which was a novice priest, would have powers far beyond the norm. A Russian, not so much, but formidable—the guy had resembled the fruit of a Cossack screwing a grizzly. Tomlinson took stock. He squinted again, seeing rows of stones and flags and miniature stone mansions that were . . . mausoleums?
A
cemetery
. . . Christ, how had they stumbled this far off course?
Figgy nudged him. “No . . . he’s behind us.”
A turn of the tiller. Streetlights on Southard spilled pools of yellow onto asphalt, each pool smaller, block after block. Banyan trees shadowed sidewalks and the occasional utility gizmo, such as a fire hydrant or a post office drop box. After many seconds, Tomlinson relaxed and pointed. “Is that what scared you? It’s just a mailbox, for christ’s sake. How tall is this guy?”
“Even bigger than me, but that’s not him. He must’a moved, the son of a dog.” Figgy shuffled closer to the drop box, shoes clicking like a shod horse.
“Tell me something. Did Cerci give you a pill to eat?”
“Maybe. And some dollar bills that got the wrong pictures on them.”
Deutschmarks,
Tomlinson translated. “Not the German. I’m talking about the Cerci with small
chichis
. Or she could have roofied your beer. Frankly, I don’t think that my little Wolverine is the squared-away feminist she pretends to be.”
Figgy did it again: froze. His head swiveled shoreward to an antebellum house dark beneath trees, a few stars, but no moon showing.
“Madre de Dios,”
he murmured.
“Now what?”
“He’s coming, brother—
run
.”
The Cuban’s spikes sparked toward the cemetery, briefcase swinging, while Tomlinson hollered, “Dude . . . you can’t outrun mescaline.”
Too late. Unless . . . unless the little shortstop’s fears were reality-based. If so, darker forces might be at work here.
Beelzebub—still on my trail, huh? Good!
Tomlinson, a pacifist by choice but a spiritual warrior by nature, had been anticipating such a visit. He hollered toward the shadows, “Pleased to meet you—now kiss my ass.”
A fence of wrought iron separated the house from the street, metal cool to the touch. The gate wasn’t locked when he tried it. Beside the porch, bushes parted with the tinkling of wind chimes. Two creatures appeared in the form of human shapes, one bear-sized, the other smaller. Teeth flashed a Rottweiler grin, followed by a cough of Russian.
Tomlinson stood his ground. Waited, expecting the worst, but the specters retreated. Soon vanished, as if circling behind the house.
More wind chimes on this dense, still night.
Tomlinson yelled after them, “Now who’s the pussy?”
U pstairs in the rental cottage, Gen. Rivera said to Ford, “He came to assassinate me with a Beretta? I, too, like Berettas. At least that shows some respect.”
Ford put the gelatin listening devices in the freezer and closed the door. “You need to pack up and get out of here, that’s what it shows. Where’s your suitcase?”
“You don’t understand. I was on the phone with . . . well, a person I trust. He warned me about something they might try to do to me. Radiation poisoning—a horrible thing. Your hair falls out, and you shit yourself to death.” At the window, Rivera opened the blinds to see where the Suburban had been parked. “You should have brought that
puta
to me. I know ways to make men talk.”
Hector had talked, but Ford hadn’t volunteered all that he’d learned. “Poison? Why?”
A shrug. “A microscopic grain of something, an isotope—already the name is gone. They jab you with a needle or slip it into food. From their rocket program. It’s the way that . . . the way they do things now.”
Jesus
Similar Books
