Lieutenant Cuddy would benefit from a good meal and a soft bed. Duy?”
Tranh moved smoothly to help Helides out of the chair and onto the single brace. Arrhythmic heart or not, a sign of significant strength under the rugby shirt and athletic pants.
The Skipper extended his good hand to me. ”John Cuddy, I’m much in your debt for deciding to help with this tragedy.”
For better or worse, we shook on it.
Justo Vega said, ”I would take you to my house for dinner, because Alicia is anxious to meet you, and our little girls must be seen to be believed.”
We were in his Cadillac coupe, a small Cuban flag standing proudly on the dashboard, its fabric fluttering in the breeze from the air vents. Justo maneuvered us over the quaint little bridge spanning the canal and turned right onto the boulevard Pepe had called ”Las Olas.”
”But you have had a long trip, John, and a longer day, and Miami is at least an hour away during the best of rush hours.”
From the passenger’s seat, I thought about the Skipper’s concern for attracting danger from his case to Justo’s family. All I said, though, was, ”A raincheck, then.”
”Only as to the home-cooking. Tonight we eat out, just the two of us.”
”Alicia won’t mind?”
Justo glanced over at me. ”She was one of my calls from the Skipper’s library.”
” They do seafood well here, but many places in the area can boast of that. And the baby-back ribs are to die for.”
We were in a restaurant called Flanigan’s, on that Andrews Avenue divider road. It had light-wood walls, with fishnet as hangings and small floats hooked into the nets. Photos of what appeared to be an extended family posed with various kinds of saltwater trophies on decks and docks. A blond waitress in a green polo shirt with the restaurants name and a bearded man’s face on the front took our order of a bucket of Killian’s Irish Red and two full racks of ribs, with cole slaw.
Writing on her pad, she said, ”Fries with that?”
There was a touch of Southern accent in her voice, but it was her choice of terms that made me begin to question Justo’s choice of place. ”They worth the cholesterol?”
”This is South Florida, hon’. Cholesterol’s right up there with fruits and grains as one of our major food groups.” But she was smiling wisely as she spoke the words.
”Fries, then. Thanks.”
”You won’t be sorry.”
After she’d walked away, Justo said, ”C ubana.”
I looked in her direction. ”How can you tell?”
”Those in the first generation born here have no Spanish accent, but neither do they develop the full Southern lilt”
I decided to take his word for it, then thought about the little flag on his dashboard. ”Pepe talked with me about conditions on the island. How are things going here in South Florida?”
”For Cuban-Americans, you mean?”
”Yes.”
The shoulders rose and fell an inch. ”The census bureau says that in fifty years, one quarter of the United States population will be ‘Hispanic,’ but that is mostly because of the high birthrates among Mexican-Americans. Cubanas contribute only about two percent of those babies, so we will always be a small minority within a large minority. However, here in Florida, we prosper. Our own businesses, social circles, even country clubs. One of us was again the mayor of Miami, and he a graduate of the Harvard Law School. Those of my parents’ generation—who gathered up their children and fled to this country when Castro’s Revolution overwhelmed them—the old ones still dream of a Cuba libre, but those our age? We are Cuban-Americans, John, but now more the latter than the former.”
”And the Marielitos?”
A small smile. ”Some of us still think of them that way, but the bad criminals Castro inflicted on President Carter and this area are now mostly dead or in prison forever. And many of the others have become as successful as our generation of immigrants. It seems hard to believe,
Tranh moved smoothly to help Helides out of the chair and onto the single brace. Arrhythmic heart or not, a sign of significant strength under the rugby shirt and athletic pants.
The Skipper extended his good hand to me. ”John Cuddy, I’m much in your debt for deciding to help with this tragedy.”
For better or worse, we shook on it.
Justo Vega said, ”I would take you to my house for dinner, because Alicia is anxious to meet you, and our little girls must be seen to be believed.”
We were in his Cadillac coupe, a small Cuban flag standing proudly on the dashboard, its fabric fluttering in the breeze from the air vents. Justo maneuvered us over the quaint little bridge spanning the canal and turned right onto the boulevard Pepe had called ”Las Olas.”
”But you have had a long trip, John, and a longer day, and Miami is at least an hour away during the best of rush hours.”
From the passenger’s seat, I thought about the Skipper’s concern for attracting danger from his case to Justo’s family. All I said, though, was, ”A raincheck, then.”
”Only as to the home-cooking. Tonight we eat out, just the two of us.”
”Alicia won’t mind?”
Justo glanced over at me. ”She was one of my calls from the Skipper’s library.”
” They do seafood well here, but many places in the area can boast of that. And the baby-back ribs are to die for.”
We were in a restaurant called Flanigan’s, on that Andrews Avenue divider road. It had light-wood walls, with fishnet as hangings and small floats hooked into the nets. Photos of what appeared to be an extended family posed with various kinds of saltwater trophies on decks and docks. A blond waitress in a green polo shirt with the restaurants name and a bearded man’s face on the front took our order of a bucket of Killian’s Irish Red and two full racks of ribs, with cole slaw.
Writing on her pad, she said, ”Fries with that?”
There was a touch of Southern accent in her voice, but it was her choice of terms that made me begin to question Justo’s choice of place. ”They worth the cholesterol?”
”This is South Florida, hon’. Cholesterol’s right up there with fruits and grains as one of our major food groups.” But she was smiling wisely as she spoke the words.
”Fries, then. Thanks.”
”You won’t be sorry.”
After she’d walked away, Justo said, ”C ubana.”
I looked in her direction. ”How can you tell?”
”Those in the first generation born here have no Spanish accent, but neither do they develop the full Southern lilt”
I decided to take his word for it, then thought about the little flag on his dashboard. ”Pepe talked with me about conditions on the island. How are things going here in South Florida?”
”For Cuban-Americans, you mean?”
”Yes.”
The shoulders rose and fell an inch. ”The census bureau says that in fifty years, one quarter of the United States population will be ‘Hispanic,’ but that is mostly because of the high birthrates among Mexican-Americans. Cubanas contribute only about two percent of those babies, so we will always be a small minority within a large minority. However, here in Florida, we prosper. Our own businesses, social circles, even country clubs. One of us was again the mayor of Miami, and he a graduate of the Harvard Law School. Those of my parents’ generation—who gathered up their children and fled to this country when Castro’s Revolution overwhelmed them—the old ones still dream of a Cuba libre, but those our age? We are Cuban-Americans, John, but now more the latter than the former.”
”And the Marielitos?”
A small smile. ”Some of us still think of them that way, but the bad criminals Castro inflicted on President Carter and this area are now mostly dead or in prison forever. And many of the others have become as successful as our generation of immigrants. It seems hard to believe,
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