They returned to the bar and talked about photography, then Florida. Every Cuban has a relative within driving distance of Miami. Raúl’s daughter lived in Orlando. Tomlinson said, “I’ll call her when I get back . . . if I get back,” and began to relax by ordering another beer.

He had been fidgety, a little nervous, before Raúl showed up, but now didn’t feel so alone. The customs cops, who were finally gone, had found only the two bags of grass, but not the third bag, which was hidden, and not the briefcase, which had gone over the side with Figuerito, its faithful guardian. Tomlinson had been through too many customs shakedowns to admit how much cash he was carrying, but that’s not what worried him. Would the woman, whose name was Berta, return with official permission to stay until No Más was seaworthy? He was screwed if she didn’t because the cops had confiscated his passport.

There were other concerns. He had to find a safe place to moor his sailboat. Were there hauling tracks in this little bay? More pressing was his need for a map and private transportation.

The shortstop and Castro’s love letters were central to this issue.

Raúl had inherited his father’s perceptive eye. “I’m curious about the ring you’re wearing. I’ve seen that symbol before.”

From his pinky finger, right hand, Tomlinson removed a small gold ring and said carefully, “I bought it in the East—the pyramid is so old, you can barely see it.”

“José Martí, our national hero, belonged to the same fraternity,” Corrales said and handed the ring back.

It was not the reply Tomlinson had hoped to hear.

“There’s another thing I’m curious about. Do you mind? We don’t get many visitors here.”

“Fire away, man. The customs agent, her name’s Berta something, she’s supposed to be back in an hour or so, hopefully with my visa. Until then, I’m all dressed up with time on my hands.”

The man smiled but was already ahead of him. “No visa. I thought so. Other damaged boats have tried this harbor—not many, but a few—and you’re the first they didn’t take to Havana for questioning. It’s none of my business, but are you famous? A former athlete, perhaps?”

“Well . . . I wrote a book a while back. There’s still the occasional groupie, thank god, but, no, I’ve been wondering myself why the cops left me at a bar. Figured the local economy needed”—Tomlinson paused to think—“I look like an athlete to you?” He swiveled his chair around. “Raúl, I appreciate the compliment, but let’s put our cards on the table here. If you were sent to spy on me, far out. We all have to eat. So ask what you need to know, then we can get back to discussing these amazing photos.”

Corrales chuckled over his coffee while his eyes confirmed they were alone. “So plainspoken, gringos from the States. A spy? Hardly that. I asked because I heard they found baseball equipment on your boat.”

Word traveled fast in this village; probably true of the whole island. The Coconut Telegraph, Buffett called it. Tomlinson spoke as if sharing a confidence. “It has to be tough to keep a low profile in a place like this, huh? I thought my equipment went overboard when this goddamn cruise ship swamped me in the Gulf Stream.”

Corrales had heard about that, too, but stuck with baseball. “Do you play? Every afternoon, at the top of the hill, the village has a game. Men, and a few boys who are good enough.”

A surge of serotonin brightened the room. “Play, hell yes. I pitch a little and can steal a base; a slap hitter, unless the ball’s in my wheelhouse. Think they’d let me? Wait . . . you’re saying they need gloves and bats more than players?” He touched his forehead. “I’m a little slow today. Okay, no problem. When I leave, everything I’ve got stays with your village team.”

The refugee problem, Tomlinson suspected, is what the man actually wanted to discuss. It was in what came next: a polite vagueness with much hidden between the lines.

“That’s quite a large boat you have. Is the hull damaged or just the rigging? Either way, there’s a wooden bridge at the mouth of the river. If you can get under the bridge, fishermen here can fix just about anything.”

“You know someone who can help?”

“Me—if the proper officials give permission. There’s no crane, of course. We still wait for low tide and careen sailboats like in old times. Slower, but the results are the same.”

“Screw technology,” Tomlinson replied. “It’s turned good sailors into video drones. The mast needs to be stepped and the stays re-anchored, but I’ve got all the hardware. Three or four days would get it done.” He hesitated, made eye contact. “You’re right, my boat’s too big for one person. Plenty of room for friends of yours, if they’d like to go for a ride.”

Corrales didn’t wince, exactly, but came close. “That’s not what I had in mind.” He took his wallet out, removed a few pesos, and something else—a business card, possibly. “My flat’s next door, down the steps, on the water. We shouldn’t talk again unless they issue you a visa. You see, there’s a reason I laughed at your remark about spies: my father was Fidel’s official photographer during the Revolution.”

“For real?”

“His work is in museums. The famous image of Che Guevara in his beret, the campesinos on horseback with flags? Everyone knows those images. Which is why everyone knows me. I’d be a poor choice to spy on anyone.”

“My god,” Tomlinson said. That’s why Cojimar had sounded familiar: Castro’s photographer and the monster shark. “Is your family still—”

“That is a question you shouldn’t ask. Something happened after the Revolution—I don’t know what, but that hasn’t changed my faith in the government. Understand?”

No, but Tomlinson nodded anyway.

“If you are granted a visa, stop by. I have more photographs. Boxes and boxes full”—a pause for emphasis—“that you might like to see.”

Boxes of photos. Was that what they were discussing? If so, things were still in the probing stage. Corrales placed his hand on the bar, the business card beneath it. “Do you have a good memory?”

“Photographic”—Tomlinson smiled—“as long as you’ve got something to write with.”

On the card was a Masonic pyramid and a Havana address for something called the Sons of José Martí.

•   •   •

HE WAS BEING WATCHED: soldiers in a jeep made rounds every half hour; an old black Mercedes with tinted windows parked and re-parked, but no one got out. Finally, the Mercedes left.

Around noon, Berta delivered the visa, then dropped him at the top of the hill to watch the villagers play baseball. T-shirts and a few ragged uniforms, one catcher’s mask, no shin guards, and only a couple of baseballs, both wrapped with tape. Tomlinson headed back to his boat at a jog until a girl on a tractor offered him a lift. She waited and returned him to the field, where the game stopped while he sorted through his equipment bag. Teams consisted of a dozen men, the rest teenagers or younger, one of them a lanky girl. Rather than risk embarrassing the adults, Tomlinson called the girl and boys closer.

“My boat’s being repaired, so I’ve got no use for these things,” he said. “Would you mind taking care of them?” On the ground were four baseball gloves, a dozen balls, yet the bag still bulged with equipment. He had played every position on the field but catcher and believed in arriving prepared.

“Is he a wealthy fascist?” a boy asked.

Tomlinson had to battle a tear when he heard that. “Little comrade”—he smiled—“you give me hope for the world. No . . . there are still a few of us who are simpatico. What position do you play?”

“Premira and lanzador,” the boy answered, “and sometimes in the garden, too”—first base, pitcher, and occasionally the outfield, which had a sweeter name in Cuba.

Tomlinson slipped his hand into a Wilson A2000 first baseman’s glove, popped it a few times. “Are you left-handed?”