Rivera’s head moved imperceptibly. “Come around ten. You’ll have time to check into your hotel. Marion—make sure you’re not followed.”
• • •
FORD DIDN’T LEAVE. He waited inside the stadium, drifting among fans, where meat sizzled on makeshift grills mixed with tobacco smoke, a cavern noisy with maracas and guitars, until Kostikov appeared, a foot taller than Cubans who parted to create a path. Kostikov with a liter bottle of beer in his hand; rude, not making eye contact with those he brushed aside, on his way somewhere, no interest in the game.
Ford followed, but, first, pulled on a green baseball cap he’d just purchased. He had seen photos of the Russian as far back as . . . ten, fifteen years ago. Had the Russian seen photos of him, an American who sometimes went by the name Marion North?
Better to find out here than later on a dark street.
He had bought the hat at a kiosk that sold diapers and aspirin—typical in a stadium that served many government needs. Ford had played ball here years ago, remembered exiting the field into a room of young mothers, some nursing babies, while a doctor lectured on hygiene and birth control.
“Wrong door,” the doctor had said, as if she’d said it a thousand times to men wearing spikes. She probably had.
Through another wrong door: people wove mats while a man read to them from the works of José Martí.
Bizarre. The Grand Stadium—Estadio Latinoamericano, the official name—was a catacomb of tunnels and disjointed intent. But Anatol Kostikov seemed to know where he was going, plowed a straight furrow while people scattered, even a cop who looked away when an old man stumbled into a domino collision that tripped him and two others to the floor, both children, who got up fast, but not the old man.
A cane of oiled wood lay nearby, and his hat. Ford retrieved both and got a hand under one boney arm, saying, “Let me help you, patrón.” Patrón, a noun that granted respect and deference to a man who hadn’t had either for a while, judging from his clothes. His temper, however, hadn’t aged.
“Clumsy hippo,” he hollered after the Russian. “Come back here—I’ll teach you manners.”
Kostikov, if he heard, didn’t slow, pushed onward while people stared, but not the cop. The cop recognized authority without being told, so he went the other way, but only after warning the old man with a glare.
Ford asked, “Are you hurt?”
“That coward. Twenty years ago, I would have boxed his ears. I would have”—the man looked more carefully at his cane—“Damn . . . he broke the tip off. That dickless snake. Do you still see him?”
Kostikov’s head was melon-sized. Far down the corridor, he turned toward a sign that read HOMBRES. A bathroom stop. It gave Ford some time. “Take it easy, patrón. You seem to be standing okay. How’s your balance?”
“To hell with my balance. I hate stupid questions as much as I hate stupid people.”
Ford smiled, noting the man’s hands—a fighter’s hands, all knuckles and gnarled fingers—and asked his name, which was Lázaro. Made him repeat it—Lázaro Junco—hoping he would calm down.
Lázaro had a temper. “Call the Guardia, I want that tourist scum arrested. Was he Italian? The motherless goat dildo. Where did he go?”
“He’s Russian,” Ford said.
Some fire went out of the man. “Shit. I assumed he was an Americano but didn’t want to offend you. No wonder Omar snuck away.”
Ford handed him his baseball cap, which was old-style, red felt with a Cuban C above the brim. “Who’s Omar?”
“The security guard.”
“Not the police?”
“He pretends to be. I work here, have to see that maricón every day. He is a spineless puta who masturbates with animals. I will never offer Omar a coffee again.”
Ford, watching Kostikov enter the restroom, said, “You have a gift for profanity. What do you do here?”
“Mind my own damn business,” the man replied. “Or do you mean my job?” He pointed to a sign over double doors that read STORAGE / ENTRY FORBIDDEN. “I’m in charge of all things useless. I sleep there as well. More than forty years, yet guards allow me to be assaulted by any fat son of a chinga who can afford a ticket.” With a hand, he used Ford’s shoulder to steady himself. “That filthy baló. I’ll stick this broken tip up his ass.”
Baló—Cuban slang likening Russians to beach balls, round and soft.
“You can always buy another cane.”
“Not like this. I carved it for my grandfather from a bat broken on this field years ago. My father, the old cock, he used it after an accident, then my legs went to hell. See this?” A shepherd’s crook handle was screwed into the knob. “I stole an umbrella from the Hotel Nacional. Meyer Lansky’s umbrella, possibly, but it would be a lie to say I am certain.” The old man lifted his head, still searching. “Where’d that elephant go? He would need a circus tent to disappear.”
Ford hefted the cane, gauged the strength of the ornate handle, the wood dense, solid, despite the splintered tip. A dangerous idea was assembling in his head. “You were a boy when you made this?”
The man was too angry to hear. “Russians are always drunk. I bet he’s pissing, so I’ll surprise him from behind.” He tried to pull away, but Ford took his arm and steered him toward the storage room while he protested, “Gringo . . . I am not a cripple. Where are you taking me?”
“Do you have keys to that room?”
“The storage room? Can’t you hear? I live there, for christ’s sake.”
“Is there a back way out?”
“Not if I don’t invite you in, there isn’t.”
“Then there is. I just thought of something. If the Russian stays in the baño more than a minute or two, that means he’s in one of the stalls. I want to borrow this.”
“My cane? You’ve been helpful, but I’m not giving you my goddamn cane.”
“How much do you think it’s worth? The Russian might agree to pay for repairs. No guarantees, but there’s a chance.”
“Hah. If you ask him nicely, I suppose.”
“I didn’t say anything about being nice.”
“Force him to pay? You don’t know much about Russians.”
Ford, looking at the old man, said, “Patrón, you know less about me. Rude men need to be taught manners. Your own words.”
Lázaro focused on Ford’s face for the first time. “You’re not drunk, I would smell it. Who are you?”
“Wait inside,” Ford told him, “and watch for me when I come back. I might be in a hurry.”
• • •
IN THE LAST STALL, visible beneath the door, slacks piled on size-fifteen loafers proved his timing was just about right. Not perfect, but close; only a couple of guys standing at a steel trough along the wall that served as a communal urinal. Posh by Cuban standards. Anyplace tourists weren’t herded, there would be a hole in a cement slab, possibly an indentation for the feet, but nothing for support but fear of what lay below.
Ford entered the adjacent stall carefully so that Kostikov wouldn’t see his shoes. No toilet seat, no toilet paper. He left, found a newspaper in the trash, soaked it under a faucet, and crumpled it into a heavy ball. By the time he’d returned, the room was empty but for a bald guy who, Ford guessed, had a bad case of stadium bladder.
He bolted the door, bent to confirm the Russian’s pants were around his ankles, then waited, but the place had the acoustics of a locker room. Too much crowd noise outside to hear anyone leave or arriving, so Ford thought What the hell, and made his move. He got to his knees, flushed the toilet, and, in Spanish, hollered, “Keep your head down!” Then he lobbed the wad of paper over the wall into the next stall.
Kostikov would look up—a brief window of opportunity. Ford used the cane, hooked the man’s pants near the crotch, and heaved mightily as if gaffing a fish. The Russian’s butt banged hard on the floor and his legs wedged under the metal divider. The man was so stunned, Ford had ripped off one shoe and was leveraging the other when the violent kicking began.