A restless half hour later, Tomlinson was gone. He was in the canoe, paddling like hell, hugging the shoreline for almost two miles before he saw the towering trees he’d been told about, and then campfires of a village. Beyond was the mouth of a creek. All exactly as marked on the chart.

The opening into the creek was guarded by shoals on both sides. Using the paddle as a rudder, he banged over some oysters, then entered the creek, thinking, Be there . . . Please be there . . .

After five minutes of hanging moss and shadows, that mantra changed to Where the hell is that bonehead?

Tomlinson wasn’t telecommunicating with his lost dinghy.

No moon out, but the stars were bright. The creek narrowed, and on the western bank was a little clearing with a path through the trees. It was the sort of path boys make when they aren’t playing baseball. He beached the canoe, stumbled up the bank, and whispered his fears out loud: “That little dumbass gave me bogus directions.”

Nearby, a pile of banana leaves exploded, and Figueroa Casanova scared the hell out of him again. Sat up, asking, “Brother, what took you so long?”

•   •   •

CASTRO’S BRIEFCASE was in a white burlap sack with a shoulder strap. “A cane-cutter bag,” Figuerito explained. “That’s why I’m short, ’cause I planted so much cane before I went to crazy prison. A boy carry all that weight, how’s he gonna grow? In Cuba, no campesino with brains would steal a cane-cutter bag.”

Tomlinson had to ask, “Where’d you get it?”

“Stole it,” Figgy replied. “Same with this . . .” A machete, the length of a sword, which he used to signal Follow me.

It was nine-fifteen. Figgy led the way through trees, past barking dogs and hovels of cement where people slept behind bars. Stopped and waited for Tomlinson to catch up before he placed the bag on the ground and made a sweeping gesture. “This is it. Been twenty years since I was a youth here and this is where I played.”

“Played what?”

“You don’t see any hoops, do you? What do you think?”

It was a rock-strewn clearing, chicken wire for a backstop. In right field, a fifty-gallon drum smoldered with trash. Tomlinson took it all in before saying, “Looks like a good spot for a dental clinic. Why are we here?”

“To show you, why else? Oh yeah, lots of bad hops. An infielder lose his teeth if he don’t have good hands on a field with this shit.” Barefoot, he kicked a stone away. “These little putas, there is a bad hop in every single one. How is your head, brother? You’re still talking sort of strange.”

Tomlinson touched the spot where the boom or something heavy had hit him just before No Más had pitchpoled. “One of God’s little love taps. All pain is illusory, man. Then you die. The question is, do we have transportation?”

“After we dead? Of course. Everyone knows that.”

“No, amigo, tonight. Did you find us some wheels?”

Before dawn that morning, the last thing Tomlinson had done before Figgy rocketed off in the dinghy was remind him, We need a car and fuel. But nothing fancy, because we want to blend in.

“Same answer,” the shortstop said. “Only better ’cause we’re still alive.”

In an alley where chickens roosted was an old station wagon with dents—a 1955 Buick, but now with a Ford engine—and no tailgate because racks of cages had replaced all but the front seats. Figuerito had leased the car from a woman who sold eggs but couldn’t drive. He got behind the wheel, turned the key, and said over the noise, “Eighty dollars U.S. Think that’s a fair price?”

“How long can we keep it?”

“Long as we want, I guess. Isn’t that what lease means? The woman, she didn’t know either.” He switched the engine off and closed the door.

“Did she recognize you?”

“Nobody remembers I lived here and they stopped asking questions real quick. I told people I was a ballplayer headed for the Estados Unidos and would use this”—he hefted the machete—“to chop their damn hands off if they touched my boat, especially my fast engine. Or an arm if they complained to the Guardia about me using a creek that is practically mine, since I damn-near drowned there twice as a youth. See? All true.” He smiled, but the smile faded. “I didn’t know I was lying when I said I could swim good. You saved my life, brother. Twice you saved me, because it was smart, just like you said, for me to take the dinghy and let you deal with the police.”

Tomlinson, preoccupied, watched the streets, worried engine noise had drawn attention. The car had smoked and sputtered like a Nazi Messerschmitt. “The way I remember it, you saved mine. But let’s focus. The important thing is, we don’t draw attention. Next time—this is only a suggestion, understand—instead of cutting an arm off, maybe tell them something like ‘I have faith in your integrity.’ You know, lay a guilt trip on them.”

“Yeah, guilt,” Figgy said. “Now I owe you my life. That’s what I’m saying. I’ve never been in water that deep and, Mother of God, so dark under them waves. If it was shallower like I’m used to, yeah, I can swim pretty good.”

“Uh-oh, car lights,” Tomlinson said. “Don’t look.”

The shortstop spun around. “Where?”

At the end of the block a diesel Mercedes crept past, followed by a military jeep. Tomlinson feared the cars would turn, but they didn’t. “I saw them in Cojimar earlier. A couple of cops. I don’t know who’s in the Mercedes.”

“It’s the Russian,” Figgy said.

Tomlinson had started toward the river. “Who?”

“The giant bear-man. Same man who called you a pussy in Key West.”

Tomlinson stopped. “You’re kidding.”

“No, that’s what he called you. You forgot already?”

“That’s not what I mean. This afternoon, the Russian guy came to me in a clairvoyant flash . . . But hold on a sec. It’s dark, the windows are tinted, how do you know it’s him?”

“It was sunny this afternoon, so I saw him just fine,” Figuerito replied. “He drove by in that nice Mercedes. Didn’t even wave, the maricón.”

“You waved first?”

“Sure. This isn’t Miami. In Cuba, you have to be polite to a man with a car like that.”

“Hmm. The same Russian guy you assaulted in Key West,” Tomlinson mused, then added in a rush, “Quiet . . . I think they’re coming back.” He gave the shortstop a push toward a trash barrel, where they both hunkered low. “You’re sure he saw you this afternoon?”

“If he hadn’t, he would’ve run me over. But he didn’t recognize me ’cause I was carrying this sack. Carrying this machete, too. What’s a Russian care about a peasant cane cutter? Pissed me off he didn’t wave. Made me wonder if maybe that bad Santero, Vernum Quick, warned him it was okay to chase me, but not—”

“Shit-oh-dear,” Tomlinson whispered, “they’re looking for someone. Probably us.”

The jeep, lights out, reappeared two blocks away, while the quieter Mercedes approached from the opposite direction. No lights from the Mercedes either. On these dark streets, headlights would have ricocheted off the tin roofs and brightened the sky.

“We’ve got to move,” Tomlinson said. “Only two choices: try to slip past them in that old Buick or run for the boat. What do you think?”

Figuerito, holding the machete, said, “I’d rather kill the Russian and drive his Mercedes. I’ve never been in a Mercedes before. Maybe if I sneak through the alley . . . Hey, brother, let go of my pants.”

Tomlinson had latched onto Figuerito’s belt. “We’re not killing anyone. Cops have guns. You want to get us shot? Hey—is there a place to hide near here?”

“There’s the egg woman, but that house of hers is hardly big enough for her and the chickens.”

Tomlinson whispered, “Uh-oh . . . now what?”

A block away, the jeep had stopped, one cop already out, carrying a flashlight, while his partner popped the rear hatch and spoke a command to something inside—a dog. The dog, ears pointed, was wearing a sort of vest. He jumped down onto the street, circled, then hiked his leg to pee.