Raw Deal (9 page)
Coco Morales held tightly to the sides of his seat, fighting the feeling of dread that always came over him while flying. And it was worse in such a tiny craft as this. They were in a helicopter, Torreno’s last-minute idea, soaring northward over a vast plain of green, its expanse dissected occasionally by razored lines of duller green and brown.
The green was sugarcane, Coco knew, thousands upon thousands of acres of it. His eyes flickered about the canopy, wondering where he had been. The brown lines were service roads where here and there a roiling of dust marked a tractor or pickup—or Jeep, he thought—on its way to some mundane task. The dull green lines were irrigation canals. He knew them well, could smell their humid muckiness even from here. Far to the south and west he could make out the verge of Lake Okeechobee, where the dull water that filled the canals below came from.
An updraft of heated air caught the craft, bucking it, and the dim line of the lake was replaced by a stomach-churning expanse of blue sky, then as suddenly by an expanse of cane tops. When the pilot finally righted them, the view of the lake was gone, obscured by a great cloud of smoke on the horizon. They were burning the fields somewhere, clearing the cane stalks of foliage in anticipation of the harvest.
Torreno turned from his seat beside the pilot to grin back at Coco. His employer waved his arm enthusiastically out at the horizon. “From up here, you begin to comprehend,” Torreno said. Coco watched his lips move, heard the words through the tinny speaker of the headset he wore. “Everything you see, Coco, every piece of it. This is what six hundred and thirteen square miles looks like.” Torreno trailed off, shaking his head at the concept. Coco nodded, glancing down. Vast ripples coursed over the fields, the winds tossing the canopy of cane tops in miles-wide swaths, turning it silver-gray here, a lighter green there. “It looks like the sea,” he said, almost to himself.
His mind had been wandering. He’d been thinking of the
jefe
he had killed, of the two he’d been with, of their bodies, and wondering if they were still down there in that green sea below. And then found himself thinking of all the men who had braved the waters between his country and this one, and of all those who had failed and rode beneath the waves now. Strange how one’s mind traveled, skimming and skipping like the breath of the wind on the fields of sugar below.
“Yes,” Torreno said with a distracted smile. “It is an ocean of money.”
***
“There’s a lot of folks hate to see this deal go through, Mr. Tor-
in
-o.” The attorney was sitting across an antique conference table, an ingratiating smile on his face as he Anglicized Torreno’s name. He was sitting with his back to the windows, which commanded an impressive view of Lake Worth.
Coco had attended enough such meetings, however. He knew that Torreno had not been given the seat for the pleasure of the view. The afternoon sun was slanting in, and even though the glass was heavily treated, it was intended that he would have to squint uncomfortably at the porcine man who sat across from him. Coco had been consigned to a straight-backed chair in a corner of the room, and the attorney refused even a glance in his direction.
“I’ve received a number of inquiries,” the attorney continued. “We could make you a nice piece of change, you’d never have to turn a hand upside down.”
Torreno extended his hand out over the highly polished surface of the table, turned it over and back. He smiled briefly. “I do not mind a little work.”
The attorney laughed, but Coco caught sight of a flush that had worked its way up from his collar. Although the two men had treated him as if he did not exist, he had listened carefully during the meetings. He was well aware that the attorney was not eager to make this deal for his employer.
Carlos Carbonell, the
jefe
of the sugar, or so he had been until he sank beneath the waters. Carbonell had owned what Torreno was about to own. Carbonell’s family, Cubans of Spanish descent, had controlled far more vast sugar holdings in Cuba before Castro’s revolution. Carbonell had been wise enough to see what was coming and had transferred enough of the family fortune to the United States many years before the nationalization of his own fields.
Carbonell had come to South Florida and had begun anew, although, even with his enormous fortune, it had not been easy. While most of South Florida might be seen as a Cuban colony, the sugar lands were held firmly by Anglos—big, florid-faced men who spoke in Deep South accents, like the attorney Torreno was sitting across from now.
“They didn’t take kindly to some greaser—no offense, Mr. Tor-in-o,” the attorney had explained in an earlier meeting, “some Hispan-yo-le coming in and getting involved.”
But Carbonell
had
become involved. He had bought a thousand acres of “Sand,” land on the fringes of the prime sugar-growing region, and had been among the first to make use of mechanized harvesting machinery, at a time when almost all the other growers used blacks imported from the Caribbean to cut the cane.
“It’s hard work, Mr. Tor-in-o.” The attorney again. “None of your American blacks will touch it.”
But Carbonell had persisted. One thousand acres led to two. Then to twenty. To a hundred thousand. And on and on, until, with the purchase of a multinational conglomerate’s holdings sometime in the 1970s, Carbonell became the largest of the South Florida growers.
“The thing I don’t understand, Mr. Tor-in-o,” the attorney was saying. “A smart man like you taking a big chance like this, when you could cash in your option and make a killing, let me lay this off for you.”
“A big chance?” Torreno said.
The attorney rose, clearly summoning his energies for one last pitch. “Sugar’s hard work. You’re always one or two hard frosts away from the poorhouse, no matter how big you are. You got constant labor problems with these islanders you have to bring in to cut—look what happened to Carbonell.”
Coco glanced at the attorney. So important, so certain of himself. What if he were to find himself in
el jefe
’s place, dragging himself up an embankment of slime, only Coco there to help?
Torreno shook his head in sorrow. “I’m sorry that we cannot continue our negotiations face to face.”
The attorney gave him a skeptical glance. “I don’t know why. He was as intent on keeping that land as you are to have it.”
Torreno overlooked the comment. His eyes traveled briefly to Coco, who stared impassively out the windows.
When Torreno did not reply, the attorney remembered his pitch. “That’s what you’ve got to look forward to. Riding herd on a bunch of crazy Jamaicans, not to mention the government hassling you about whether you paid by the piece or by the hour like you’re supposed to, and did you feed them all the jerk chicken they like and so forth. You try to use machines on most of this land, then you tear up half your fields, you got to go hire the same people back to replant for you. Then you got to worry about how long Uncle Sam’s going to maintain the price supports. It’s a neverending source of worry, I’m telling you.”
Torreno shook his head sorrowfully, as if he were commiserating with the attorney. “You make it sound a distressing prospect.”
The attorney hooded his eyes in a gesture of conspiratorial agreement. He glanced briefly at Coco, then leaned down, his palms splayed on the surface of the table. “You of all people, I don’t have to say this to, but Uncle Fiedel’s days are numbered.”
Torreno nodded. “The victory nears,” he said.
“Well, that’s what I’m talking about.” The attorney threw up his hands. “There’s not but one damn thing in the whole damn country worth fussing about and that’s the blessed sugar crop. That and what’s left of the tobacco is the only source of an economy. What’s going to happen is, whether Fiedel croaks or somebody croaks him, next thing some senator will stand up and give a speech: ‘My fellow Amercuns, we got a choice between giving our newly freed neighbors to the south about a gozillion dollars in foreign aid to get them off their backs, and ours, or we can shitcan the import tariff on Cuban sugar and let them
earn
their way into a capitalist society while the consumer enjoys a lower price on his Coca-Cola and Hershey bar.’”
The attorney broke off, his face flushed as he played his trump card. “Which way do you think the boys in Washington are going to lean?”
“Yes,” Torreno replied evenly. “I see your point.”
“Then you’ll be sitting up there in Okeechobee, no tariff protection, with everything you’ve got sunk in one big albatross around your neck. You’re going to pay twenty-seven million dollars for a property that’ll net you less than five percent of that, in a good year. I don’t know how deep you’re into the banks for this purchase, but you’ll have a hell of a time just servicing your debt.” The attorney nodded and Torreno nodded solemnly in return.
“As your adviser in this matter then…”
Torreno held up his hand to cut him off. “Are we agreed that the option price is a good one?”
The attorney nodded. “Sure. Carbonell’s kids don’t want anything to do with sugar. They think the old man was a throwback. Now that he’s gone, they’re happy to be rid of it. You’ve got a fair price, I’ll give you that much, Mr. Tor-in-o.”
Torreno tapped his fingers on a sheaf of papers before him. “And the income projections for the current year are sound?”
The attorney shrugged. “As long as the frost keeps coming when it ought to.”
“Then schedule the closing, Mr. Taft,” Torreno said. “Let me worry about the money.” He stood up and gestured to Coco.
“But these offers I was telling you about. I can turn you a quick two million, you’ll never see the first problem…”
Torreno raised his chin and sighted in on the man as Coco joined him.
“Tell your friends to consider it a disease, if it helps you, Mr. Taft. Call it the throwback disease of the Cubans. Say that sugar runs in my people’s blood.”
He gestured to Coco again, and then the two were gone.
***
They were outside now, on the roof of the building that housed the attorney’s offices, moving through a stiff breeze toward a pad where the helicopter idled. The pilot stood down by the open door of the machine, his face impassive behind mirrored sunglasses, his hands folded before him in an undertaker’s pose. An irresistible curiosity had gripped Coco. Though he seldom questioned his employer, he couldn’t help doing so now. He placed a hand on Torreno’s arm, interrupting his stride. Torreno turned, his tie fluttering loose in the wind like a banner, his close-cropped hair going askew.
“Something is wrong?” Torreno asked, his eyes scanning the rooftop.
Coco shook his head. “I just wanted to know. What you told the man inside.” Coco gestured out over the buildings and the houses below, toward the west, where sixty miles inland the unseen cane fields sprawled beneath a towering bank of thunderheads. “That’s what we will do now, raise the sugar in this place?”
Torreno laughed, a short, barking sound. He put his hand on Coco’s shoulder. “I told that man only what I wanted him to hear, Coco. This business today is only a necessary step. It may have taken every cent I can put my hands on, but it is nothing compared to what’s to come.” He smiled and squeezed the hard flesh of Coco’s shoulder. “All that land you saw today, Coco, conceive of it as a seed, a mere seed, from which a massive tree will grow.”
“And all this will serve
la revolución
?” Coco asked.
Torreno seemed surprised. “You would doubt me, Coco?”
Coco dropped his gaze, shook his head slowly.
Torreno laughed and circled his arm about Coco’s shoulders. “We must let nothing stop us now, Coco.” He had to raise his voice as he guided them toward the waiting helicopter. “We are far too close for that.”
“Janice?” Deal spoke her name softly. He was sitting at the side of her hospital bed, had her unbandaged hand clasped in his. She’d been asleep since he’d come into the room. Now he felt a stirring in his grasp. He squeezed her hand again, gently.
“Deal?” Her voice was faint, raspy with sleep. She ran her tongue along her lips. Her face was still covered with bandages, but they’d made new openings, tiny slits for her eyes.
“You want some water?” he said.
She nodded, took her hand away to fumble groggily for the control that raised her bed. He stood up, reached for the water pitcher, stopped. It was filled with flowers. Flowers he’d bought from a vendor on the corner outside. He drew the water from the bathroom sink and brought it to her. He didn’t mention the flowers.
“How about some ice?”
Janice shook her head weakly. He helped guide the water to her mouth. She drank, then settled back on the pillows.
“Something new,” he said, pointing at the bandages on her face. “Can you see now?”
She nodded. “I can see
you
.”
He reached for her hand, felt her squeeze back, hard. He blinked at the tears that were forming in his eyes. She was still speaking, her voice a little more than a murmur.
“I couldn’t hear,” he said, leaning closer.
She cleared her throat, her voice just above a whisper. “I said, you look terrible.”
Natural enough, given how he felt. Still, here was Janice, worrying about
him
.
“I’m fine,” he said. “Isabel and me, we’re both fine. She’s having fun with Mrs. Suarez. She wants to come see Mommy.” He glanced around the room, feeling helpless. “I didn’t want to bring her until…” He trailed off. “I wanted you to be able to talk to her, so she wouldn’t be scared.…”
“Her mommy’s…a mummy,” Janice said.
Deal forced a laugh, but it left a silence in the room. A candy striper passed down the hallway by the open door, pushing a cart full of magazines and books.
He raised Janice’s hand to his lips. A faint medicinal tang at her fingertips, but still, the familiar smell of her flesh, that good, wonderful Janice smell. “Jesus,” he said. His chest felt as if it would burst. “I was afraid we lost you.” He had to stop, afraid his voice would break. He kept his smile, though.
“I had to go after her, Deal.” Janice was squeezing his hand again. “You know I had to, don’t you?”
He nodded. He pressed his cheek against the back of her hand.
“Isn’t this a
mess
,” she said finally. She broke off, coughing.
“We’re going to be fine,” he said when she was resting quietly again. “
You’re
going to be fine.” He sat up, his eyes glittering, keeping that smile. Cut off his arm right now, he would smile all the way through it. “I talked to the doc. He says you’re going to do great…”
“Don’t,” she said, squeezing his hand vehemently. Her voice was unexpectedly firm. He stared at her. “We’ve done without the bullshit for a lot of years, Deal. We don’t have to start with it now.”
He cleared his throat. “Janice…” he began.
“It’s going to take
years
,” she said, and he sensed that she was losing control, “and we may as well get used to it.” She was choking back the sobs now.
“Janice, whatever it takes, we’ll do it.” His own eyes were wet now. “I
love
you, Janice.”
She pulled her hand from his grip. Her head was rocking side to side on the pillow: No, no, no.
“Janice…”
“I have to go to sleep now, Deal.” Her voice was faint, barely audible in the quiet room. “I have to go to sleep.”