Shadows Under the Palms
Chapter 21
I drove across the bridge early, while the sun was still well above the horizon in my rearview mirror. I stayed at the speed limit while my mind raced. There were pelicans out of my window, gliding just above the flat water of the Bay. The sky was cloudless, and the air was oppressive and hot. I drew in my cigarette slowly and exhaled the smoke, letting it flow out of my mouth and through the open window.
Ybor City is a different place in the daylight. Cigar factories, restaurants, and shops. Tampa’s working folks strolling on their lunch hour or rushing between jobs. Cuban men in their guayabera shirts or linen suits, all with fedoras. The women almost exclusively in brightly colored sundresses. There is little to suggest that the setting of the sun transforms the area into a different world that most of these smiling, good people would avoid.
I parked my car a few blocks away, tucked behind a box truck just in case Andrade had eyes looking for my Studebaker. I didn’t bother bringing my gun; I knew they’d search me and take it anyway. I tucked it along with my holster under my seat and got out of the car, locking it, and tapped a cigarette out into my hand. I had a few hours to kill, and I was hungry. I headed for the Columbia.
Ask anyone in Tampa, and they will tell you the story of a young Spanish-Cuban immigrant, Casimiro Hernandez, Sr., arriving in Tampa with his four young sons searching for opportunity and a better life. They opened up the Columbia Saloon in 1903 and then expanded to a full restaurant in 1905. And they’ve been a fixture in Ybor City ever since. What started off as a single room watering hole for the cigar workers had grown over nearly half a century, taking up nearly the whole block, and serving up some of the best traditional food anywhere in Florida. And as far as I am concerned, that includes Miami.
I took a seat at the bar and ordered a Cuba Libre and a sandwich. I hated to work on an empty stomach. The drink was strong, and the bartender friendly. I made a mental note to come back over more often once this whole ordeal was over. If I came back at all, that is. I tempered that sobering reminder with another drink as my meal was delivered.
For a moment, I let everything else disappear as I enjoyed the food before me. Much like my own heritage, the Cuban sandwich is really a coming together of cultures. The fine Spanish ham, the Sicilian Genoa salami, the Cubans the mojo-marinated roast pork, the Germans and Jews the Swiss cheese, pickle, and mustard. All together between sliced, freshly baked Cuban bread from La Segunda Bakery, lightly brushed with butter and pressed, and you have one of the finest culinary creations in existence, as far as I am concerned. With the sweet side of fried plantains - themselves a sensuous meeting of African and Caribbean flavors - I was in a state of bliss.
“Would you care for a dessert, seńor?” Asked the barman when I finished. He was a well-dressed older man with a smart moustache and kind smile, spectacles, and a pair of suspenders that were barely maintaining their integrity against his prodigious bulk. “Perhaps some flan or churros tres amigos?”
“Gracias,” I replied, patting my midsection and shaking my head. “Unfortunately, I have to say no today. I’d have to take siesta and miss my appointment!”
He laughed graciously and handed me the bill. “No rush, seńor. Whenever you are ready.” He returned to washing glasses and cleaning his bar. I lit a cigarette and sipped the remainder of my drink. A look at my watch told me I still had plenty of time, so I left and strolled down Seventh Avenue, peering in shop windows. I stopped at a cigar lounge and perused their selection. I had never been a big cigar smoker, but I loved the smell of the shop and the beautiful illustrations on the boxes and wrappers.
An old Cuban man sat at a small table, rolling the tobacco and listening to flamenco music on a small transistor radio. The torcedore looked up at me, watching and smiling a mostly-toothless grin, never pausing his work, and nodded at me. “You want?”
“Si,” I replied. “And I‘ll take a box, please.”
“You talk to my son.” He turned and yelled to the back of the shop. “Romeo! ¡Cliente! ¡Sal de aquí, perezoso!” He turned back to me and smiled again. “Just a minute. Please. Here, you smoke.” He cut the Robusto cigar he had been rolling and handed it to me. I took it, and he struck a wooden match, holding out. I toasted the end in the flame for a moment - as my grandfather had taught me - then leaned in to puff on it, drawing the smoke into my mouth. It was a rich, earthy taste, lingering sweetness, and memories of coffee and cedar.
Romeo appeared, looking chastened and apologetic. “Can I help you, sir?”
“Yes, please. I’d like a box of these Partagas, please. They are a gift.”
“Of course, sir.” He glanced at his father, who gave him a look. He turned back to me. “And that one is on the house. A gift from my father.” I gave the old man a respectful nod, thanked them both, and paid. I continued my walk down Seventh, moving closer, block by block, towards Medianoche.
The sun set, and I sat on a bench across the street from the club, watching the fancy cars and people arriving early. The shadows drew longer, and the dresses got shorter as the dusk settled in and the lights came on. I let the last bit of the cigar go out before I crushed it under my heel. It was time to make my play. I just hoped I had covered all of my bases.
The doorman eyed me up and down as I approached, but said nothing, giving me a curt head nod and opening the tall wooden doors for me. I took my time, not wanting to appear too eager or hurried. I knew Andrade would have his men on the lookout for me, so I didn’t need to search anyone out. Let him think he was in control
I walked through the throng of bodies to the bar. The same bartender from a few nights back was there, and he raised an eyebrow as I approached. Without a word, he turned and whispered to another man in a black suit. Black suit eyeballed me and disappeared behind a wall. I called out to the bartender.
“Bourbon. On a single rock, if you don’t mind.” The scarred man didn’t even fake a smile with me this time, but he did pour my drink.
“On the house,” he growled. “Courtesy of Señor Andrade.”
I toasted him mockingly and turned to look out at the dance floor and stage. The band leader was directing his musicians in a medley of popular Afro-Cuban jazz and son hits - several I recognized as Armando Romeu covers - and the revelers danced wildly around the room.
I felt a heavy hand on my shoulder and turned around to see Maksim Sidorov standing over me, that familiar wicked grin once again on his face, made all the more menacing by the broken nose and bruising he still sported from our last encounter. “I owe the boss twenty dollars, now,” he said through his thick Slavic lips. “I said no way you would show up. So now you owe me.”
I stood to full height, still feeling very small next to his bulk, and smiled back. “How’s your nose, comrade?” His smile vanished, and he leaned in closer. Another man, the black suit from earlier, grabbed his arm and said, “Boss wants to see him.” Sidorov paused, then leaned back again, laughing.
“Soon, little detective. You cannot hide from me for long.”
I followed Black Suit past the bar and down a corridor, then to an elevator. It was in the classic, wrought-iron style and allowed a view of the entire club as it went up. I had to admit, Medianoche was impressive from a few stories up. We reached the top floor, and the back of the lift opened up to a massive, opulent room. White walls and floor-to-ceiling windows that looked out over the city, the Bay in the background. French doors opened to a grand balcony that looked over Ybor City. A huge crystal chandelier, white marble floors scattered with white fur rugs, and white-and-gold couches and chairs. And in the very center, a large, black, polished mahogany desk stood, reflecting the light from all around it. At that desk sat Señor Learco Andrade.
He sat in his tall chair, leaning back, his hands together in front of his mouth with index fingers touching. Peering at me over his well-manicured nails, his pale amber eyes burned with well-controlled fury. Streaks of silver touched his temples, disappearing into thick, black, slicked-back hair. He had a tightly trimmed moustache with a small grey patch on his chin. His skin tanned and smooth, with creases at the corners of his eyes. His suit was impeccable and masterfully tailored, but not flashy. The only jewelry he wore was a small, lapis lazuli ring on his left pinky finger. With a wave of his hand, his men vanished behind numerous doors.
“Detective Eduardo Duffy.” He spoke softly, in clipped, precise words. “You have caused me a great deal of trouble. Even after I asked you not to.”
I looked around and found a chair, setting myself down into it and propping my shin up on my knee. “You’ll understand if I have a seat, right? Still a bit sore from the beating your man put on me.”
“I want my files.”
“Where’s Clara?”
“Safe. For now.”
“Not good enough. Bring her out or I walk.”
“You really think you are in a position to argue, Mr. Duffy?”
“Do you think I would have come here without a contingency plan, Mr. Andrade?”
“I notice you do not have the files with you,” he said gravely.
“Of course not. I’m not stupid. I walk in here with those, you shoot me, shoot Clara, and dump our bodies in a crab trap off Egmont Key. I’d rather avoid the whole dying thing, if possible.”
“You were a soldier, were you not? And a cop after that?”
“Were. Past tense, and with good reason. Look, I’m only here because some broad was worried about her husband. I don’t care about you and your… whatever it is you are doing. If you let Clara go - unharmed - and let me walk out of here, I’ll give you those files without a fuss.”
Andrade stared at me for what felt like an eternity. He burst out laughing, a deep, rich, throaty laugh that startled me. Apparently it was remarkable enough that several of his men burst back into the room. He waved them off, still laughing and leaning forward with his elbows on his desk. “You surprise me, Mr. Duffy. I am rarely surprised. I was under the impression you were an idealist.”
“I’m too old to be an idealist these days, Mr. Andrade. That only gets you broke or shot. And I very much like money and living.”
“Then we agree on something. But tell me, Mr. Duffy, what about Miss Jones? I do not think she is as easily swayed. She is a reporter, after all. And a woman.”
“She’ll listen to me,” I said, knowing she would do no such thing. “She’s smart, and she will understand this is how it has to be. Besides, without the files, anything she wrote would all be hearsay. And you could sue her and the paper for libel.”
He looked impressed. “You are a clever man, Mr. Duffy. I almost like you.”
“Let’s not get ahead of ourselves, Learco. Hey, mind if I smoke in here?”
He spread his hands magnanimously. “Be my guest. May I offer you one of my cigars? A drink perhaps? To formalize our… understanding.”
“A drink would be swell,” I said. “And oh yeah, I almost forgot. I did bring you something. A gesture of goodwill.” I produced the box of cigars from my jacket. “I wasn’t sure what you liked, but I enjoyed the one I had.”
He came around the table and accepted my gift, eyebrows raised. “Mr Duffy… Eduardo… Can I call you Eduardo? I am once again taken off guard! Partagas. A fine smoke. One of my favorites for sure. I appreciate the gift. Drink? Anything you like.”
“I’m a simple man, Learco. Any of the brown stuff will do.”
“Ah, once again, we are in agreement. Rum?”
“Sounds wonderful.”
“From my private collection.” He made his way over to a bar set up against the wall, opening a crystal decanter and pouring a deep, amber liquid into a matching crystal glass. “They keep a set of barrels just for me in Havana. Send me bottles whenever I please.” He handed me the glass, and we toasted. “To understandings.”
“To money and living,” I replied. He laughed, and we both drank. The rum was exquisite, and I said so. “This is the best I’ve ever had.”
“I am glad you think so,” he replied. He returned to his desk and sat. We looked at one another in silence for a moment as we sipped our rum. He smiled, apparently waiting for me to break the silence. I was happy to oblige.
“So, you were going to bring Clara out here, we were going to leave, and I was going to get those files for you. That about right?”
He chuckled. “That about sums it up, yes.” He called out. “Bring her in!”
One of the doors opened, and Sidorov appeared, Clara at his side. He was holding her arm tightly, but other than that, she seemed unharmed.
“Eddie,” she said, eyes wide. “What are you doing here? You can’t give him those files!”
“Clara, it’s all right. I’m getting you out of here…”
“But… OW! You big ape, get your hands off me!” She yanked her arm from Sidorov’s grasp and threw an elbow into his midsection. He grunted, and his eyes narrowed.
“Maksim!” Andrade’s tone brought no resistance. “That’s enough. She is free to go. They both are.” Sidorov looked surprised and threw a hateful glare my way, then back to his boss.
Clara shot me a look of betrayal. “Eddie, how could you?”
“C’mon, doll. Let’s get out of here.”
“Listen to your friend, Miss Jones,” said Andrade smugly. “He understands the reality of the situation.”
Clara stared at me, hurt in her eyes, then headed for the elevator. I began to follow.
“I’ll expect those files by tomorrow, Mr. Duffy,” called Andrade. “I would hate for our… understanding… to affect anyone’s money or living.”
Using the detailed setting and history to help make the deal plausible was well done. Great storytelling!