1

Title: Havana, 1958

Author: Riley Magnus
Character: Bud White “LA Confidential”
Rating: R
Disclaimer: The following story has been written with no intention of claiming
ownership or solicitation, nor does the author claim the movie character(s) as his/her
own. The movie character(s) have been borrowed solely out of a love of the particular
movie and is not intended for any other purpose but amusement and entertainment.

---------------------------------------

Chapter 1

Fuckin’ A it hurt! Hurt like a bitch and Lieutenant Detective Bud White yelped on the
examining table while the female doctor probed her finger against the gunshot wound.
Women doctors? What the hell had the world come to? Not that Bud spent a mess of time
in emergency rooms, but it was the first time he’d come across such a thing. Weren’t
women supposed to be nurturing? Gentle?

“Jesus fuckin’ Christ! It’s a goddamn bullet! Get it out and quit pokin’ at it, dammit!”

“Mr. White, we’ll need X-rays to be sure where it is.”

 2

“It’s in my fuckin’ shoulder! Ow!”

“Yes, but how deep is the question,” she turned to speak to the nurse who was acting far
more like Bud expected women to act, looking at him with sad doe-like eyes and gently
holding his good hand. “Send him up for X-rays then prepare him for surgery,” and
Doctor Bitch walked out.

“Surgery for what? It’s just a fucking bullet?”

The nurse fussed over him and his Captain walked in. “What the fuck are you doin’
here?”

Exley grinned and stood back to avoid watching as the nurse inserted the needle for
intravenous. He swallowed hard. He hated this part of the job, checking in on his
wounded men. Especially checking in on White. Last time White ended up in medical
care, Ed got the black eye. The bastard was tough and he was hoping they had the right
dosage of whatever they needed to really knock the man out.

They’d come a long way, him and White. Except for that brief time Bud was in Arizona
recovering back in ’54 with Lynn, the two men seemed always locked together …
whether it was a case or a division issue, a social gathering or disagreement. Those were
the times locked together in battle. White didn’t fuck around. Justice was his thing. Took
him years to discover he wasn’t the only fucker in the LAPD who felt that way.

It had been a precarious friendship but a friendship all the same and Exley knew that if it
was him lying on that examining table, White would be there, probably just as squeamish,
but still there at his side. Finally the nurse left, alerting Ed that he had fifteen minutes
before they’d be taking the patient upstairs. Bud bristled and grunted, tried to sit up and
Ed knew better than to even try to restrain the man. Didn’t matter anyway. They must
have notes on how much sedative to pump into the brute’s veins to calm him down.
“What the fuck,” Bud hissed. “Why can’t they just dig the bullet out and let me outta this
damn place?”

“Bud, it’s not just the shoulder they’re worried about.”

White blinked, he’d been so irritated he’d forgotten about the shot near his spine, the one
that didn’t even tingle, much less hurt since the moment he dropped to the ground. The
one that someone in the ambulance said could leave him in a wheelchair. Nope, he wasn’t
thinking about that because it wasn’t gonna happen. Period.

“So, they gonna do surgery to get them both out? Fine. When can I get outta here?”

“Soon as they say you can. Just shut your trap and do what they say. I’m waiting outside
‘til it’s done, Bud.” Ed didn’t make eye contact; he simply turned and walked out.
 3

And Bud White drew in a deep breath. No one was ever gonna know how grateful he was
that Exley would be waiting … ‘cause no one could ever know how fuckin’ scared Bud
White actually felt.

***

The case that put Bud on the operating table was hideous; a well known Hollywood
director, dead of a gunshot wound to the head. White and two of his best detectives had
been working it for months. It was clearly drug related, the director supplying his contract
actors with H for years. Ugly as it was, it didn’t really get bad until two detectives,
remnants of Dudley Smith’s old regime, were found murdered in Redondo Beach, gouged
with knives and pumped full of heroin. The case became an even higher priority and
Exley got in on the act.

Even though it was common knowledge within the bureau that White and Exley mixed
like oil and water, every morning Bud could be found sitting in the captain’s office, going
over leads and discussing tactics. White had an instinct Ed admired, skill he needed and if
Bud’s men weren’t afraid of him, they were damn smart enough to listen to him. White
was as good as a Lieutenant Detective got.

Ed sat alone in the waiting room for hours as the night crawled past. When or how he and
Bud became friends was still a conundrum to him, but a lucky one. He had the best leader
for his homicide division, and White had a confidant who could handle his blazing
sarcasm and easily heated blood. Oil and water don’t mix, but when they’re put together
with a common goal, they sure as hell can ease the path to success. It wasn’t always that
way.

When Bud first returned from Bisbee, leaving Lynn behind for reasons he never disclosed
to Exley, the man had begun to take on the habits of his former, very dead partner. Like
Stensland, White had sought his comfort in a bottle. Soon after Bud’s reinstatement, Ed
was promoted and he took the bull by the horns, not an easy task since White carried a
near hundred pounds on him. Late on a Friday night and in response to an unofficial
report from a uniformed officer, Ed found Bud slumped over in the alley outside a
Hollywood bar. He promptly dragged the monster to a nearby motel and cuffed him to the
bed.

For three days White ‘motherfucked’ Exley, kicked and shouted but when it was over; the
man was fairly clean and sober. Something snapped inside Bud White during that time,
something that had kept him reeling for most of his life, anchored to his anger and
frustration and acting out like a mindless thug. And even though to that day Bud would
swear he had his drinking under control and could have a fucking Scotch any time he
damn well felt like it, Ed would bet his bottom dollar that Bud hadn’t touched a drop.

Ed groaned, rubbed his eyes and glanced out the window. The hospital parking lot was
filling and the sun was fighting its way through the steamy summer morning haze. He
looked at his watch. Six-fifteen. He grunted to his feet and headed for the payphone.
 4

“Hey darling.”

“Well?” Marlene Exley was one of the few respectable women married to men on the
force who actually liked Bud White. Why she had such a soft spot for the brute was
beyond Ed’s comprehension, but it did make things easier when he had ‘White issues’ to
deal with. “How is he, Ed?”

“No news.”

“Oh dear God! He’s still in surgery? It’s been almost eight hours!”

“I know, I know. Baby, I’m not so sure this looks too good.”

“Ed, I’m going to church. I want to pray for him.”

“Yeah. Pray for me too. I gotta go, gotta call the office. Marlene, honey, I have no idea
when I’ll be home.”

“Don’t worry about us, we’re fine. I’ll have someone bring you a change of clothes. Just
don’t let him wake up alone, please. I’m sure he’s scared to death. Do you think … do
you think …”

“I don’t know. We won’t know anything until they finish. But if he walks again, I swear
it’ll be a miracle. Go pray for a miracle, sweetheart … and kiss Betsy for me, okay?”

Another three hours slowly dragged and finally a surgeon stepped into the waiting room.
“Mr. Exley?”

“Yeah,” he almost leapt to his feet.

“Mr. White is out of surgery.”

“And?” Damn, he hated doctors, so fucking cryptic when it would be a hell of a lot easier
on everyone if they’d just come out and say what they have to say.

“And … we don’t know. The bullet was dangerously close to the spinal cord, there’s a lot
of inflammation and we simply can’t know just yet if there is or isn’t permanent damage.
But Mr. White is alive, and for a few moments it was touch and go in there.”

Bud had lost a lot of blood, so much that even the nurses were shocked he was conscious,
much less so agitated and abrasive when they got him from the ambulance. White’s
adrenalin was legendary, was there a chance it was a good sign in this case?

“When can I see him?”

 5

The surgeon rubbed his eyes, obviously finished with his part in it all. “He’ll be in
recovery ‘til he wakes. Could be hours, could be a few days. Go home or go wait up on
the sixth floor if you want.”

No goodbye, no nothing. The doctor just left.

“Motherfucker,” Ed hissed under his breath, realizing White was rubbing off on him more
than he thought.

***

The vigil continued, two hours, five hours, six. And Ed found himself pacing, eating in
the hospital cafeteria or dozing upright in his chair. He thought about Bud a lot, about
how the man lived his life, about why he was the way he was. Over the past four years, it
was beginning to look more and more like White was destined to live his life as a
bachelor … and not one of those happy Hollywood, Rock Hudson, Doris Day farce sort
of bachelors, rather something kinda sad.

Maybe it was because Ed was happy and married that he wished White could find the
right woman and settle down. Maybe it was Marlene’s influence, always wanting to fix
Bud up with a nice girl. Marlene, who was off at church praying for Bud. Hell, knowing
his wife, she’d probably already contacted her sister, long distance in Ohio. Her sister the
nun … Sister Mary Thomas Aquinas. Ed felt a grin tug at his tired face. Now there would
be a good match, Sister Mary Thomas Aquinas, A.K. A. Barbara Cochran, his sister-in-
law. Barb had spunk, the kind it would take to catch and hold White’s attention. Ah well,
not ever gonna happen. God was playing that hand.

Of course, Bud was quiet about his private life, what there was of it. He practically lived
at the station; if not there, doing stake-outs and investigating on the streets. Being so
private though, for all Ed knew maybe he did have a woman, some nice girl he was
keeping secret from everyone else. Ed thought about that poor woman, about how she
was probably somewhere pacing all alone and worrying. But … if there was a woman,
why wasn’t she at the hospital too? Nah, there was no nice girl worrying over Bud. Ed
knew that White occasionally saw a prostitute, one of the girls who worked a corner of
Pico in West LA. Maybe that satisfied White’s need, if not his heart. Ed shrugged,
slouched deeper in the chair. It was White’s problem, not his.

“Mr. Exley?”

Ed jumped, having again dosed in the uncomfortable chair. A nurse had gently touched
his wrist but he was reacting with the adrenalin of a WWII vet. He gasped and looked at
his watch. He’d been waiting over eight hours since the surgery ended. “Yeah, yeah,” he
cleared his throat and turned concerned eyes to her sweet smile.

“You can see Mr. White now. Follow me.”

 6

The patient was obviously down for the count, lying on his side, propped by several
pillows and white as a ghost. Ed pulled the chair close and sat quietly. The nurse smiled
and checked the chart.

“Bud? Bud, you awake?”

One eye opened and Ed got a patented Bud White scowl. “What the fuck time is it?” his
raspy voice growled.

“Should be asking what day it is. How you feeling?”

Now both eyes were opened, glaring but sort of blank. “Can’t fee a fuckin’ thing.”

“Morphine,” the nurse said softly then left.

Ed eyed the man carefully. Nothing, not even Bud’s brows moved and he felt his gut
tighten. Morphine or not, shouldn’t Bud be feeling something? He cleared his throat.
“Gonna take some time.”

“Go home. You look like shit.”

“Yeah, yeah. Just wanted to wait ‘til you woke up. I’ll be back later.” Another glance at
his watch, he’d been there at the hospital now for over twenty hours. “Well, maybe
tomorrow.”

“Fine. I’m goin’ back to sleep.”

And Ed watched the blue-green eyes drift closed, Bud’s breathing became deep and even.
Was that a good sign?

Stepping out into the hall he nearly slammed right into the surgeon. “Mr. Exley,” the
doctor said.

“What’s the scoop? He gonna be okay?”

A powerful compassion that wasn’t there right after the surgery crept across the surgeon’s
face. “Mr. Exley, it’s hard to tell just yet. There’s still a lot of swelling and inflammation
around the nerves in the spinal cord. We need to just wait.”

This time it was Ed who walked off without a word of farewell or thanks. His entire body
shook. He got behind the wheel of his car and dropped his head back. He knew Bud
White, knew him like the back of his hand. The doctor’s kind, pitying attitude had really
driven things home. There was a real possibility Bud would never walk again. A real …
real fucking possibility. If Bud couldn’t work …
 7

He couldn’t think about that shit right now. He needed to get home, needed Marlene’s
comfort, needed some sleep. Then maybe, just maybe he could think those possibilities
through clearly. Right now, he wanted to kill someone, the whole thing pissed him off so
bad.

“Daddy!” squealed Betsy as she charged him before he even got inside the door. “Daddy!
Daddy! Daddy! I missed you so much!”

He lifted her with a groan and kissed her cheek. Betsy was all of four years old going on
forty. She could wrap him around her finger or manipulate any promise out of him she
wanted and Ed suspected it would be that way all his life. He didn’t mind, except that at
that moment, he didn’t revel much in all her rambunctious energy. He set her to her feet
and she bounced like a dancer at his side.

Marlene came close and folded him into her arms. “What did they say?”

Ed shrugged. “Don’t know yet. He was awake for a minute or two. Maybe we get some
answers tomorrow.”

“Are you hungry?”

“No, tired.”

“Daddy! Daddy! I want a hug too!”

He lowered and squeezed Betsy to his chest but released her to stand and push hair from
his face.

“Sweetie, daddy is very tired. Why don’t you go and play?” Marlene smoothly suggested.

“Okay. Daddy? Do you wanna play tea party with me?”

“Sure,” he sighed and watched her drag out her boxes of little cups and saucers. He shot a
begging glance Marlene’s way.

“Know what Betsy?” Marlene said with excitement. “Let’s let daddy sleep, and while
he’s sleeping, we can bake him a cake to go with your tea party. Would you like that?”

“Yes! Yes! Daddy go to bed! Hurry!”

Marlene followed Ed and watched him strip and drop to the mattress, but he didn’t lie
down, he sat, his back propped against the headboard as he fought a yawn.

“Everything okay at the station?” Marlene asked, folding the dropped slacks and hanging
his jacket. He reached for her hand and tugged her to sit at his side.
 8

“We gotta talk, baby.”

“You’re afraid for Bud. I know. So am I.”

“Ah … listen … I made arrangements, took my vacation now.” He watched her face
carefully.

“Oh … right. That makes sense.”

“I’m sorry, honey. I know how much you wanted to go; I was looking forward to it too.
But the facts are, the man’s gonna need some … assistance, ya know. Whatever comes
out of this, he’ll need help. I just figured the timing isn’t right for us to take off for a few
weeks next month … and,” he shrugged, placed his hand on her flat belly with a sigh.

“It’s alright, Ed. I understand. I was sort of thinking the same thing. When they let him
out of the hospital, he’ll need a place to stay, he can’t stay alone in that walk up
apartment, he can’t stay alone anywhere at first … no matter what the prognosis turns out
to be. Right? He’ll stay here.”

Ed snorted. “Bud’s gonna have something to say about that, honey.”

“So, he can say his piece then I’ll say my piece and I’ll win.” She blinked back a
threatening tear. “Is that alright with you?”

“Sure. We might kill each other and I might end up the cripple, but hey, it’s the Christian
thing to do.”

She smiled and kissed his lips softly. “You know I love you, Ed Exley.”

“Yeah, how much?” Foolish question, four in the afternoon and an active kid fussing in
the kitchen.

“Mommy!”

Ed chuckled.

***

Nine AM, dressed in slacks, shirt sleeves and sporting no tie, Ed walked into the hospital.
He wasn’t sure he was any more ready than White for what they might learn about his
condition that day, but he was determined to stay tough for it all.

Bud had been raised into a pseudo sitting position, still leaning on his left side and
glaring at a plate of food.
 9

“These fuckin’ eggs are green,” hissed White and Ed grinned. The man’s hand was
holding a fork and pushing around the mess on his plate, his head was held erect without
the odd neck brace they had him locked into a day earlier. Good, good. This could be
good.

“Eat ‘em anyway.”

“Fuck no, I think they’re tryin’ to kill me with this shit,” Bud pushed away the tray. It
rolled past Ed and he caught it before it hit the wall. “Hey Cap,” Bud whispered. “Why
don’tcha go across the street and get me a donut?”

“Maybe. Maybe not.” Ed’s eyes slid to the groaning man in the next bed then to Bud.

“The guy had brain surgery. Been makin’ noises like that all night.”

Ed glanced over, gave a wave but shuddered at the blank expression on the drooling
man’s face.

“Get me a glazed donut; get me two, maybe three.”

But before Ed could respond, the doctor and two burley orderlies walked in. “Good
morning, Mr. Exley. Maybe you can head out for a few minutes, get yourself some
coffee.”

“No. I’m stickin’ around,” and he offered such a scowl, even the orderlies didn’t
contradict him. He stepped back to watch.

“How are you feeling this morning, Mr. White,” the doctor slid the screen between the
two beds and lifted Bud’s chart. “Any pain?”

“Hell yeah.”

“The shoulder?”

“Fuck yeah.”

“Can you feel the wound at your back?”

Bud drew in a deep breath. “Like a fuckin’ spike.”

“Good,” the doctor grinned and Bud rolled his eyes. The orderlies slowly lowered the bed
as Bud grunted. They carefully removed the pillows and rocked the patient to lay flat on
his damaged back, drawing a shout and hissing growl. Ed swallowed hard.
 10

“Just breathe through it, Mr. White. Relax your muscles.” Finally Bud calmed and the
doctor tugged at the sheets near his feet, exposing them and watching closely. “Now, can
you move your right foot?”

“’Course I can,” and the toes moved.

“And the left foot?”

Bud concentrated. “It’s fuckin’ numb.”

Ed held his breath and watched the doctor who simply grinned.

“Quite possible, Mr. White. You’ve been lying on this side for two days now. Try again.”

Bud glanced to Ed but Ed was looking at the doctor. Again he tried, relaxing as much as
possible and the doctor actually chuckled. Pulling a pen from his pocket, he dragged it
from Bud’s right heel to his toes and the foot instinctively curled. Ed shifted, moving to
the bottom of the bed to see what he wasn’t seeing. As the pen slid along the bottom of
Bud’s left foot … it miraculously did the same thing.

The doctor covered the feet and lifted the chart. “This is very good, Mr. White.”

“Yeah? So when can I get outta here?”

“We’ll let you rest today, then see how you are at taking a walk down the hall tomorrow.
If that goes well, I can release you by Thursday.”

“It’ll go just fine, doc. Get your paperwork ready cause I may just take a walk down the
hall and right out of this place.” He shot a glare at Ed. “I ain’t spending six more days in
here.”

Ed shook the doctor’s hand and reveled in the look of confidence on the man’s face.

“You gettin’ me some donuts or what?”

“Yeah. But listen, when they release you, you’re coming home with me.”

Bud glared.

“Don’t give me that look. I make it a practice never to fight with my wife. You’ll be
staying with us ‘til you’re on your feet and that’s that. Was that three or four glazed
donuts?”

“Five.” And Bud waited until Exley was out of the room before saying quietly, “Thanks,
Cap.”
 11

***

The walking went well. It wasn’t pretty and it hurt like hell, but Bud was determined. All
he wanted was to get to the fucking gym and work until his strength returned. But of
course, his body had other ideas. He wasn’t released on Thursday or even Friday. It was
Saturday afternoon before he was finally at the Exley bungalow in Beverly Hills and
tucked tight into a bed. The mere activity of going from one place to the other had
knocked the shit outta him and Bud was sound asleep in a heartbeat. Until …

He could feel her close, maybe he smelled the rug rat or maybe he just had that second
sense that told him someone was staring at him. He opened one eye and little Betsy Exley
immediately screamed at the top of her lungs.

“Mommy! Daddy! He’s awake! He’s awake! Uncle Bud is awake!” and she scooted out
of the room.

Bud moaned and grunted to sit at the edge of the mattress. What kinda parents would let
their kid call him ‘uncle’? There just wasn’t something right about the Exleys. He pulled
on a robe, determined to look pitiful enough to get one of Marlene’s wonderful home
cooked meals and slowly walked off to find everyone.

In the living room, Marlene stood to greet him real nice with a kiss on his cheek. “Come
on, Betsy. Let’s get dinner ready for our guest.”

“I’m making you cookies!” said the happy child.

“Goody,” Bud grumped and lowered to a big chair.

Marlene took her daughter’s hand. “Let’s leave daddy and Uncle Bud alone … to talk.”

“Talk about what?” Bud said, watching Exley squirm on the sofa.

“Listen, White. It’s gonna be some time before you can get back to work.”

“Fuck, I can go back next week.”

“No, you can’t. Doctors are saying no desk duty for a month, no active duty for three
months.”

“So, we don’t say anything. It’s no big fuckin’ deal, I’ll be sitting at a goddamn desk.”

“Yeah, and walking three flights of stairs. Like that’s easy for you right now?”

“Fuck,” Bud hissed, thinking it through and adjusting the sling on his right arm. “I ain’t
stayin’ here that long.”
 12

“Shit, I hope not. But I got another idea. See, me and Marlene were supposed to go on a
trip and we can’t make it. I was thinking you could take it instead.”

“What trip? To Havana? Wasn’t that supposed to be some kinda fuckin’ second
honeymoon or something? I ain’t goin’ on your second honeymoon, Exley.”

“We can’t go.”

“Why?” Bud glared.

Exley leaned elbows on knees. “Listen, just go. Gamble, have some fun, meet some
women. Relax and get stronger.”

“I wanna gamble, I’ll go to Vegas. I want a woman, I’ll –”

“Hit Pico in West LA? Listen, White. We can’t take the trip, you’ll be doin’ me a favor
here.”

“Why can’t you go?” Bud’s mind clacked and he narrowed his eyes. “Don’t fuckin’ tell
me you wasted your vacation babysitting me.”

“Ah … no. Bud …” Exley lowered his voice. “Marlene’s pregnant.”

Bud glanced toward the kitchen and shrugged. “So. It’s early. She ain’t showin’ or
nothing.”

“That’s not the point. We thought we could do it, but then I got to thinking. Shit … she
had so much trouble with Betsy. Fuck … I just don’t want to risk it, ya know?”

Bud was silent. He didn’t wanna go to Havana. He wanted to go to work.

“You’ll be doing me a big favor, White. I’ll get you back rested and recuperated … and
it’ll make Marlene happy to know someone’s enjoying the vacation.”

“Dinner!” came the call from the kitchen and Bud groaned to stand.

Ed reached out, more than surprised that White would let him help when he gripped the
man’s upper arm.

“What’s for dinner?” Bud sniffed.

“Some chicken something … and oatmeal cookies.”

“When can I go to my own place?” Bud glared over at Ed; he released his grip and
grinned.
 13

“After my wife fattens you up.”

Bud gave a tilt of his head and nodded. Coping with the noisy kid was tough, but Marlene
Exley’s cooking made up for it. In the kitchen, she was standing, watching them with
hope in her eyes.

“Yeah, yeah,” grumped Bud with a slight smile. “I’m goin’ to Cuba.”

She hugged him close and whispered. “Thank you.”

Chapter 2

Two weeks later Bud was on a plane, then another plane, then another. On the second leg
of the journey as the plane skirting around a storm over Oklahoma, he decided he didn’t
like flying much. But it was a marvel, seeing first hand how lightning not only shoots
down from the clouds, it goes sideways and up too. He turned his face from the window.
Flying around something like that just didn’t seem so safe to him.

Luckily, the entire trip there would be with an empty seat at his side. That was a good
thing; he wasn’t much in the mood for talking anyway. He ached from sitting so long and
he ached from the frustration growing in his gut. Hell no, he didn’t wanna be going on a
stupid fucking vacation. He knew the case was close to breaking and couldn’t stop
thinking about it. He didn’t want to admit it, but his only comfort was knowing Exley
was leading the investigation. At least the whole thing would be tied up tight as a drum
when it was done. Never any loose ends when Ed was involved. Bud was still learning
how to do that. To him, loose ends could be knotted with his fists. But his head was
starting to think differently. After everything was said and done, it was always easier to
have all the evidence and nothing the judge could possibly see as a misstep on his
department’s part.

Landing in Miami should have given him a wave of relief, but the trip was far from over,
the destination still a long way away. But he had four hours before the next part, a bus to
shuttle him and the other Havana bound travelers a luxury ferry from the U.S. of A to the
port of Havana, Cuba. The cruise was supposed to be all fun and games, full orchestra,
dancing, dinner, flowing alcohol. But as he left the plane, grunting his way down the
steps to the tarmac, Bud realized the ferry would also be a bunch of couples. Ah well, he
was used to being the third wheel. Hell, in this case he’d be the only wheel.

The travel itinerary Marlene insisted he take listed several fine Miami restaurants and
tourist attractions. He had two hours to kill but wasn’t interested in sightseeing. He
looked up and down the street and grunted. Hell, he could have already been in Cuba for
all he knew. Cubans seemed to be everywhere, talking spic and dressed in bright colors.
Three doors down was a bar, painted hot pink with flashing neon flamingos over the door.
Looked fancy but what the hell, it wasn’t on the list so he stepped inside the Miami
Tropica and settled on a stool.
 14

Exley was wrong. Bud White did drink, just not so much and not so often. When he left
Lynn behind, he fell into the bottle with a vengeance, trying to numb the misery and
forget everything. Once he figured it all out, he knew that a good glass of scotch was
better when he was calm, looking to relax or just enjoy the company of a few off duty
buddies. At the moment, he was looking forward to a drink. He’d stopped taking the pain
medication and his lower back was reminding him. Maybe a drink would ease it some?

“Hey, you were on the planes from Los Angeles,” the man beside him said pleasantly.

Bud turned a glare. Just a fucking kid, clean cut, blonde hair neat and straight with a little
too much little dab ‘l do ya. Another grunt and Bud turned away.

“You going down to Havana too?”

Obviously the kid couldn’t take a hint. Bud drew in a deep breath and watched the
bartender slowly working his way toward him. “Yeah.”

“Name’s Charlie Rice,” the kid reached out a hand and now Bud couldn’t ignore him
anymore.

He shook and groaned. “Bud White.”

“Nice to meet you, Mr. White. Are you going down there to see what might happen?”

“Huh?”

“Cuba,” the kid turned on his stool, preparing to have a long conversation Bud sure as
hell didn’t care to have. “It’s a political tinderbox down there, you know. I’m a journalist
major and doing a paper on the pending insurrection. I can just feel it in my guts, if I
don’t get down there now and see Havana, it’ll all explode and no one will ever see the
likes of it again.”

“It’s a city, Rice. It ain’t gonna explode.” Bud glared at the bartender who finally asked
for his order. “Scotch, straight.”

“Beer,” smiled Rice. “Oh yeah, it’s coming. My dad has a newspaper buddy who spent a
lot of time down there. He told me everything and I’m figuring I just might get a first
hand look at how bad things really are; Castro in the mountains with his militia, Batista
sitting pretty in the Presidential Palace and not giving one flying shit about the people.
It’s going to be a revolution of biblical proportions.”

Bud stared at Rice. What the fuck? Either the kid was exaggerating, overenthusiastic over
his stupid college paper … or Exley was an idiot, planning a second honeymoon in a
place about to break out into war. Bud’s money was on the kid’s overactive imagination.
 15

He snorted, grinned. “It’s a city, Rice. It ain’t gonna explode,” he repeated and savored
his scotch.

Rice babbled on and on, occasionally saying something that peaked Bud’s interest,
talking about cabaret shows where real sex was performed right on stage and describing
the beautiful Cuban woman … all according to his dad’s reporter buddy. But for the most
part, the kid talked about militant soldiers and secret police, things Bud figured might be
good if the kid ever wanted to write fiction. Second hand information was never
something for cops or reporters to take as truth. It didn’t matter, Rice would find out soon
enough. He’d learn.

A burger and another scotch later and Rice was getting even more excited, almost
embarrassing and Bud opened his hand. “Calm down, kid. Just calm down. You’ll see
what you see.”

“Yeah, yeah, I know. I know. Oh, hey. We need to get out of here. The bus leaves in
fifteen minutes.” Rice jumped up and dropped cash on the bar. “Let’s go!”

Fuck, had he adopted the kid for the duration? Hell no. That was gonna change and
change real fast. “Be there in a fuckin’ minute. I gotta take a piss.”

“Okay,” Rice’s head bobbed. “See you on the bus.”

Bud rubbed his eyes. Maybe now was a good time to change the Exley’s well laid travel
plans. He could stick around Miami, right? But of course, he didn’t. Luckily when he
climbed onto the bus, young Charlie Rice was regaling a nice couple on the pending
flare-up in Cuba and Bud was able to find an empty seat toward the back and close his
eyes.

It wasn’t until he followed the others onto the ferry like cows to the slaughter, that Bud
began to see the attraction of these kind of excursions. Yeah, it was couples everywhere,
all paired up and looking moony-eyed, but he sorta felt sad that Ed hadn’t taken Marlene
anyway. They would have enjoyed it far more than him. He grinned and stood aside,
nursing another scotch and not wanting to sit any longer. The couples at the tables even
looked like Ed and Marlene, deeply in love and happy. He liked Marlene, although he had
no idea what she saw in Exley. The truth of the matter was, Ed seemed like a better man
around Marlene. Hell, even Bud was a better man around Marlene. They were a nice
couple and deserved a nice vacation.

But they were also a nice couple who wanted him to take it, relax and enjoy himself. Who
said he couldn’t do that? Maybe it was the scotch, maybe it was the distance from LA and
the case, maybe it was the real need to rest and recuperate … but whatever it was, he felt
himself finally easing into the whole idea. How bad could it be? After all, he wanted to
find some of those sex shows Rice had mentioned. He wanted to meet a few of those
beautiful women, and he wanted to get laid. Granted, he wasn’t sure how much his back
would take at the moment, but there was only one way to find out, right?
 16

They’d boarded after dark and he took a walk on the deck. Open ocean and Cuba, off
somewhere in the distance. He let his thoughts wonder about Havana, about the country
and about why he’d never heard about trouble there. But what the fuck? His mind was on
his own back yard. Crime was as big as any war right in Los Angeles and it certainly kept
him busy enough. The kid was just looking for an adventure he’d never find, but Bud
believed that even with that, Charlie Rice would find or imagine a thousand stories to put
into his college paper. Everything in the world pinged on the teller’s point of view. It’s
the reason the courts have lawyers for both sides.

***

He woke with a groan, twisted a bit to release the tension in his back and let his eyes drift
opened. The sunlight was soft and he guessed it was early morning. The hotel room was
real nice and the bed big enough for several people. He grinned and stretched his arms
wide, rolled his shoulder and sighed. He’d seen nothing of Havana the night before. He
was exhausted and figured he had ten more days to take a good looksee. His timing was
off, the day of traveling had knocked the shit out of him and he finally looked at his
watch. Seven AM. Too early. He rolled over and immediately fell back to sleep.

What was that? He sat up, shook his head and looked around. His watched said seven-
twenty. He’d only been asleep for a few minutes. Again the sound that woke him rolled
and he stood and headed to the window. Was the war starting? Pushing the drifting soft
curtains aside he leaned down against the sill and chuckled. War? Fucking kid. The soft
sunlight was gone, deep behind thick dark clouds that were shouting the rumble of
thunder Bud seldom heard in Los Angeles. Rain came in huge drops, splattering against
his bare chest and hands. A sudden breeze pushed the curtains almost horizontal and Bud
closed his eyes. It wasn’t unpleasant. The rain and air cooled his body and he drew in a
long lungful; breathing in Havana as his eyes opened and scanned the city outside.

Interesting. Old Spanish style buildings, colorful umbrellas popping up everywhere.

Across the street was a casino owned by mob king, Meyer Lansky. That might be
interesting. Havana looked like the kinda place where men like Lansky made a boatload
of money, and men like Lansky didn’t let a stupid war mess with their money. Gazing up
and down the street below, Bud couldn’t help but think … Havana wasn’t so much
different from Hollywood. All show and money, all a big idea. Yeah, there was probably
crime under the pretty façade. But a brewing war? Not likely.

The rain intensified and Bud stood there, letting it shower him and chill his skin. It lasted
only a few moments and passed, already the sun breaking over the harbor in dramatic
streaks movie makers were always looking for. Ah well, he thought. Already eight. May
as well get up, get some breakfast and see what I can see.

Uneventful would describe his first day in beautiful Havana. He walked the streets and
watched people, ate good food and gambled a little. He saw several of those gorgeous
women and figured maybe the kid was just hoping and got lucky. Made sense though,
 17

Cuba was a tropical island and tropical islands have exotic beauties. In Bud’s world, two
and two always made four. He headed to his room to dress for dinner in a night club he
spotted earlier. For some reason, he was intent on going to that one, although there were
restaurants, bars, clubs and cabarets everywhere. This particular club reminded him of a
place he once saw in a dream. It was nothing like the place; in the dream he was at a club
in Hollywood. It didn’t look anything like the place … but it felt like the place. The
dream made him feel good and right now, he was going with anything that made him feel
good.

He walked into the club and was seated at a small table. On the stage, a man sang his
heart out. The guy looked like Desi Arnaz but crooned like Dean Martin with a thick
Spanish accent. He wasn’t bad; neither was the orchestra backing him. Bud ordered his
scotch and settled in, unsure if he was hungry or not. His eyes wondered the room. The
dance floor was active and most of the tables were filled with beautiful people smiling
beautiful smiles, Cubans and tourists alike. Again he was struck by the similarities to
Hollywood, again sensing that it was all a show, but a different kinda show. As he
watched he saw things he wasn’t sure he was reading right; a carefully hidden
nervousness, tight lips sipping daiquiris, knotted brows over darting eyes. Where those
eyes curious or cautious?

He shrugged it off, regretting ever letting that kid talk to him. A table nearby caught his
attention but only because the young woman who stood, had been seemingly watching
him since the moment he’d entered. She smoothed her pale golden dress and lifted a
small beaded purse. When she turned it was directly toward him and as she passed, her
smile was amazing. Cuban women were in fact among the most beautiful he’d ever seen
and his breath caught as she drifted away, perfect hips swaying, the whisper of that gold
silk taunting him to follow.

Slipping his gaze to her table as he sipped his drink, Bud was pretty damn sure following
wouldn’t be such a good idea. There were three couples at that table, the pretty woman’s
empty chair and another beside it. One of the couples was older and he suspected the
empty chair was for her date. “Ah well,” he sighed. The golden goddess was remarkable
in the sea of extraordinary beauties. He’d find one that wasn’t off limits.

“Oh!”

He turned just as a man rushed past, arrogantly slamming into a gold covered hip and
nearly knocking Miss Cuba on her pretty ass. Her little purse dropped right at Bud’s feet
and he reached down for it. His eyes caught her red painted toes peaking from high heel
shoes. His vision continued, slithered up along those long, long legs, caressed her hips
and lingered a few delicious seconds on the creamy cinnamon flesh at the rise of her
breasts. He stood and finally forced his eyes to meet hers. Well, that was a bad move, he
thought as he sensed himself drop dangerously far into the dark depths. He cleared his
throat and handed her the purse.
 18

“Thank you,” her voice was a melody, thick sweet accented English, thank God. Bud
knew no Spanish, never had an interest in it and suddenly wished he did.

“You okay?” His hand instinctively touched her elbow and her eyes twinkled.

“I am fine,” together they turned to see the retreating man. “That man was in a big hurry,
no?”

“I’m thinkin’ yeah, he was.” He wanted to nod and return to his seat, let her return to her
table and let the daydreams begin, but she surprised him, reaching out a lovely hand and
smiling again.

“I am Letti Fuentes.”

“Letti,” he rolled it on his tongue.

She laughed softly, leaned closer. “It is short for a very ugly name.”

A smile pulled his lips. “Bud. Bud White.” Her brow curled and head tilted sweetly and
he shrugged. “Also short for a very ugly name.”

“Bud,” she spoke softly and he leaned even closer, taking in the scent of her skin and
wanting to jump out of his. “Will you join us at our table?”

“Ah,” he glanced over. “Don’tcha got a date or something?”

“I have had dates,” again her eyes sparkled playfully. “But I tend to lose things that I do
not care much for. Tonight, I have lost my escort, perhaps you could fill in?”

Again he looked to the table.

“Please, Bud. Tonight my youngest brother has become engaged to be married. Join me
… save me from those sad looks and questions of when I too will become wed.”

He blinked.

“You do not have to marry me,” she slid her arm into his and lifted his glass from the
table. “Only save me for the evening. You seem to me to be a man who can save a woman
in need. Am I not right?”

Hell yeah he was, and he followed her. All eyes rose and that close, he could see the
distinct family resemblance. He wasn’t a swish or anything, but even the men were damn
pretty. The older man sat close to his wife, too beautiful by a long shot for a women
easily over sixty. Letti set her purse down and began her introductions.
 19

“This is Mr. Bud White. He has saved me from a speeding bull escaping the night club.”
All faces smiled and she continued as he pulled out her chair and she sat. She pointed
right. “This is my brother Fico and his new fiancé, Selia.” To her left. “My older brother
Carlos and his wife Carmelita.”

Bud shook hands all around and stopped at Carmelita. The woman looked like she’d pop
out a baby any moment. Her laugh was like wind chimes. “Am I so large I have put you
in shock, Mr. White?”

Carlos chuckled and gripped Bud’s hand tight. “This may be my beautiful wife’s last
evening out for quite some time.”

Bud nodded respectfully. The woman was … huge. Kinda made him a little nervous
sitting right beside her. Letti waved her hand across the table.

“And this is my father, Ricardo Fuentes and my mother, Amelia.” She turned to Bud and
grinned. “My mother’s parents were fascinated with the pilot, Amelia Earheart.”

“Do you like flying, Mr. White?” the lovely Amelia asked pleasantly.

“Uh, not really.”

“Where are you from, Mr. White?” papa Fuentes asked and Bud was beginning to wonder
if he was in fact being sized up for marriage material. Back in LA, it took more than
picking up a lady’s purse to get invited to a private family gathering.

“Los Angeles.”

“Ahh, California. And you have come all this way to see Havana?”

“Yeah.”

“You come alone?”

Bud was starting to sweat, all eyes on him with genuine curiosity.

“Yeah, I came alone.” Why he continued he’ll never know. “I’m … uh … recovering
from an injury. Can’t go back to work yet. Thought I’d take a vacation.”

Suddenly he felt Letti’s hand on his knee, Carmelita’s hand on his hand and he watched
Amelia press a palm to her chest. “An injury?” mama Fuentes gasped.

“Nothin’ so bad, ma’am,” he shifted uncomfortably. If he didn’t know better, he’d think
they really cared. “I’m a cop. A detective. Nothin’ so bad.”
 20

Now the men’s eyes were growing intense. Shit, did saying that make him a better or
worse candidate for a marriage that just wasn’t ever gonna happen anyway?

“You were shot?” Fico asked quietly.

Bud nodded, sipped scotch to keep from saying anything else.

“Police work can be very noble work,” the old man sighed.

“Unless it is Secret Police work,” hissed Fico under his breath and a substantial glare shot
from father to son, sufficiently returning the table to its original relaxed comfort.

“How long will you be in Havana, Mr. White?” Carlos asked.

“Ten days.”

Letti’s hand tightened on his knee and Bud was beginning to wonder what he’d fallen
into when he dropped into the depths of her eyes.

Ricardo smiled, nodded. “Ten days, so few to truly take in the majesty of Cuba but
perhaps enough to explore beautiful Havana. We will all have suggestions, I am sure.
Carlos is a musician. He hopes to someday go to Hollywood and make it big.”

“Papa,” groaned Carlos but he chuckled.

“My son Fico, he is a writer. One day he will write a remarkable novel, the story of our
island.”

Fico’s eyes dropped and Bud was again a bit uncomfortable. He cleared his throat and
turned to Fico. “I flew down here with a journalism student; he’s interested in writing
news stories.”

“He will find them here,” Fico whispered under his breath then nodded pleasantly and the
old man continued.

“And my lovely Leticia, she is the light of the sun. She can show you the beauty and
sparkle of Havana.” He grinned and sipped his drink then raised a hand. “And I, Mr.
White? I will show you the land. I grow a little tobacco.”

Letti leaned close to Bud. “Papa owns the biggest tobacco plantation in all of Cuba.”

Ricardo shrugged it off. “Where are you staying, Mr. White. I will send you a box of
cigars.”

“At the Lido. Thanks.” He didn’t like cigars but Ed would get a kick outta who he’d met,
enjoy the smoke too.
 21

Slowly the focus moved from Bud and onto more casual conversation, names for the
baby to come, wedding plans for Fico, Bud told of his discovery about lightening to all
their surprise and Letti slithered her hand a little higher up his thigh. As the evening
wound down, the first to leave were Carlos and his pregnant wife. Then Fico whisked his
bride-to-be onto the dance floor before waving and disappearing out the door. Bud stood,
figuring it was time for him to leave too. He just wasn’t sure how he’d be able to secure a
real date with Letti. That solved itself as he reached over to shake hands with the old
man.

“Tomorrow I will meet you at ten in the lobby of the Lido,” Letti stated. “We will explore
Havana, Mr. White.”

He nodded.

“And on Sunday, please be our guest for dinner,” grunted Ricardo Fuentes. “Seven
o’clock at the house. We will make arrangements to go out to the fields then.” The old
man’s hands gripped Bud’s warmly and his dark eyes twinkled. “Have a good evening,
Mr. White.”

He nodded farewell to the ladies and walked out of the club, the heat of Letti’s hand still
burning on his thigh and a funny feeling of success in his chest.

“Mr. White! Bud!”

He rolled his eyes, recognizing the voice. The traffic was slow, tight, almost at a standstill
and Charlie Rice had opened a cab door to stand and wave. “Come on!”

Bud groaned and moved closer. “What?”

“Come on! Get in! I been talking with the locals and I found one of those cabarets!”

Bud’s brow rose. “The sex show place?”

“Yeah!” the traffic inched forward and the cab moved with it, Charlie holding the door
tight and walking along. “Come on!”

Bud shrugged and climbed into the cab. At least the kid wasn’t talking about revolution.

Chapter 3
 22

The show was spectacular, looked like Vegas, all bright lights and sparkly costumes with
bushy feathers. A row of gorgeous women danced for what seemed like forever, their
beautiful, curved and nearly exposed asses flashing in the spotlights, rolling, shaking,
teasing. Center stage was one woman, her hair platinum blonde, a veritable Marilyn
Monroe and the spotlight featured her. Beside her, flowing with her every move was a
ruffle-sleeved man. Slowly the others simply drifted off stage leaving the couple alone
and the music changed, became dark and sultry.

She played a taunting game against his dramatic interests and he disrobed to display a
fully erect cock that probably put every man in the audience to shame … including Bud.
Beside him, young Rice was panting and wiping sweat from his brow with a
handkerchief and Bud grunted a chuckle. Yeah, it was hot. Real hot. Especially when the
bombshell took that monster cock into her blood-red painted lips.

She sucked relentlessly right there on stage then suddenly stood, facing the crowd as she
snapped off her sequined bra. Instinctively Bud and everyone else in the seats leaned
back as her substantial breasts burst forth. Her costar stood, shifting to the side so as not
to obscure the audience view and suckled like a baby.

Bud shifted in his seat, groaned quietly and pressed the heel of his hand against his
growing cock. Hoots and hollers rose all around but Bud was silent, entranced as the
actor shifted and bent the pretty blonde, tearing away her tiny glittered panties and
forcefully shoved his cock to the hilt.

The act lasted a lot longer than real life sex would’ve lasted but what the hell, Bud
thought. It was a show, meant to drive the audience wild and it was doing its job real
fucking good.

“Jesus!” gasped Charlie. “I gotta get laid!”

“Yeah,” Bud croaked and as if on cue, a pretty waitress wearing almost nothing stepped
to their table.

She leaned down and kissed the kid’s cheek then spoke. “Can I please you, mister?”

“How much?”

“Fifty American dollars, handsome.”

Rice nodded then shot a look at Bud who just shrugged but had to grin as the couple
walked off. The kid was scared and hell, maybe he should be.

Refocusing on the performance, now the man had his face buried between the blonde’s
thighs. She was looking out at the crowd with a Betty Boop expression of surprise.
Another press at his cock and Bud started to think. Was this what he wanted? What the
 23

fuck? Whores were a dime a dozen … well in Havana they were fifty bucks a night but so
what. If he wanted to fuck a prostitute, he could have fucked one at home.

On the stage, another roll of the characters and this time the blonde was on top, the man
pretending shocked and his cock clearly sliding in and out as she rode him.

Nah, this wasn’t what Bud White wanted. Even his cock wasn’t interested anymore,
melting and sleeping soft in his slacks. Yeah, getting laid had its appeal, but if he was
gonna screw a Cuban beauty, it was gonna be one he didn’t have to pay for. Letti Fuentes
was way out of his league and he knew it. But there were lots of pretty woman
everywhere. Sitting and watching performers have sex just didn’t seem to have the appeal
he thought it would. He dropped money on the table and left to find a cab.

Traffic choked the streets. Two AM; Havana stayed up late and slept ‘til noon. Maybe
Bud should be doing the same and he realized all he wanted was one more scotch and his
bed.

***

A swift fist to the belly and Federico Fuentes was down, crumbled against the ugly brick
wall and garishly illuminated by the lights from outside the alley. Secret Police Captain
Miguel Tortorez brushed off his hands and lowered into a crouch.

“Fico, Fico, Fico,” he sighed. “What am I gonna do with you, my boy? We go back far,
you and me. Do you not care about old friends? About your family? Your station in life?
How about your fiancé? The lovely Selia Ramirez? Do you not care about her?”

The kid struggled but Tortorez simply held him down, smoothly avoided a weak swing
and chuckled. He dragged the young man to his feet and held his shoulder tight against
the filthy wall. The rank stench of urine floated from the corner and mixed with the
smells of garbage on the damp night air. He opened his mouth to speak but was abruptly
silenced.

“Hey!” Bud entered the alley, squinted, recognized Fico and stepped faster. “What the
fuck’s goin’ on?”

Seeing the big man’s tightened fists Tortorez calmly stepped back as did his dapper
partner. He opened his hands and sighed. “We found this man being attacked and gave
him a hand.”

Bud eyed the kid. It was dark but he could see the kid had been beaten, blood streamed
from his nose and already swelling eye. “Fico, what the fuck?”

“Fico? Fico?” Tortorez snorted. “Federico Fuentes, I wasn’t aware you had American
friends.” The Captain gave a glare then softened it when he turned to Bud. “Young men
do get themselves into tussles. He is fine. I leave him to you.” He brushed off Fico’s
 24

jacket, straightened his tie then reached to push back his mussed hair. Fico gave a
grimace and pulled away.

“Enjoy your stay in Havana, Fico’s American friend,” Tortorez grinned and the two men
walked away.

Bud turned a sideways scowl and watched them leave, their broad backs silhouetted
against the headlights and flashing neon. “What the fuck happened?”

Fico stood away from the wall and rolled his shoulders. “As they said, a man tried to rob
me.”

Bullshit, thought Bud as he handed over his handkerchief and watched the kid mop blood.
“Who were those men?”

“I know them … from work.”

“Work? You’re a writer.”

Fico shrugged. “Yes, but for now I write for the newspaper.”

They moved to leave the alley, Fico slightly limping and brushing grime from the back of
his jacket and slacks.

“Want me to take you home?” Bud suggested, worrying that whatever bad shit messed up
the kid might still be following him.

“Ah … no, no, Mr. White. I am meeting friends … celebrating the last of my …
bachelorhood.” He reached out and shook Bud’s hand. “Again, thank you for your
concern but it is not necessary.”

As Fico walked away Bud shouted. “Be fuckin’ careful what you write. Don’t be pissin’
off anymore people, kid.”

Now more than ever he wanted that last drink. Shit was moving around in Bud’s head he
sure as hell didn’t want there. He knew Fico was lying, but he didn’t want to even
imagine why. What did it matter? He’d be gone soon, what the Cubans did to each other
was their problem … wasn’t it? But tomorrow he had a day with beautiful Letti. He
actually felt himself smile as he sat on a Lido lounge bar stool.

“Hey, buddy. What’ll ya have?”

Bud looked up at the bartender. “You American?”

“Born and bred. From Jersey. You?”

 25

“L.A. Gimme a scotch.” He watched the fluid pour into the glass and sighed, doing his
best to push Fico from his mind. “So, what’re you doin’ down here?”

The bartender grinned. “Came down three years ago to gamble. Lost my ass. Took this
job and been here ever since.”

“Still gambling?”

“Hell yeah. That’s why I’m still here.”

Bud chewed the inside of his lip, attempting to hold back the questions he couldn’t stop.
“Tell me somethin’. You been here a while … what do you know about the Fuentes
family?”

“Carlos Fuentes? Big money. Old money. Owns a huge tobacco plantation that’s been in
the family for generations. Why?”

Bud shrugged. He was a detective, would always be a detective and nothing was gonna
change that. “What about his sons?”

The bartended gave a shrug and leaned elbows on the bar. “Don’t know shit about the
sons, but that man has one hell of a gorgeous daughter.”

Bud blinked. Did he wanna know any more?

“Seen her in here a couple of time. The Fuentes family is like royalty around here and she
is the grand princess, that’s for sure. She ain’t never seemed too … loose, if you know
what I mean. But she can always be found with the best of the best. Hell, I guess even a
Cuban princess has gotta have some fun, right?” the man snorted a chuckle and Bud
sipped scotch.

“I was wondering about … you know … the shit that’s supposedly goin’ on down here.”

“What? Castro?” the bartender wiped down the bar, obviously not interested in
continuing the conversation, talking quietly and watching the people around them. “Bad
shit, him mobilizing a militant army in the mountains. He talks all the time on the radio
… talks equality and democracy. Like he got a clue or something.” The man leaned close
to Bud. “Look, we all know you can’t get that shit with guns.”

“Dunno about that. Isn’t that how America got started?” Bud paid for his drink and
walked away, no longer interested in an American gambler’s idea of Cuba.

***

Letti’s attraction to Bud White was inexplicable. Baffling. But her heart suddenly didn’t
care about what she was supposed to do or who she was supposed to be with. Wealthy
 26

men the world over had escorted her for parties and dinners. When the time came, her
father would arrange a perfect, high standing Cuban marriage for her. Granted, it was
well past time, Letti having recently celebrated her twenty-fourth birthday; but papa
seemed easy with her exploration, understanding that she needed to have a bit of freedom
before she settled. Letti was a wild flower. She required space and air and brilliance. Her
parents found it worrisome and curious at the same time. But whatever their reasons for
allowing it, she would flow like the river she was. And right now, the tide was drawing
her toward the American policeman.

So many people came to Havana with hair the color of summer hay and bulging wallets.
The men were different but oddly similar to the Cuban men she knew. They thought they
needed such things to woo her, but money had never been at the top of her mind. It was
always there, but she knew of many without such luxuries and could often be found
emptying the cash in her own purse to feed a poor family. It did not cross her mind not to
do such things. The rich men came and smiled and became putty in her hands and soon
she discarded them like an old, already read newspaper. They were boring. Sometimes
she would befriend a woman who had come down with a husband or lover far more
interested in the crap tables than romance. Some of those women had become long and
strong friends, still writing and sending holiday greeting cards … much to her father’s
amusement. Yes, Letti had a vast knowledge of American touristas.

As she dressed for her day with Mr. White, she found herself wondering why she was so
sure he was different. He was a working man, not wealthy. He was respectful. He was
powerful in the ways of a real man, powerful with a substance the others didn’t have. He
was private and he was protective. These things she learned over a few simple hours at
the club with her family. But there were things she felt as well; a sensation that Bud was
also honorable and intelligent. That he was … misplaced; not a man given to taking time
to relax. It pleased her to give him her time and show him the way to such pleasures.

She stood, took one last look into the mirror. Was it his eyes? The color of the sea in the
early mornings; green and blue and green again, changing with the light around him that
drew her interest? Starting the engine of her Cadillac convertible, she sighed. It was not
the color of his eyes. It was the intensity behind them that beckoned her into the depths,
made her wish to swim there a while and feel the current of his being. Bud White was not
a tourist. He didn’t even know what he was to find in Cuba. And for a brief moment, Letti
permitted herself to believe that it was her that he was meant to find.

He was pacing in the lobby when she arrived and she laughed softly, tapping his shoulder
and savoring that look of surprise on his face; the same expression that was there when
she introduced herself. This man was not putty at her command … he was not moldable.
He was solid and real.

“Have I made you wait long?”

“No, no. I was kinda early.” He shyly leaned to kiss her cheek then cleared his throat and
offered her his arm as they left the hotel. “Where to?”
 27

She climbed into her car and he blinked drawing yet another musical laugh from her. “Do
you mind me driving?”

“Ah, no. Your town, I’m just here for the ride.” Bud settled into the plush white leather
seat and felt his shoulders relax. He propped an arm on the seat back and watched Letti
negotiate Havana traffic, thankfully calm so early in the day. And he wondered where this
ride with beautiful Letti Fuentes was gonna take him.

Chapter 4

For hours they toured the lovely city of Havana, at first from Letti’s convertible as she
pointed out various architecture of interest and talked of the city’s history. Then they were
on foot, strolling the streets and along the churning shore that crashed against massive
stone breakers and sprinkled them with salty spray. It was an amazing tour of the city, but
Bud realized early on that it really wasn’t what he thought. Occasionally she would point
something out and he’d nod, giving it a brief bit of attention, but the majority of their
time was focused on their conversation. Bud was learning the city through her eyes and
her memories. Her brother Fico might be the writer, but Letti was the storyteller. Every
corner, every building, every vista had a tale, something that informed him more about
the workings of her head and heart than Havana itself.

Her love for the city was obvious, although she wasn’t like one of those crazy Hollywood
tour guides. She never featured the ‘who or what’ about a place, mostly the why of it. The
pulse of Havana was deeper than the American dollars pouring into the city. It was more
fluid than the city limits and far more alive than the throngs of tourists that choked its
streets.

“Come,” she said and lightly touched his elbow to lead him across the street. As they
climbed wide, stone steps Bud stopped and she turned.

“This is a church,” Bud observed, his eyes scaling the high stained glass sparkled
structure and ending at the stone carved cross at the top.

Letti smiled. “Yes, it is. When was the last time you were in a church?”

“I dunno.”

She pulled a pretty lace triangle from her purse and settled it onto her lovely hair. Taking
his hand they walked inside.

For Bud it was like walking from one world into another. The Cathedral was dark and
cool, quiet in ways only such a place could be. There were the sounds of an occasional
cleared throat or footfalls on the marble floors. The pews were mostly empty, only a
sporadic person kneeling or sitting silently. Along one wall was a line of ten or more
people and Bud watched them curiously. Letti dipped her fingers in the holy water font
 28

and made the sign of the cross then stepped further inside. Bud followed, more enthralled
with seeing beautiful Leticia Fuentes in this all new environment than the place itself.

“What are they doing?” he whispered, nudging a chin toward the waiting people.

“Confession.”

“Confession? It’s Saturday. No one should have to do something like that on a Saturday.”

Letti grinned and he liked it, liked that she didn’t make him feel stupid or out of place.

“Catholics,” she said softly, “we confess everyday. I too should confess.”

“What’ve you got to confess?”

Her eyes sparkled. “The things inside my head, Bud.” She walked toward the front of the
cathedral and he followed, wondering exactly what was inside her head she thought a
fucking priest needed to hear; hoping it was the same stuff floating inside his head. She
sat in the front pew and Bud settled beside her, his eyes taking in everything around
them; the crucifix, the altar, the railing separating congregation from whatever activities
went on up there. She leaned close and whispered. “I will not confess today, but I ask
your patience.”

Bud nodded. He always wondered what people did inside a place like that. Letti stood
and moved to the wall and a bank of flickering candles. There she knelt, lit a candle and
folded her hands. She looked like an angel, wearing that sleek white dress and little lacy
shawl on her head. He watched for several moments until she stood, smiled the most
beautiful smile he’d ever seen on a woman and reached out a hand for him to join her.
They left the church and returned to the car.

“What would you like to see now?” Letti asked, folding the little lace headpiece and
putting it away, snapping her purse closed with a pleasant sigh that made him think of
anything but holy shit.

He thought several moments, sitting there, looking at her, looking at him. The words fell
soft from his lips. “Letti, if this country’s as beautiful as you are … I’ve seen enough of
the city. Show me Cuba.”

***

Captain Miguel Tortorez groaned at his desk, he glanced up at the ceiling and rubbed his
eyes. Things should be easier, but for as long as he had worked under Batista it had only
grown harder and harder. There were benefits, plenty of them, but until he was ordered to
focus on the Fuentes family, he could cope and be proud of the work he had done. Now, it
was as though he was ripping the soul from his own family.
 29

Ricardo and Amelia Fuentes were in fact more like parents to him than his own. Summers
he worked along side Carlos and Fico in the tobacco fields; those youthful days were
among the happiest times of his life. It was Fuentes money that paid for Miguel’s
education, an education that had taken him far. The past few years had proven trying not
only for Tortorez and his loyalties … but they were sure to split his heart and the country
he loved in two.

Captain of the Secret Police was a promotion he willingly accepted in hopes of

sidetracking the revolution rumbling over the radios and in the back alleys of Havana. He
believed in Batista, although facing the President so often gave Miguel a clear impression
of the man’s critical weaknesses. A leader must be humble; he must be strong and
intelligent. He must understand his people and love them as family.

A true leader was Ricardo Fuentes … not Batista.

But Fuentes refused to believe that Cuba is at risk, that the Cuba he knew and loved
would be destroyed, bled out for the world to see. All the wealth and glory that had
filtered into Havana’s port would end … and then where would they all be? Modesty and
power and a brilliant mind would come to nothing if all was destroyed through foolish
revolution.

No, long ago Tortorez had chosen his side. He had prayed it would not come to this. It
was the time of courage and conviction and it was a time to call out men like Ricardo
Fuentes to choose what Cube they wished to sped their remaining days within. Batista’s
elegant, comfortable Cuba … or Castro’s shredded soul that will be the remnants of a
once promising, prosperous country. Choice.

Captain Tortorez was at the crossroads. He no longer had a choice and the path was
brutally clear. The raid on the small hovel in the backstreets of the city last night had been
successful. It was found thanks to Fico and Tortorez refused to feel guilt that he had held
back his men until the young man had left for home. He had convinced them that Fico
would lead them to more such hiding places, although if such things the Captain was
unsure. He had used his fists to threaten Federico Fuentes and still the boy unknowingly
led them to the meeting. Obviously young Fico too had made his choice, chosen his path.

It was violent and fast. They’d confiscated radios, walkie talkies, weapons, ammunition
and massive packets of propaganda soon to be distributed. Hateful propaganda against
Batisa and against a way of life no one should refuse. Yes there were poor, but all
countries have poor, even America. Miguel Tortorez truly believed that allowing Batista
and his rule to prevail would bring in so much wealth; no one on the island would ever go
hungry again.

And, Miguel Tortorez knew he was a fool for such a belief. Wealth pouring into the
Presidential Palace seldom found its way to the people. But if it could be so, if Batista
could serve the needs of his people it was possible, was it not? Again the Captain rubbed
 30

his eyes and groaned. How were his hopes so different from Castro’s ideas? Did the rebel
not preach the same things? Demand the same fairness?

If a few militant factions must die to preserve Cuba for all, was it not justified? Tortorez
felt his feet were lead, planted like the roots of an ancient palm tree into the soil of his
island. He must follow orders. He must.

His heart nearly burst, beating harder and harder and he pressed a fist against his chest.
Drawing in deep breaths he finally controlled his mind and body until he was again calm
but dripping with sweat. Along with weapons and radios his men had executed fifteen
people. Fifteen enemies of the President of Cuba. He should be pleased with the results.
But the order had come down that very morning. There were more to kill and again his
mind slid. How was he so different from Castro?

***

“Do not tell papa I have brought you here,” Letti grinned and shouted as the wind rushed
over them. The Caddy moved smooth on the rutted dirt roads and Bud saw nothing but
the beauty at his side.

Letti was complex and fascinating. Maybe it was just because he was relaxed, not
thinking about the case or stack of files on his desk back in Los Angeles. He felt light as
air and pretty damn pleased with himself. As she slowed the car and parked on a hill, he
followed her lead and climbed out. There before him was a view he never even imagined.
Bud leaned back against the fender in awe.

Below the high hill sprawled miles and miles of fields. Green and silver tobacco leaves
waved in the breeze and palm trees reached for the sun here and there. Behind the fields,
looming bluish mountains so high an occasional cloud drifted just below the peaks.

“Wow,” he sighed.

Letti stood at his side. “Yes, wow.”

Silence felt different up on that hill. The breezes pulsed with life and whispered across
Bud’s chest, fluttering his shirtsleeves and kissing his face. He reached and gripped her
hand.

Letti turned and stood close. His arms slithered around her and his lips lowered to savor a
kiss. Her mouth was sweet and tender, soft and willing. Her breath accelerated and her
eyes fluttered closed. Bud was nearly lost in the intensity of such gentleness. He sighed
and her lips opened. Inviting. Warm.

The kiss deepened but only slightly. There was no need for urgent pressure or desperate
grasping. It was enough to feel her heart beat against his chest, her hands at the back of
his neck. Something was different, innocent, and for the first time he recalled the Jersey
 31

bartender’s description. He said Letti didn’t seem loose or anything. Leticia wasn’t loose.
She wasn’t nearly like that and a new kind of excitement soared through his brain.

Was she a virgin? Church. A close, protective, traditional family. It all added up to a
chaste kinda girl but you never know. And if she was, what did that mean for Bud’s
chances? Nah, he didn’t wanna be thinking like that. He sighed and easily ended the kiss,
hugging her tight and pressing his lips to her hair.

“We should go back,” Letti said softly.

“We’re not goin’ down there?”

“No,” she smiled and freed herself slowly, as though she didn’t wish to be freed at all. “I
will leave papa the pleasure of taking you on the tour. See,” she pointed to the vista
below, “all of this is Fuentes property. Back there, is a neighboring sugarcane plantation
and in the mountains … in the mountains …”

Bud watched her expression carefully, his hand still holding one of hers and her obvious
distress reflecting in the pressure of her fingers.

“In the mountains … are … animals.”

“What do you mean … animals?”

She blinked as though she’d come out of a dream. She turned and grinned playfully.
“Animals. Do you not have animals in your American mountains? Lions and tigers and
bears, no?” She giggled and reached into the back seat. “I almost forgot to give this to
you.”

He accepted the box of cigars and fingered the beautiful Fuentes logo. Opening it he
could smell the richness of the tobacco and Letti pulled a lighter from her purse. “Please,
enjoy.”

Not being a big cigar lover he shrugged. What the hell, might be okay. He nipped the tip
and wet the edge then let her hold the lighter for him to draw in the smoke. It was not
what he was expecting. It was not dry and bitter, not harsh sliding down his throat and it
left a delightful sweetness along is tongue. He pulled the cigar from his mouth and eyed
it.

“Good, no?”

“Yeah, real good,” he said with a grin and blinked as Letti took the cigar from his fingers.
She leaned back against the fender and drew in her own taste.

“Hey, that’s mine,” he teased, snapping it from her fingers as she laughed. “Women don’t
smoke these things.”
 32

“Bud, I have smoked cigars since I was eight years old. At least a taste when I can. It is
… magnifico … yes?”

Bud set the cigar aside and gripped her waist. He lifted her to sit on the fender and
cupped her face in both hands. Looking deep into her eyes he nearly forgot to breathe. He
chuckled and leaned his brow against hers.

“You sure are an odd lady, Leticia Fuentes.”

“And you … you are a beautiful man.”

This kiss was maddening, almost out of his control even though he could feel her rising
fear. He pulled back, dragged in a deep breath and again leaned close. “Sorry. Sorry.
Some stuff about you makes me crazy. We should go.” He stepped back, already missing
her warmth against him. He moved around the car quickly, mostly to cover his straining
cock. He sat in the passenger seat and set the cigar box on his lap. Wasn’t doing a damn
thing to hide his condition but made him feel better. He cleared his throat and took in the
massive tobacco plantation. And he realized, although Letti had settled behind the wheel,
she had yet to start the car. A little worried about what he’d see, he gulped and turned to
her.

Was he expecting tears? Maybe he thought she’d be wearing a scowl. Instead she was
facing him, her eyes wide with wonder and her hands calm on the steering wheel.

“Thank you, Bud.”

“For what?”

“For … for … knowing when to stop. Thank you.”

“Sure, sure. We can head back now, right?”

“I have angered you?”

He blinked. “Fuck no. I’m just … ya know. It’s better if we just get back.”

More silence and then the dreaded tear. It slowly built in her beautiful eye then slid free,
trailing slowly down her face. All Bud wanted to do was grab her, hold her, kiss her …
but then he knew what he’d do next. He’d probably wanna drag her into the back seat and
screw her silly. It was what he wanted … but obviously not what Letti wanted. Then she
shocked him one more time.

Her hand reached up and tenderly touched his chin. “We will love, Bud. Never had I
found a man worthy of being my lover … and you … we … we will love. Please know
 33

that I want you, I am just …” she shrugged and turned, finally started the car. No words
were said all the way to the Lido.

***

Miguel Tortorez had followed Federico all day; he remained at a safe distance but close
enough for the young man to know he was there. Late afternoon and Fico had entered a
cigar shop. He sat at a table with known militants and talked quietly for nearly and hour.
Tortorez did not approach the table but instead stood at the door, watching and saying a
silent prayer.

When Fico’s associates left, pushing past him with a snort and a grunt, the Captain
strategically moved to block the exit.

“What? Are you planning to attack me on the streets now? In broad daylight?” Fico asked
casually.

Tortorez clamped tight on the man’s forearm and tugged him outside. “Fico, what the
fuck are you doing? Are you truly a fool?”

“Are you?” Fico hissed.

“I am … begging you,” sighed the Captain as he focused on the young man’s battered
face. “Do not continue with this. I can not protect you against this, Fico. Even I can not
protect you against this.”

Federico was silent.

“I am begging you.”

“You know better than that, Miguel.” And the young man walked away.

Captain Tortorez entered the shop. “Cigar. Fuentes,” he said to the nervous man at the
counter.

“Very popular today, Captain. A box?”

“No, just one.”

Miguel left the shop and lit the cigar, permitted all the emotion associated with the unique
flavor of the smoke to burn along his senses. He closed his eyes, dropped back his head
and blew to the heavens. There were no more prayers to be said. He tossed the expensive
cigar into the street and left.

***
 34

Twilight and finally Letti parked her car in front of the Lido beneath Christmas
decorations that hung from pole to pole across the clogged streets. Bud sighed and
reached for the door, preparing to leave, needing to think everything over.

“Will you be joining my family for dinner tomorrow?”

“Sure, sure,” he gazed over his shoulder and saw again the tears. “Letti. What’s wrong? I
told your father I’d come. We had a nice day. What’s the matter?”

“Bud,” she spoke so quietly he had to lean closer to hear, to see her mouth move, to feel
her words. “I fear I will never see you again. I think that perhaps I must come with you to
your room … to assure you will want to see me again.”

“Jesus, no. That ain’t it. Fuck, Letti. It’s fine. I swear it’s okay. I can wait. I’ll see you
tomorrow. I promise.” He needed to get away from her. He sure as fuck knew that if she
made the offer one more time, he was takin’ her up on it, no two ways about that. He
forced a grin and nodded. “I’ll see you tomorrow.”

“Will you not kiss me goodbye, Bud?”

That invitation he could handle. It was probably more than it should’ve been, sitting out
there on the street, people passing and the damn top down. But her lips were full of
promise and he savored every moment of it. His thumbs pushed tears away and again his
let his lips touch hers, linger, warm and real. “Tomorrow, baby.”

He wanted to run but waited for a smile. Now his grin was genuine and he kissed the tip
of her nose. “Drive home carefully, you hear?”

***

Three steps inside the lobby and Bud White suddenly knew what had been eating at him
all day. Hell, eating at him since he got to Havana. Yeah, Letti was driving his libido into
overdrive, but it was all damn deeper than that. Big time. He stepped up to the front desk
and knocked on the counter to get the young man’s attention.

“Can ya ring Charlie Rice’s room?”

The man dialed, waited then handed the receiver to Bud. “Hey,” Bud grunted.

“White! Where you been all day?”

“Around. What’re you doin’ tonight? I wanted to talk to you.”

The kid chuckled. “She was good, real good.”

Bud was silent for a moment.

 35

“You wanted to ask about the hooker last night, right?”

“Oh, yeah, yeah. About the girl and some other stuff,” Bud said, smooth as the detective
he was.

“I just ordered room service for dinner. Figured I’d go out later. Want to talk then?”

“Yeah, well no. Double the order. Comin’ up to your room.” Bud hung up and headed for
the elevator. At the door the kid looked sufficiently confused and Bud grinned. Too bad
Rice wasn’t a criminal. He’d be easy pickings.

“What did you want to talk about?” They sat at the small hotel room table waiting for
their meals.

“About this place.”

“The Lido?” teased Charlie.

“No ... Havana … Cuba. I wanna know what you know.”

“So, Mr. White. You’re finally interested?” Charlie retrieved maps and notes and spread
them out on the bed.

“Yeah … I’m interested.”

Chapter 5

What he learned that night from young Charlie Rice didn’t help. It didn’t form opinions
he could accept or passions he understood. Comprehending Cuba’s plight left Bud White
sorta off to the side. His biggest concern was Letti. Was this dangerous? Should he do
something to convince her to leave? But how was he gonna do that? He’d just seen the
city through her eyes and as a man; he knew he’d never hear as much love in her voice
for him, as he heard for Havana.

What were his options … and did he actually have any? This wasn’t his problem. Years
living as a cop made it real clear to him that the most important things always took
priority. Being a Detective Lieutenant and heading the Homicide Division had made
those priorities even more precise. Bud White was an American in a country where he
simply didn’t belong at the moment. Should America get involved in the conflict it would
be another story altogether; American boys would have an investment to protect
democracy. Of course Bud wouldn’t have a part in that but he knew of several young
LAPD officers who would. Even young Charlie Rice might end up in uniform.
 36

It was a moot point and all Bud could think about was … what was he doing there? Two
AM and he pulled a chair near the window. He slouched, his feet propped on the sill,
Havana alive and bustling outside. He could see the crashing surf at high tide; he could
hear laughter, happy voices, shouts. He could feel the pulse of a city soon to shut down,
possibly forever. What was gonna become of Cuba after the implosion Rice talked about?
And … how much could he trust Rice’s predictions?

Bud rubbed his eyes and groaned. The kid had maps and facts, names and contacts. He
had theories and he had proof; actual tapes of Castro’s radio broadcasts. Something about
the man’s voice gave Bud the willies. He couldn’t understand a word of Spanish, but the
rise and fall of Fidel Castro’s words sounded suspiciously like Adolph Hitler. It sent chills
up his spine.

He should just leave. Just fuckin’ walk away. Fuckin’A, it was the smartest thing to do.
He had no business in Cuba … but …

As much as he wanted to pack and call the front desk for the ferry schedule, as much as
he wanted to feel American safety around him in Miami and make his way back to L.A.,
Bud still had a loose end to deal with in Havana.

It wasn’t Letti herself he’d feel bad walking away from; it was the idea of her. It was the
hope for an impossible relationship that Bud was having a tough time releasing. It felt
like she had hooked into his skin, was a part of him. There was the promise of something
but this woman wasn’t the kind he could fuck and pat on the ass before leaving.

His head dropped back and he looked at the ceiling; a nice blank space to help him think
clearly. Just like a white movie screen before the opening titles. But the story unfolding in
front of him wasn’t farewells at the ferry and a few sweet kisses … it was something else
all together.

Bud White realized he wasn’t going anywhere real fast, probably not leaving Cuba until
the vacation was over. He shrugged. At least it might give him time to convince the
Fuentes family to consider their situation. At least he’d have time to explore the promise
in Letti’s eyes. At least he’d have time.

It was enough to calm his nerves and sleep swept over him; there in the chair, the exotic,
exciting city outside the window, dreams of Letti in his head.

***

It was near ignition and Ricardo Fuentes suddenly swallowed the bile of what he had
wrought. In a desperate effort to shape and mold a world acceptable to all, he had secretly
created bonds, avenues of support and channels for promises. That very afternoon he had
sat alone with Fidel to extract a few more guarantees and thus learned the truth of it all.
This would cost him much, but Ricardo was no fool. He knew how to protect his own …
but in truth, he did not.
 37

The consequences of his actions would come in painful, torturous increments and that
very night the first of those strikes was brought to his door.

***

The dream was soft; sunset over the Gulf splashed brilliant color up onto a few wispy
clouds. Bud didn’t often dream in Technicolor, but that dream was rich with depth and
hues, a mix of elegant Cuba and gritty Los Angeles. All around him were the sounds of
gunfire, but everything looked peaceful, calm … beautiful.

His head swung left and right and he knew something was missing. Even in the dream he
knew it was a dream; unreal, an escalating, sloppy mesh of images he saw and images he
remembered. But something elemental, important, critical was missing. He slammed his
palm at his ribs; his gun was there in the holster. At his belt was his badge, clipped like
always. When his hand pressed against his chest he startled, looked down, gasped then
stepped back.

The shirt was opened and beneath his hand was a gaping hole. Where the fuck was his
heart?

A loud pounding sound reverberated all around, vibrating the dream landscape. Again and
again it pulsed until Bud woke.

“Jesus fuckin’ Christ!” he hissed, rubbing his eyes and attempting to stand. Someone was
at his door. He glared at his watch. Four AM. “What the fuck?”

His back was screaming, pain soared from his neck to the tips of his toes and for a
moment he was frozen still, his eyes tight against it. “Yeah, yeah, coming!” he shouted
but couldn’t move. Forcing himself to breath against the agony, he managed to relax the
muscle spasm and stand. What kinda idiot falls asleep in a goddamn chair? He knew
better. Now he’d need those pain pills he’d been ignoring. Shit.

One foot moved ahead of the other and the pounding continued. If it was Charlie Rice
coming back with a couple’a whores on his arm, the kid was getting a fuckin’ black eye
… no matter how bad it hurt to swing a fist, Bud would be swinging away.

“Jesus, keep your fuckin’ pants on, for Christ’s sake. I’m comin’.” The door was only
fifteen feet away and Bud was angrier with his aching body than the person at the door.
When his hand nearly reached the knob, his heart jerked. Four AM? This can’t be good.
No fuckin’ way on earth this can be a good thing. He swallowed hard, his hand tight on
the brass doorknob. “Who is it?”

“Bud … please … let me in.”

 38

Thought wasn’t fast enough. Bud swung the door opened. Letti stood, her lovely face
covered with tears. She fell into his arms and he stepped back quickly, his eyes shooting a
scan of the hallway before closing the door.

“Baby? Shh, what the hell happened?”

She was trembling, gasping between sobs.

“Letti, breathe honey.” He led her to the bed slowly, his legs still stiff and fighting against
the misery radiating from his spine. “Come on, breathe.”

She sat and he looked into her terrified eyes. His physical pain subsided, took a back seat
to her obvious distress and he poured her a glass of scotch. Sitting beside her he held the
glass until she took a sip.

“That’s good, Letti. Relax. Shh.”

Several times she began to speak and terrifying images shot through his head. Had the
fuckin’ war started while he was dozing off? Or … or … was it already in progress when
he stepped off the fucking ferry? Yeah, that was more like it. He held her close until she
drank more of the whisky and finally calmed in his embrace.

“What happened, Letti?”

“They have killed Fico. Bud … they murdered him … left him at our doorstep. My
brother is dead!” Again she was wracked with tears. Bud knew better than to try to learn
more until he could get her rational. This could take some time, but they didn’t have
much time. He turned on his gruff cop persona and held her at arm’s length.

“I know you’re upset sweetheart, but you gotta pull it together. You gotta clear your
head.”

She blinked, shivered and sipped more scotch. Finally she squared her shoulders and
nodded, one hand gripping the glass and the other tight on his arm.

“Alright. Who killed Fico?”

“Secret Police. Oh God, I fear Captain Miguel Tortorez has done this with his own hand!
Miguel! He is like a brother! The world has gone mad, Bud!”

“You’re sure it was Tortorez? Not Castro’s men?”

Her head shook slowly, a sad sway from side to side, her eyes never leaving Bud’s. “Fico
was working with Fidel’s men. Miguel must have learned this.”
 39

Memories of the dapper man beating the shit out of young Fico in the alley flashed in his
mind. “Describe this Miguel Tortorez.”

Again Letti blinked. “He … he is the same age as Carlos … he is thin … ah …” she dug
through her purse and removed a photo from her wallet. “This was taken several years
ago. That is Miguel.”

The man was younger, smiling, arms around Letti’s brothers in the sun. Behind them
were the mountains Letti had pointed out the day before. The photo was taken at the
plantation. It was the same man, alright. “So, your family has known this man for a long
time?”

“All my life, Bud. He is the Captain of the Secret Police. He answers only to Batista.”

“But Letti, this don’t make sense. Your father is one of Batista’s advisors, right? Why the
hell would … ah …” Her expression had cut his words short. Bud wasn’t a stupid man
but he was never so well versed at politics. “Someone wanted to get a message through to
your father.”

She collapsed into his arms, sobbed bitterly and he held her close, his mind traveling
every possible scenario to make this thing better for her. Nothing stuck. Fuck. There was
no ‘better for her’ in Havana.

“Why are you here, Letti?” he whispered into her hair, his hand rubbing tender circles on
her back.

“I could not face the pain. My family is suffering … and I cannot bear to see it.”

“You gotta be with your family right now, honey. Come on, I’ll take you home. Don’t
worry, I’m gonna stick around.” Fuckin’ A he was sticking around. There was a shit load
of information he wanted to learn about the Fuentes family, Cuba and the politics about to
erupt into a major world event.

“Not yet, Bud,” her lips found his. “Please, hold me, love me, help me to –”

“No, baby.” He stood, tugged her to her feet. “This ain’t how you and me are gonna start.
This ain’t the time and this ain’t the place. We need to get you home.”

***

A maid and the gardener were scrubbing fresh blood from the flagstone stoop at the
elegant front door. The cab had passed the silent ambulance in the wide circular drive,
and inside, four policemen were leaving the house just as Bud and Letti entered. The cops
had little interest in what the new arrivals had to say and Captain Miguel Tortorez was
nowhere in sight.
 40

Amelia Fuentes embraced her daughter and Bud took a good look around. Inside the
massive parlor, Carlos’ very pregnant wife was laying on the sofa, sipping water and
being pampered by her husband.

“She okay?” Bud asked and was surprised that a man’s voice answered.

“This … this is most difficult for the women,” Ricardo Fuentes sighed and Bud turned
abruptly to face him. “I thank you for returning Leticia to her loving family.”

Bud leaned close as Amelia led Letti away. “What the hell is going on, Fuentes?”

“More than an American tourista needs to know, Mr. White. Again, I thank you for your
kindness.” He turned to walk away but Bud was at his heel, step by step until they
entered a dark, quiet room. It was lined with books, featured a fancy, hand-carved
mahogany desk and several large leather chairs. The early morning light played softly
through the slats of the wooden blinds casting eerie prison bar shadows across the floor.
Bud turned and closed the door, sealing him and the patriarch alone with the books and
strange light and frustrations that threatened to blow a hole in Bud’s skull.

“You got something to do with all this, don’t you, old man?”

Ricardo lowered to a chair with a tired groan. He waved for Bud to sit but the detective’s
preference was to pace. No answers came so Bud did the talking.

“Let’s put it this way,” he said, his eyes narrowed and focused on the man. “A man in
your political position got connections … and I’m thinking those connections go both
ways. I think maybe you should tell me what the fuck is going on here so I can –”

“So that you can do what, Mr. White? What is there that you can do? How much can you
possibly learn or understand about generations of tradition and life … in just a few days?
What do you know of living between a man demanding justice and a man demanding
money?”

Bud stilled, glared. “I know the man demanding justice wants your money too, and the
man demanding money wants your loyalty … at any cost. How many kids you willing to
sacrifice for this … country?”

“How many of your children would you sacrifice for America? For democracy?
Freedom? How many American children has your government already sacrificed?”
Fuentes voice was quiet, soft, nearly a croak of resignation.

Bud huffed, ran a hand down his chin and sat. “Talk to me, Ricardo. I dunno know how
… but maybe I can help you. Just … talk to me.”

***
 41

Alone in her room, Letti found the comfort to sit quietly. Knowing Bud was still in the
house gave her a peace she’d never known. Sleep would not come and she knew better
than to try. Much would need to be arranged that day, a funeral loomed on the near
horizon and her mother had called for the priest to speak and pray with the mourning
family. Already the celebratory Christmas decorations were being removed from the
house, the tree, the pretty lights … the lovely Christmas Eve dinner Bud was meant to
share with her family … all gone … like sweet Fico. Gone.

Most fearful in her heart was that she was truly not surprised by the turn of events. She
ached for the loss of her brother, but knew that one day soon, Fico would pay for his
choices. Leticia Fuentes, a Cuban woman, made no choices. She followed the lead of the
men of her family but could she continue? Should she? And when the revolution came …
would it really be any different for her?

***

Miguel Tortorez walked the streets of Havana. He was accosted by noise and drunken
laughter and jostling crowds … and unaffected by it all. He saw nothing, heard nothing,
felt nothing. The only image alive in his fevered brain was the vision of his dead friend
and brother, Federico Fuentes. No, he did not pull the trigger. No he did not order the
murder. No … no … no …

In the blink of an eye it all ended for him. A captain no more, a friend of the Fuentes
family no longer, a man … no more. He shouldered his way into a phone booth and
dialed a number that had long been second nature to him. The phone rang only twice and
to his relief, Ricardo Fuentes answered the phone.

“Run. Leave. I can not save you,” Miguel choked and left the receiver dangling from the
phone. He walked like a drunk man across the busy street. God did not take him there. He
stumbled up the wide steps and into the cathedral. He pushed into the empty confessional
and shouted.

“Hear my confession! Hear me!”

But God would not hear his sins. No sensations of truth or light pulsed in his veins and
Miguel Tortorez did the only thing left to him. He pulled his pistol, pressed it beneath his
chin and whispered.

“Perdone mis pecados. Forgive my many … many … terrible … sins.” And he pulled the
trigger.

Chapter 6
 42

“Help me?” Ricardo was amazingly calm, even with his family torn to shreds at the death
of his youngest son. “It is a noble thing you offer, but I cannot see how you … how
anyone can help Cuba.”

Bud huffed, stomped over to a sidebar and poured himself a scotch. He didn’t even sip
before he turned a glare. “I’m not talking about Cuba, Fuentes … I’m talking about your
family. Why can’t you all just get the hell off this island before it ignites? Why can’t you
see the sense of it? Have you even asked you family what they want?”

Ricardo sighed, rubbed his aching eyes and watched the American cop. Of course Mr.
White would see things that way. The man lived in a truly free country; he could not
imagine the torment of living under Batista … of facing Castro’s distorted ideals. With a
groan he began to speak quietly.

Bud sat on a chair and leaned close to hear the old man.

“I have struggled to make this all right; to find the best of both leaders and bring them to
an understanding. My country is suffering, hungry. You can not see it here in Havana; this
is a place of plenty … of milk and honey. But not far away, men starve so that their
children can eat. Hungry young men and women grow weary of waiting and move into
the mountains to fight at Castro’s side. I give all I can, assist everywhere I can; from
supplying food for the poor to sitting at Batista’s side. And … I have also sat at the
devil’s side, Mr. White.” He finally looked up into Bud’s eyes and his words became even
quieter. “Until yesterday I truly believed I was accomplishing something. Until … until
…”

“Until what?”

Ricardo closed his eyes tight against an emotional agony then groaned. “All day
yesterday … I sat with Fidel Castro at my plantation … and I believed we would make
progress … but this will not be so … I know that now.”

Bud’s mind spun. Had Letti wished to show him the plantation, they would have
stumbled onto that meeting. Animals in the mountains, she’d said. Animals. And the head
honcho beast was sitting, sipping fine whisky with her father amidst the family tobacco
leaves. “Why,” he growled, “because Fico is dead?”

The old man’s head shook slowly. “Because … I learned that all I am and all I have will
be taken. All the power I have to guide and assist will be extinguished. When Castro
enters Havana, all of Cuba will be taken. Two hundred years of tradition handed down
from father to son, cultivated and loved … it will all be in the hands of the rebels who
will somehow use it for their own power. Equality? Democracy? Fairness? Such things
will never exist, for even in Castro’s communistic imaginings, there is a caste system. All
will be lost.”

Bud shot a look toward the closed door and gulped scotch as Ricardo continued.
 43

“Nothing will be easy, nothing will be solved … and many … many will suffer and die.”

“No more of your family has gotta die, old man. What do they want? They can’t wanna
stick it out and see where the cards fall!”

“They know nothing of my activities, Mr. White and in truth, I have done nothing wrong.
Fico was foolish, he worked openly, playing a game of cat and mouse and my poor son
was the sacrifice for his own actions.”

“Tortorez?”

“Miguel is a broken, damaged man.”

Bud shot to his feet. “You think that makes it okay for him to slit your son’s throat?”

“Miguel did not do this. Miguel could never so this.”

Bud was about to tell how he found Tortorez kicking the living shit out of Fico in an alley
but there was an urgency in his gut. Something more important. It wasn’t his job to break
the case and discover who actually murdered Federico Fuentes … but it felt like it was
his job to make sure no other Fuentes ended up in a fucking coffin. Rico was over and
done with and couldn’t be brought back … but …

“Your family, have you asked them –”

“Mr. White,” the man stood to face Bud. “You may not understand this. Perhaps because
you are American … perhaps because you are not married and do not have a family. My
wife will stand at my side. Carlos’ wife will stand at his. What he chooses to do, he
chooses to do and Carmelita will stand at his side.”

“And Letti?” Bud felt his blood heat and his fists knot as his glare intensified.

“Leticia is my daughter and she will do as I say. I am her father.”

Bud blinked back anger, clenched his teeth but the man continued to speak quietly, almost
too quietly to hear over his raging pulse.

“My wife will stand at my side. One day you will understand, Mr. White.”

A knock on the door shook both men and they turned. The obedient wife dabbed tears and
announced that the priest had arrived to pray with them.

***
 44

The priest knelt in the living room and droned on and on, praying the rosary, the others
on their knees before him. Bud stood to the side, wondering at the man’s ability to
comfort the family, curious about the priest’s politics and thinking that just maybe he
could help him convince them all to leave Cuba. Father Menendez consoled broken
hearts with kindness and words of God … but could he do it with simple logic. The way
they looked at him with immeasurable trust; Bud thought that priest could make them do
anything.

As they prayed he watched Letti, her straight back, bowed head. The way her hair fell
down her back and how her fingers trembled, gripping the rosary. His heart broke for her;
for her loss and for all she was soon to lose. Nothing good was gonna come out of this
situation. There was nothing but misery ahead, he just knew it.

When finally the prayers were finished and the beads dropped into the priest’s black
pocket, Bud thought to approach the man, have a little powwow and maybe get some
results; but one by one the family stood and embraced the man. He calmly spoke quiet
words of encouragement.

Looking at Carmelita, exhausted and swollen with her advanced pregnancy, Bud felt his
gut roll. So many things made no sense. He wanted to run and he wanted to arm himself
and protect them all. They were like blind children. Castro and Batista were a disease,
infecting an entire nation. Sooner than later, even the best of the Cuban people would
succumb to the sickness, grow violent and out of control. The entire island was a
tinderbox waiting for the touch of a flame.

“Carlos,” he pulled the man aside. “Listen, get your wife out of this country while you
can. Get on the ferry and be safe in Miami, at least for a few weeks until you see how this
thing’s gonna go down.”

Carlos sighed, took in his family and slowly shook his head.

“Yeah, yeah. I know all about it. She’ll stand at your side but Christ, Carlos! Is this how
you protect your wife? How you wanna raise your child?”

“Mr. White, I must be very hard for you to understand. This is my home, my country.
There is a chance it will not come to battle. Batista could be replaced with someone
better.”

“And Castro’s better?”

“He is not, but he is not the only option, my friend. Something good may happen.”

Bud felt searing flames lick at his heart. How could the man be so foolish? Who would
die next within that family? Carlos? Ricardo? God forbid … Letti? If the city falls, who’ll
take care of Carmelita’s delivery? Would there even be a hospital opened? Already the
university had been closed. According to Charlie Rice, soon the newspapers and radio
 45

stations would shut down. Beautiful Havana could easily be the capitol city of a third
world country in the blink of an eye. He turned his attention to Amelia, standing
respectfully until her sad eyes rose to meet his.

“Mrs. Fuentes, I’m sorry but I gotta ask you to help me out here. Can you talk some sense
into your husband? You should all be getting out of Cuba as soon as possible, maybe even
tonight.”

Her appalled expression almost made him step back. Again he searched for Letti.
Whatever he could do to help any of them was limited to her. No one else would even
begin to think rationally. But … how was he going to protect her?

It was a flash of an idea, a thought that shot so quickly through his mind he had no time
to think it through or even consider another option. He took Letti’s arm and stood them
both in front of the priest.

“Father, marry us.”

“Have you gone mad?” Carlos gasped but Letti turned to face Bud, her eyes soft, curious.

“Bud?”

He blinked, glanced down. “You heard me. Can you marry us? Now? Here?”

Ricardo’s lips pulled a slight grin and he turned away to hide it. When his expression was
composed, he sighed and spoke clearly. “Mr. White, if you wish to marry my daughter,
you must ask my permission, not the good Father’s.”

“So, give me permission and let him marry us,” grunted Bud and he waited, held his
breath.

Finally Ricardo nodded. “Si, yes. You may marry Leticia.”

“Now?” His heart was pounding; terrified the war would start before he could do this
crazy thing.

All eyes focused on the priest and he too nodded. “Yes, Mr. White. I can marry you now.”

The room was silent for several painful moments until Carmelita finally spoke. “Letti,
you can not marry until you put on pretty dress. You have so many lovely things.”

Amelia rushed Letti up the stairs and Carmelita moved slowly, ponderous and panting but
wearing a sad smile.

“Hey,” Bud said as she began to climb the stairs. “Help her pack all those pretty things,
will ya?”
 46

She nodded and continued her journey.

***

For the next twenty minutes, Bud’s mind was spinning like a top. What the fuck had he
done? And could he have done anything else? He had no idea how to be a husband, but
he did know how to protect Letti. Getting her safely out of harm’s way was all that
mattered.

He turned to Carlos, realizing his shirt collar was opened, his jacket wrinkled. It just
didn’t seem right. “Gimme your tie, buddy.”

“Yes, yes, of course.” Carlos loosened the knot and slipped it off then over Bud’s head
before helping him button and slide it neatly in place. It felt like a noose and that sure as
hell wasn’t what he wanted to be feeling right now. “Tell me, Mr. White. Do you love
her?”

“Yeah, I do,” Bud said without thinking, but as he ran a hand down his chest, boasting a
fine silk tie probably more expensive that his jacket, he realize that fuckin’ A, he must
love her. Why else would he go so far to protect her?

The ceremony took all of ten minutes. Letti wore the beautiful golden dress she’d worn
the night he first met her. Was that really only two days ago? He marveled over how
much life had happened over forty-eight hours. His knees were kinda weak and he tried
to pay attention to every word the priest said. Gratefully the man spoke English through it
all. After it was done, a document was produced on the fine paper from Ricardo’s desk.
Bud White had married beautiful Leticia Fuentes.

There were hugs and kisses and tears of painful joy but until the cab arrived to take Bud
and his new wife to the hotel, it all didn’t seem real. He turned back as Ricardo freed his
daughter from a long, tearful hug.

“Listen,” Bud growled. “I say you all get outta this house. You should all leave.”

“We will be safe,” Ricardo said. “Tomorrow is Christmas Day … and the Father has
offered to bury my son in the morning. No one will harm us tonight.”

“Don’t take the chance.”

“Take care of my daughter, Mr. White.”

Nothing Bud could say would change the old man’s mind. Blessedly Carlos was walking
his wife to his car and taking her home for a well needed rest. It was noon. Christmas Eve
and Bud wasn’t so sure no harm would come. He was desperate to get Letti safe at his
 47

side behind closed doors. Poor kid would eat room service on her wedding day, but at
least she would be able to wake the next morning, safe and alive.

Chapter 7

Bud stood back as Letti entered his hotel room. Already it was half full with her bags and
possessions and he busied himself pushing it all to the walls. Even with the traffic and
growing noise down in the street, the room was unnaturally quiet to him. He could almost
hear her footfalls on the carpet, the sound of her breathing, the whisper of her thoughts.
He watched her slowly walk the perimeter of the space, tenderly fingering the items he’d
left on the dresser, the bed coverings, the curtains.

For Bud the room was an extravagance, elegance originally intended as a second
honeymoon for the Exleys. For Leticia Fuentes, a young woman accustomed to luxury, it
must have looked sad and cramped. For the new Mrs. Bud White, he could only imagine
the disappointment ahead when she saw his apartment in Los Angeles. He cleared his
throat and slid from his jacket, realizing he was still wearing Carlos’ tie. He’d return it
tomorrow at the funeral. For tonight he had a mess of shit to deal with … packing to get
them onto the ferry as soon as Rico was buried … and figuring out what to do with a …
wife.

She set her purse on the bed then sat at the edge of the mattress, her body straight, young,
strong and astoundingly beautiful; her eyes, suddenly focused on him, making Bud even
more nervous.

“Why?” she asked softly.

The word so quiet his head tilted and he blinked. Now how the fuck was he gonna answer
that? “Why what?”

“Why, Bud. Why did you do this?”

He felt like a trapped rat in a cage, pacing in a circle and rubbing his temples. “What
kinda question is that, Letti?”

She stood, blocking his progress at wearing the carpet thin. Her palms lay gently on his
chest and her eyes begged. “Why?”

Obviously his evasion tactics weren’t gonna work with this one. This one? Jesus, this one
wasn’t just a woman, wasn’t an easy lay or a hooker, wasn’t a pretty broad he could have
some fun with and never see again. This one was his … wife.

It sure as hell wasn’t like he didn’t want to answer her, he just wasn’t sure how. Bud was
in uncharted territory; his mind scrambled to recall everything he knew about married
people, everything he heard at the water cooler and everything he witnessed while
 48

recuperating at Ed and Marlene’s place. Seemed to him, dealing with a wife meant not
only a shit load of compromise, but that wives were built with some kinda clear path to
the goddamn truth. Was that born in them, or did it switch on like a table lamp after the “I
dos”? No point in lying, he’d heard those words a hundred times from his married
buddies. Was it good advice or just the whimper of frightened dogs? Bud wasn’t a scared
animal … he was just scared. No point in lying. He groaned, sounded like good advice in
this situation.

“Letti, baby, it’s the only way I can get you out of this damn country … keep you safe.”

She blinked and he slithered around her, continued his pace closer to the window. Letti
turned to watch him; he couldn’t read her expression.

“Jesus, would you have left with me if I hadn’t?”

Silence.

“Well? Would you?”

“Do you love me, Bud?”

He gulped, ran a hand over his hair and gulped again; opened his mouth but nothing came
out so he tried again. “Uh … I … I dunno. What I do know is you’re not safe here. If
they’d murder your bother, they’ll murder you. I know shit like this, Letti. I gotta get you
out of this place. We’re leaving tomorrow, right after the funeral.”

She slowly lowered into a chair, melted like a candle.

His mind was a rock, immobile, still. Clearing his throat he glanced outside at the
celebrations. Christmas Eve afternoon and you would have thought it was the strike of
midnight on New Year’s Eve the way the tourists gathered, shouting happily and jostling
each other down there. Idiots, all of them.

“You hungry?” he asked, not looking at her. When she hadn’t answered he asked again,
turned and watched her blank expression as she nodded.

They had room service for a late lunch and again a table was rolled in for dinner. There
had been no more conversation, she was docile as a captive and that started to make him
feel sick inside. He had no idea what she was thinking, was damn scared that her
intention was to run. He did what he could over the phone, his eyes always watching
Letti. Making arrangements for the afternoon ferry the next day, there was a knock at the
door.

He opened it and quickly slipped out, but not fast enough. Young Charlie Rice gawked
and chuckled.
 49

“Damn, is that the Fuentes girl in there?”

“Shut up. Listen, I need you to do me a favor,” Bud opened his wallet and tugged out
several bills. “Here’s two hundred bucks. Go to the cheapest jewelry store you can find
and get me two wedding rings.”

“Wedding rings? What the hell are you doing, Bud?”

“Just do it. The cheaper the rings, the more of that you get to keep.”

“Jesus,” Charlie blinked. “I think I know what you’re trying to do; it isn’t going to work,
you know. Wedding rings won’t get her out of Cuba for good, buddy. You need a
marriage certificate.”

“I got one.”

“You didn’t marry her,” the kid gasped and his eyes bulged.

“What if I did? What’s it to you?”

“Crazy, that’s what it is.” He watched Bud’s expression for a moment then groaned.
“Alright, okay. Shit, man. So, you have a marriage certificate and gold rings, you’ll still
need an exit visa to get her out of the country.”

Bud rubbed his chin. “What’s that gonna cost? How do I get one and how fucking fast
can I get it?”

Charile shrugged. “I have a few connections, it could cost you another couple hundred,
but it’ll be real and legal. I could probably get it later tonight.”

Bud grunted and nearly emptied his wallet. “Do it. Then pack your shit, kid. We’re all
leaving this fucking island on the two o’clock ferry tomorrow afternoon.”

“Oh, I’m not leaving.”

“Yeah, you are,” Bud hissed and glared.

“Nope. That’s what I came to tell you about. I contacted my news reporter friend and he
hooked me up with the New York Times. They want a story from my point of view.
They’re even paying for everything.” The kid was grinning like a madman.

“They gonna fucking pay to mail your body home?”

Charlie shrugged. “I got the story of the century, almost better than the reporters who’ve
been down here trying to dig it up for years!” He leaned close. “Bud,” he whispered. “I
 50

met with some of Castro’s men. He’s meeting me personally tomorrow night to give me
an interview.”

“That shitbird’s meeting you to cut out your goddamn throat, you idiot.” How many
people was Bud supposed to protect?

“No he’s not. He needs to get his message out to the world. He’s not stupid, you know.”

“No, he ain’t stupid, he’s a goddamn dictator in the making.”

“And … Fidel Castro is the story that’s going to launch my career. I’ll get your rings and
I’ll get your exit visa for one Leticia Fuentes … uh Leticia White. Then I’m getting my
story.” Charlie turned and walked away.

***

December 25. As promised, young Charlie delivered two simple gold wedding rings and
an official exit visa. He even had change from all the cash Bud gave him. All efforts to
convince the kid to run while he could fell on deaf ears and finally the LA cop gave up. It
was time to handle what he could and leave the rest up to God.

Federico Fuentes’ funeral was bitter and sad. Bud stood in the rain with his
unconsummated wife and watched the coffin lowered into Cuba’s soil. He couldn’t bring
himself to touch her on their wedding night, couldn’t bear the broken look in her eyes.
There was time. He could wait until she was over her mourning and loss, over her shock,
over her disappointment. Who knew, maybe they’d be good together, find a way to a nice
life. He wasn’t ready to think about how it would be if they didn’t catch their stride. All
he could think about was getting them to the two o’clock ferry.

But as they left the cemetery, news of Miguel Tortorez’ suicide came. It was a heavy blow
for Carmelita as the dead man turned out to be a distant cousin. Late that morning she
collapsed. It all rolled and curdled in Bud’s gut, but he agreed they wouldn’t leave until
they knew the poor woman’s condition.

December 27. It wasn’t good, in fact, it was real bad. Carmelita was dangerously ill and
her body chose to go into labor, suffering and struggling for twelve hours before the
infant was born weak and sick.

December 28. Carlos and Carmelita’s tiny son died. The Fuentes family had sure had
their share of misery and Bud couldn’t bring himself to demand that Letti leave Cuba just
yet. Another church, another funeral, another burial, one of the saddest he’d ever seen but
his nerves were growing tight, his blood heating. Time was running out, he could feel it.

December 29. As predicted, the newspapers, radios and television stations were closed
down. Charlie had stopped by the room twice, standing in the hall with Bud and
 51

whispering news few American tourists or even Cuban natives were aware of. “It’s time,
Bud. Get your wife and get the hell out of Cuba.”

December 30. Finally they were at the dock, Bud holding Letti’s hand tight and watching
as their bags were examined and loaded. He presented all the paperwork, forced a smile
at the congratulations given by the guard at the gangway and wasn’t oblivious to the
irritation just beneath the man’s ugly grin.

Take that, you militant fucker, Bud thought. He put an arm over Letti’s shoulders and led
her aboard. Now all they needed to do was get out to sea.

But there were delays that lasted hours. More than four times, soldiers boarded and
demanded additional identification or documentation from the captain, the crew and most
of the passengers. Bud was patient, confident they couldn’t stop him from taking his wife
home to the great U S of A. Maybe it was his gruff manner, maybe it was his pompous
American attitude, maybe it was that Letti had been performing the part of a perfect
blushing, happy new bride … but finally they didn’t bother Bud again. He bought Letti a
drink and gulped his third scotch. It was almost midnight before the ferry was given
permission to launch.

December 31. Bud’s intention was to take a cab directly from the ferry to the airport,
arrange the long plane ride to LA and then take a breath, but Letti was exhausted. She’d
been through so much and even if he couldn’t honestly say he loved her, he cared about
her a hell of a lot. He took a hotel room in Miami. She needed rest. Hell, they both
needed rest. At least they were safe. They did not attend the numerous New Year’s Eve
celebrations; they simply slept … Letti in the bed, far to one side … and Bud in the chair.

His back was killing him but soon enough he’d be home in his own bed … and just
maybe he’d feel brave enough to climb into it beside Letti. His eyes drooped and he
watched her sleep.

Why was she sleeping on one side? Was it an invitation? Not for sex, he was sure of that.
Why the hell would she be willing to make love to the guy who tore her from her family
and her country? Nah, not for sex. But … for comfort?

He shifted in the chair with a silent groan. Fuck. He needed a little comfort, his back
wasn’t gonna take much more of this. He stripped to his shorts and settled on the
mattress, careful not to wake her, careful not to touch her. He slowly slid the sheets to his
shoulder and closed his eyes. The sigh of relief escaped his chest and he grinned. He’d be
sound asleep in less than a minute, he just knew it.

His eyes shot opened and he held his breath. Letti had rolled over; she snuggled against
his back, spooning tenderly as her hand slithered over his waste, a warm palm settling
across his belly. Her breath was even; she was still sound asleep, he figured. The only
problem now … was that sleep wasn’t going to find him … at least not until his raging
hard on relaxed.
 52

January 1, 1959. New Year’s Day and as with all New Year’s Days, it felt like the entire
world was suffering a hang-over. All that newness a person was supposed to think about
was lost to Bud. He had other things on his mind. He slithered from beneath Letti’s arm
and dressed. He thought about room service for breakfast but instead called for plane
tickets. It would be another six hours before they could get onto a flight and there was no
reason to hide in a hotel room any longer. They were in America.

He shook her shoulder. “Letti, baby wake up. Let’s get outta here and get some breakfast.
I’m starving.”

The lobby seemed like it was in an uproar and he held her close under his arm. “Jesus,
what the fuck’s going on?” he asked a passing busboy. The kid tossed him a newspaper
and rushed away. The headline crushed both his and Letti’s heart.

Batista has fled Havana, Cuba falls to Castro

Some fucking Happy New Year, Bud thought as he redirected his sullen wife to the
elevator and back to their room. Some fucking happy New Year.

Chapter 8

Ricardo Fuentes sat in the dark silence of his study. The air around him was oppressive,
ominous and emitted none of the optimistic energy he had purposely placed there over
the years. He had raised, reprimanded and rewarded three children in there; built his
wealth; plotted his hopeful politics for a profitable and healthy Cuba. But the room, the
house and the remainder of his family were in a broken country and nothing could stop
the malevolence from seeping into the windows.

He had managed to remove his son and a very weak Carmelita from the hospital a mere
three hours before Havana fell. They were in the large house, locked safe upstairs but it
gave the old man little comfort. Sleep would not come for him; he sipped from a glass of
fine sherry and wondered how long the strange peace after the storm would last. Not
long, he suspected. Not long at all. Soon everything he owned, everything he’d sacrificed
a lifetime for, would be diminished into a speck of sand. Did his wife deserve such? Did
anyone deserve this? His family had long worked to assist the poor and needy. Now he
and Amelia would be among them. It would be a difficulty Ricardo knew he was
unprepared for, even though he had long known this day would come.

Already his tobacco plantation had been taken. Already his many investments and bank
accounts had been plundered. That night they ate from the stores in their own kitchen
with no promise of replenishing the stock. The fall had been fast and far … and he feared
the rise would never see the light of day.

“Father?” Carlos stood at the door, reached for a lamp but the old man waved him to stop.
 53

“Come, my son. Tonight we whisper in the darkness.”

“This will correct itself, father. Do not break yourself over it. Already there are signs of
stability in the city. Castro still remains out of sight. This will correct itself.”

“It will not. Carlos, sit and listen to the last few intelligent words from a foolish old
man.”

Carlos lowered into a chair, his eyes adjusting to the dim light; his heart breaking at the
rattled appearance of his usually composed father. He groaned and patted the old man’s
shoulder. “Do not make yourself ill over this.”

“I am ill. This country is terminally ill. It will never correct itself.” His hand shot up,
demanding silence and Carlos sighed. “Listen to me, son. It is time to do as your sister
has done. Take your wife and leave this place before it destroys your heart as well as
mine.”

“We go nowhere without you and mama.”

“You go when I tell you to go. This is not a negotiation. It is your only hope. You must go
where you can be free to raise a family, to live and love and continue on safely. That will
not be possible here … and I believe that in your heart, you too know this. Contact Mr.
White. He will do what he can and help.”

“Father, he has Letti to be concerned with.”

“He is family! You are now his brother and I know he wants to help. Contact him and –”

They turned sharply to the sound of crashing in the entry hall. Carlos flew to his feet to
investigate but Ricardo sat still as death, his eyes tight and his mind resigned. Six soldiers
slammed furniture, broke expensive items and made their way to the dark study. A large
man with an evil grin switched on the lights, illuminating the shattered man.

Three others roughly gripped Ricardo and pulled him from the chair, dropping him like a
rag doll to the carpet.

“Ricardo Fuentes,” shouted the captain as Amelia and Carmelita hovered with screams
and sobs. “Ricardo Fuentes!” he repeated and the soldiers pulled the man to his feet. He
wobbled but looked directly into the man’s eyes.

“I am Ricardo Fuentes.”

“Take him.”
 54

They were harsh, twice slamming him against walls and once again tossing him to the
floor with a painful thud. Ricardo was old, fragile but determined, regaining his footing
without help and holding his head high with dignity.

“Why? Why? No!” cried Amelia, struggling to reach her husband but Carlos, holding her
safe, attempted civil communication with the soldiers.

“Wait. Please. I beg you. He is an old man. He will not run. Let him sleep and turn
himself in tomorrow morning.”

“This man is dangerous. Old dangerous men are worse than young dangerous men …
Carlos Fuentes.” The captain’s head tilted with malice. “Need I remind you of your dear
young brother?”

Carlos clenched his fists; his mouth twitched but he remained in control.

“Your father was President Batista’s chief advisor. He is an enemy of Cuba. Take him!”

Ricardo looked back only once to see his terrified family. In his eyes, the command to his
son was clear. Leave this place. Call Mr. White! He will help.

***

After a long day of flying home, finally closed behind the door of his furnished bachelor
apartment in Hollywood, Bud tucked Letti into bed, assuming she’d sleep all night and
most of the next morning. He downed a few pain pills and tried to rest on the sofa but that
wasn’t happening. Looking around he was pretty damn appalled. The apartment was
shabby. The curtains were limp and dust covered everything. There were dishes in the
sink from before he was hurt, so crusted with food and ants he simply tossed them into
the trash. For hours he busied himself, bringing order to what he once thought was order,
seeing the way he’d treated the place … like nothing more than a bed and occasional
meal, after all, that’s all it was … before. Now he had Letti to think about.

He dragged a dirty shirt from the heap of laundry on the floor and pushed dust from
everything, table tops, lamp shades, window sills. Looking toward the closed bedroom
door, he kinda wished he’d gotten in there before Letti fell asleep. He knew the sheets
were clean, but the rest of the room just wasn’t a pretty sight. He’d have to apologize
later.

Three AM and he was finally tired enough to doze on the sofa. By eight he was up,
making coffee and wondering how the hell his simple life had gotten so complicated.
After all, the only things that used to matter were his desk and his men. Now he had a
whole different universe to think about. When or how he’d make his way to turning his
bed into a real, functioning marriage bed was a dilemma he didn’t want to chew on at the
moment. Eventually they’d make love. Right? Maybe?
 55

Letti walked from the bedroom wearing nothing but her silky nightgown. Her eyes were
swollen with exhaustion and tears and he stood, his heart breaking for her. She walked
into his opened arms and he hugged her close, feeling her warm and perfect form beneath
the thin, cool fabric. She hitched and sobbed quietly and he kissed the top of her head.
“Shh, sweetheart. Shh. How ‘bout some coffee?”

He released her a lot quicker than he intended or wanted to and pointed to a chair at the
ugly yellow Formica table. Looking into the cupboard, he had to shuffle several cups to
find one that wasn’t chipped. He groaned, thinking he probably should have tossed
everything in the fuckin’ trash. How could he have lived like that, anyway? Much less
bring a woman like Letti into the dump? Finding a perfect cup, he rinsed it, afraid ants or
dust had gotten inside at some point over the long time since he was home. Filling it with
black coffee he attempted a smile. “Here ya go.”

She nodded, “Thank you, Bud”.

Fuck, his chest ached for how beautiful she was, how tender and broken, how delicate …
and how she was all his … except he couldn’t figure out how to take her, make her his
wife for real. He cleared his throat. “Uh … I, uh … thought you might sleep longer.”

She blinked, watching him, her eyes rich with something he couldn’t identify. Was she
scared? That wasn’t gonna do. Was she mad? Probably. Was she just still real tired? Yeah,
that was it.

“Listen, doll,” he stood and pulled on his jacket, straightened his tie. “You take it real
easy today, get all the rest you need, okay? I gotta check in at the station.”

“You’re leaving?” she squeaked. Now he knew … it was fear in her eyes.

“Just for a few hours, gotta check on a case, that’s all. I’ll be back, honey. Don’t worry.
Uh … there’s not much to eat. I ain’t been here for a while. But,” he grunted and set a
five on the table. “There’s a store on the corner. Get what you want. I’ll be back … just
… uh … just rest.”

And he was suddenly outside the apartment, standing in the hallway and trying to calm
his racing heart. What was it with that girl, anyway?

***

Nearly nine and the morning roll call meeting was already in session. Bud slipped into
the door and leaned against the back wall just as Captain Exley stood at the podium.
Noticing Bud, Ed’s eyes grew wide and he sped through his comments, hardly glancing at
his notes. With an abrupt dismissal, he stomped down the aisle and gave Bud a nod.
Together they entered Ed’s office. Bud closed the door and cleared his throat. Ed didn’t
even sit down.
 56

“Jesus, man! Am I glad to see your ugly face. Fuck, I swear, I had no idea what was
going on when I sent you down there.”

Bud’s head shook. “Don’t think too many people knew. Listen Ed, I gotta talk to you.”

“You okay? When did you get out?”

“Day before it happened. Listen, I gotta problem.”

“Fuck!” Ed was pacing. “At least you didn’t get caught up in any of that shit; they say
Havana was trashed.”

Bud’s face rippled with a grimace, remembering the beautiful city and how much it
meant to Letti. He huffed and dropped into a chair, rubbed his eyes and groaned. “Ed, sit
the fuck down. I got a problem.”

“Sure, sure. What?” Ed had stopped pacing but didn’t move to the back of his desk and
the big chair. He stood, watching Bud, feeling his gut roll. “What?”

“I didn’t come back alone.”

Brows rose and Ed’s ass found perch on the desk. “What? A woman? You met a woman
down there? American?”

“No. Cuban.”

“Ah …” The Captain robbed his eyes. “She probably needs to get back, right?”

Bud shot a glare. “No. I fuckin’ married her.”

Ed blinked, stood and opened the door. “Donna, get some coffee for me and Lieutenant
White, will ya?”

Not a word was spoken until she set two steaming cups on the desk. The pretty secretary
smiled at Bud. “Lieutenant White, are you back to duty?” Her eyes twinkled with delight
she usually hid around the captain, and it didn’t go unnoticed.

“Lieutenant White is still on medical leave of absence. Thanks, Donna.” His voice was a
groan, the send off was abrupt and that twinkle quickly turned to embarrassment as the
girl scurried out, closing the door behind her.

“You marry her in the States?”

Bud’s head shook. “Havana.”

 57

“Shit,” Ed’s head dropped back and he laughed. “Two weeks on a romantic island? I
guess that’s enough time to meet the woman of your dreams, fall in love and get hitched.”
His attention slid to the gold band on Bud’s finger.

“Not sure about the falling in love part.”

The Captain’s eyes narrowed.

“I had to get her outta there.”

“So –”

There was a knock and both men turned a scowl as Donna’s face, still ruddy from her
blunder, popped around the door. “I’m sorry to interrupt, sir. But there’s an urgent call for
Lieutenant White. The switchboard sent it up here.”

“Put it through.”

Bud felt his heart twist but Ed just grinned and turned the phone. “Guess the little wife is
already looking for you,” he chuckled. “Welcome to married life, Bud.”

“Lieutenant White,” he grunted, hoping it wasn’t Letti but oddly wishing it was.

“Mr. White? This is Carlos Fuentes.”

The connection was crackly, distorted but even through all that Bud could hear a
desperation in the man’s voice. “Carlos? Your wife okay?”

“Yes, yes, thank you Mr. White. She is recovering but still very weak.”

“Everyone else okay?” Bud had stood, itching to pace, his miserable back and the phone
cord thwarting that need.

“No. This morning they took my father into custody. We do not even know where they’ve
imprisoned him.”

“Fuck,” Bud rubbed his eyes. “Amelia okay?”

“Mother is … struggling … to understand.”

Recalling the extremely traditional wife of the tobacco mogul and political advisor, Bud
felt everything wring right along with his heart.

“Father has … he has directed me … to call. To ask for assistance.”

 58

“Jesus, Carlos. I’m all the way in fuckin’ LA. I don’t know how I can help find your
father, and even if I could, I’m not sure there’s anything I could do to get him free.” They
all should have left when he and Letti left, goddamnit. Frustration made his whole body
shake and his blood heated dangerously. He swallowed hard, controlling his voice. “You
gotta get your asses out of there.”

“Yes, Mr. White. That is why I am calling. If my father is still alive … he …” the
crackling intensified.

“Carlos? Carlos? I can hardly hear you!” Bud shouted and miraculously the noise
subsided. “What did you say?”

“Mother will not leave. But I must get Carmelita out of Cuba. I’m calling for your help,
Mr. White.”

“Okay … okay … you need exit visas.”

“Yes. They are very difficult to get right now and we are nearly penniless.”

Bud’s ass dropped into the chair. It was all happening faster than he even expected.
“Okay. Listen carefully, Carlos. I got a friend, a young man who stuck it out down there.
His name’s Charlie Price and he was staying at the Ledo when I left. He’s a reporter.
Track him down. He might be able to help get the visas.” If he’s still alive. “Tell him who
you are and remind him that he owes me a favor, will ya. Do it today, now. Then let me
know. You got my apartment phone number?”

“Yes, I do Mr. White. And I am extraordinarily grateful for your assistance.”

“Yeah, well thank me when you step off that fucking ferry in Miami. Go find Price.”

“My sister. Is Leticia alright?”

Bud blinked, held back a sigh. “Letti is … she’s … adjusting. Call me. Let me know what
the kid can do to help. I’ll see what I can do from up here.”

Ed was at high alert but his analytical mind demanded order. When Bud looked up and
opened his mouth, Ed simply shook his head. “One problem at a time. Let’s field that first
issue. The wife.”

Yeah, Bud thought. The wife.

“You planning to stay with her?”

Bud had no answer; he wanted to shout Fuckin’ A I plan to stay with her! but he also felt
that leash that seemed to pull him back where Letti was concerned. An answer was
 59

required so he let it fall out. “Yeah,” he grunted. “’Course I plan to stay with her, what
kinda guy you think I am?”

“Good. Well first things first. I’m going to assume you’ve done all the legal mumbo
jumbo and she’s not about to be sent back to Cuba … right?”

“Right.”

“So, now all you gottta do is make like a married man. First, you need to buy a house.”

“A house? What the fuck for?”

“Let me guess,” Ed glared. “You and your bride aren’t … adjusting … so well, right?”

Bud didn’t nod but Ed assumed one.

“Face it; you need to do what every husband does. You need to buy her a house. There’s
one a few blocks down from mine that just went up for sale.”

“I don’t fuckin’ wanna live a few blocks from my goddamn captain. Jesus.” Bud shifted
uncomfortable in the hard chair.

“Use your head, man. If we play our cards right, Marlene and your new wife … what’s
her name? Letti?”

“Yeah.”

“We get lucky, Marlene and Letti will get along like perfect suburban housewives. Letti
will have a friend to talk to; she’ll have a house to take care of. It’s gonna make your life
a whole lot easier.”

“Buy a house?” Bud rolled it on his tongue. Did he like the idea?

“Why not? You can’t keep a wife in that dump your living in. Besides, you can afford it.
And if we move fast, you can probably make a deal, get it for a song. Nice bungalow, I
think it’s got two bedrooms”

“Why the fuck do I need two bedrooms?”

Ed grinned and Bud shrugged. If he’d gotten together with Letti in any bedroom he might
not have asked that stupid question. “Fine. Where is this … house.”

“We’ll go take a look at it … after we deal with your second problem. How damn deep
did you get into this Cuban mess, Bud?”
 60

“Deep. Real fuckin’ deep. You know anyone politically powerful enough to help get my
wife’s family out of there?”

Chapter 9

When Bud left the apartment, Letti stood and walked around. Three small rooms and a
bathroom. It was dark and dingy, not a breeze was coming through the opened window
and outside seemed to be the biggest, hottest, ugliest city she’d ever seen. She sat at the
edge of the sofa, her eyes welling with tears. Lowering her face into her hands she again
sobbed, this time not for Cuba, not for her family … this time for herself.

The man she found more intriguing and amazing than any she’d ever known had done
something remarkable. He married her and took her to a safe place. To America … his
home … the ugly apartment all around her. He had not touched her as a man touches his
wife, had not truly looked at her in that way since the moment he demanded the priest
marry them. Had she already somehow failed? Perhaps she could gain his love? Show her
love for him … and she did, fully and completely love Bud White. Was she so unversed
in the way married people emotionally communicate that she had never really let him
know that? That she wanted to be his, fully and completely. She had tried, but she did not
really understand how to be a wife, much less a lover. Her parents were restrained in a
traditional sort of way. So were Carlos and Carmelita, the only evidence of their intimacy
apparent through her pregnancy. She had no way of knowing how to be with a man like
Bud. But, Leticia knew how to love.

She dressed and took the money he’d left for her. At the nearby store she purchased
everything she imagined she would need; laundry soap, floor detergent, bleach, furniture
polish. Returning with full intention and a goal she could attain, she worked from one
edge of the place to the other, from ceiling to floor. She scrubbed and swept, polished and
dusted until she could find nothing else to clean. She went into the bedroom drawers and
refolded everything, making it all neat and organized, she ironed and straightened jackets
and slacks and ties in the closet. But she had no energy left to unpack her own things. It
could wait. She lay on the sofa to rest and fell asleep, dreaming he would be please,
would kiss her again, touch her the way she longed to feel his hands.

***

Charlie Price was thinking faster than Bud White. He was acutely aware of the Fuentes
family situation, of young Federico’s murder and he even knew of the arrest of the
patriarch. He was aware that there was another brother with a wife. And … he knew what
Bud would want. Cuba was volatile, but White was clear as a bell. The man’s intentions
went further than Charlie’s ambition, and he respected that.

Three times Fidel Castro did not show up for the meeting he’d scheduled. It was
suggested by his editor that Charlie should offer to go into the mountains with the
soldiers to get his story, but the kid stood his ground. “I can’t write a story if I’m dead,”
 61

he stated and the editor backed down. He had time and enough money to remain at the
Lido, compliments of the newspaper. He was holding out for a safe meeting, perhaps a
story that could also cover Castro’s victorious entry into Havana. Truthfully, he was
surprised he hadn’t been thrown out of the country, but he knew it was because he was
operating far more low key than the other, already ousted reporters. Americans were
drifting out of Cuba, but not running in droves as one might expect. It was as though they
thought it was just something interesting to see. Something to tell the grandkiddies about
someday. A few casinos were still operating and the diehard gamblers were still playing.
Rumor had it that war makes for bigger pots.

Charlie borrowed a car from a bellboy and drove under darkness to the Fuentes house. It
looked more like a mansion to him and he took a deep breath before knocking on the
door. For all he knew, soldiers had already commandeered the place. But a sweet, sad old
woman answered.

“Carlos Fuentes here, ma’am?”

“Si,” she stepped back and led him to a beautiful parlor where he waited, gawking at the
elegance and wondering how long it would remain in the family’s possession.

“Can I help you?”

Charlie turned quickly from playing the little ditti on the massive grand piano. “Carlos
Fuentes?”

“Yes.”

“My name’s Charlie Price and I think I gotta try to get you off this island.”

They sat and talked quietly, Charlie explaining what he’d done and what was still left to
do. “These are your exit visas; yours, your wife’s and this one if for your mother. They
weren’t cheap.”

“We will repay you.”

“Don’t worry about it. Just give me a story if I ever get back home in one piece that is,”
the kid grinned. “The second part of this isn’t going to be so easy. I need to arrange a
boat, and a way to slip you out unseen. Taking the ferry isn’t going to fly, Carlos. They’re
watching everything so this is going to be tricky. I have the boat and captain willing; just
have to get cash to him before midnight tomorrow night. That’s when you three have got
to be hidden away in that boat … or he will leave without you.”

“My mother … will not leave, Mr. Price.”

“Talk her into it. For now, I’ve got to do some deals, get my hands on a mess of cash and
make sure you’re on that boat.”
 62

“And you?”

“I’m staying,” Charlie turned to the piano and again fingered out a scale.

“This is not your country, Mr. Price. It is not your war.”

“But,” he turned a grin. “It’s the story to launch my career. Now, go pack. I’ll be in
touch.”

“Mr. Prince,” Carlos called before Charlie reached the door.

“Yeah?”

“Thank you. And I will repay you if it takes the rest of my life,” he said, his head tilted.
“Mr. White had asked me to contact you for help. I had yet to try.”

“Me and White think alike. Just get ready to go, Carlos.”

***

It was nearly five when Bud got back to his apartment. His eyes immediately fell on
Letti, curled on the sofa and sound asleep. He crouched nearby and watched her for a few
moments. The woman was beautiful, even like that; wearing old clothes … his old
clothes in fact, a torn shirt and work trousers belted tight at her tiny waist. A grin pulled
his lips. Damn, she was one pretty ragamuffin. He reached out and ran a finger down her
arm. “Letti? Wake up, sweetheart.”

Her long lashes fluttered and she jerked awake, sitting abruptly and rubbing her eyes.
“Oh Bud! Oh! I’m sorry, I wanted to clean and dress before you came home. I look
terrible.” She pushed back loose wisps of hair making her appear even more endearing.

Bud chuckled. “You look fine, better than this …” His eyes rose, taking in the apartment
and he stood. “Holy fuck!” He’d never seen the place look like that. Everything was
sharp and bright, clean and shining. He moved into the kitchen, glared into the sink. He
had no clue the porcelain could glow that way. Windows sparkled; the linoleum floor had
color in it he’d never seen before. “Did you do all this?” He turned a disbelieving gawk.

She stood, smiling. “Come,” she pointed and he entered the bedroom. Inside, the bed was
neat as a pin; furniture shimmered in the evening sunlight drifting through clear windows.
“I did not unpack my things yet, I will do that next.”

“No, don’t unpack.”

A sudden ache in her chest almost knocked her to her knees. “Are you sending me
away?” she whispered.
 63

“What? No! Fuck, no. It’s just … Jesus, you shouldn’t have done all this.”

“Was I wrong?” Again her eyes filled with tears and Bud panicked.

“No, no. It looks great. But Letti …” He cleared his throat. “I … uh … I bought a house
today.”

“A house? But this apartment is fine.”

“No, it ain’t and we both know it. The house … it ain’t nothing so great either, but hell,”
again his eyes took in the spotless room, “you can do wonders with it, that’s for sure.”

“A house?” she repeated, capturing his eyes with hers and holding her breath.

“Yeah, well … ain’t that what husbands do? Buy houses?” He was uncomfortable,
shifting his feet, looking anywhere but at her. “Listen, you gotta get cleaned up and
dressed. We’re going out for dinner.”

“Oh!” Delight welled from her heart to her smile.

“Hey,” he said real fast. “It ain’t nothing fancy. Just dinner at some friends’. Well … my
captain and his wife. Nice people. They got a kid, little girl. I stayed with them a while
after the hospital patched me up.” His fear was that she’d wear one of her rich girl
dresses, feel out of place.

Her thoughts were soaring. He wants to introduce me to his friends! His captain! Her
smile was brilliant and she nodded, rushed to her bags and began shuffling through them.

“Ah … maybe after dinner, if you want … we can go look at the house.”

“Yes! Yes,” she said excitedly, not looking at him, carefully taking delicate underthings
from the suitcase and setting them aside.

Bud left and sat on the sofa, suddenly feeling tired as hell. He’d gotten little sleep over
the past week. He’d had a rough fucking day. Buying a house? That was just weird. Then
there was that being married part. He was trying to swallow it all. He relaxed and rubbed
his eyes. Sniffed. Fuck, the place even smelled clean.

Looking down at himself, his rumpled shirt and wrinkled trousers, he decided to change
real fast. Letti was gonna look gorgeous, he should at least try to look better. Listening to
the shower spray from behind the closed bathroom door, he opened his closet and stared.

“Holy shit,” he groaned. Everything in there was pressed crisp and lined up perfectly. His
shirts, then his jackets. Every pair of slacks had a sharp crease and every tie was hung on
 64

a hanger, overlapping, all even like colorful soldiers. Poor Letti had worked her ass off.
He glanced over his shoulder toward the bathroom. Did she think she had to do all that?

He quickly changed, hanging his clothes carefully and putting his soiled shirt into the
empty hamper. It was too much. He didn’t marry her to get a live-in maid, for Christ’s
sake. Rushing to make sure he was out done before she finished in the bathroom, he
suddenly slowed. Married people dressed in the same room, right? Hell, lovers dressed in
the same damn room. They undress in the same fucking room too. Letti wasn’t the Virgin
Mary, she was his wife. His eyes slid to the bed and he sighed, sliding a fresh tie under is
collar and whipping it into a knot. Maybe tonight? He thought with a hopeful sigh.
Maybe tonight. He left to wait on the sofa.

***

“How wonderful!” Marlene bustled around the kitchen while Ed played tea party with his
daughter at the table. “Bud White … married!”

“Yeah, well I’m not so sure Bud’s as happy about it and you are. Look, he said she speaks
English, but let’s not talk about what’s happening in Cuba, okay? She still has family
trapped down there.”

“Oh, the poor dear. My goodness, I hope roasted chicken is alright. It was the only thing I
had enough of in the freezer to make on such short notice. I wish you had told me earlier,
I could have made the paprikash, it would have been so much nicer.”

“Honey, don’t get yourself in a tizzy. It’s just dinner. Right pumpkin?”

Little Betsy nodded. “Don’t get in a tizzy, mommy,” she repeated and Ed grinned.

“You can act as cool as you like, Edward Exley,” sniped Marlene as she sliced tomatoes
for a salad. “But welcoming a new bride is a big deal. And the poor thing … so far from
home … I just want her to feel comfortable, that’s all.”

Ed’s grin expanded. He was correct; Marlene would serve a good purpose. She and the
new bride would get along fine, and Bud would have one more worry off his mind. The
doorbell rang and Betsy scooted from his knee to run to the door. “Don’t you open that
door, young lady,” he reprimanded and the kid stopped dead less than a foot from the
doorknob.

“I can’t wait to see Uncle Bud,” she whined.

“Yeah,” Ed groaned, “and I’m sure he can’t wait to see you too.”

Letting the couple in, Ed felt like a star struck tourist. Bud White never once mentioned
that he’d married a fucking goddess. For a moment he was speechless. Betsy bound her
arms around Bud’s thigh and he didn’t even try to pry her loose. He was too busy glaring
 65

at Ed, who was drooling at Letti. That wasn’t gonna fly, not with White’s temper. Ed
cleared his throat, readying to greet their guests but Marlene rushed from the kitchen,
untying her apron. She promptly wrapped her arms around Letti’s neck.

“Welcome to America! Welcome to dinner! It’s so good to meet you!” Marlene babbled
and Letti smiled, it was the kind of smile that took Bud’s heart and sling shot it into the
clouds. Fuck, he was still thinking about his bed, about holding her, making love to her.

He didn’t taste dinner, never felt irritated by the kid who insisted on sitting at his side and
touching him with her grubby little hands through the whole meal. All he saw was his
wife, the way the light glowed on her golden skin, how her eyes sparkled when she
looked at him. He was imagining her naked, warm, wet against him, how tight she’d feel
around him. Bud was glad he was sitting, his growing need hidden beneath the white
tablecloth.

When finally they drank coffee and ate chocolate cake, Letti commented on the delicious
desert.

“It’s my mother’s recipe,” Marlene said proudly, finally holding Betsy on her knee and
occupied with wiping smeared icing from the girl’s pudgy cheeks. “Mom only made it for
special occasions, but I thought, why not enjoy it more. Right Betsy Boop?”

The baby nodded and no one but Bud noticed the cloud of sadness that crossed Letti’s
eyes. Soon the table had gone quiet and Marlene gulped, realizing what she’d said.
Desperate to correct the dark mood that had descended over her dinner table, she smiled
wide. “Letti, come. Let me show you that new hat I bought.”

“Ah … no. We’re gonna get going,” Bud said and stood, Letti across from him, their eyes
locked. “I kinda wanted to show Letti the house.”

“Oh … oh, of course,” Marlene gasped and Ed squeezed her hand as they walked their
guests to the door. “Come again soon.”

Ed held her tight after they left. Marlene sobbed into his chest. “I’m such a fool.”

“It’s okay. Anyone couldn’t have done it.”

“But I did. I wanted her to feel happy and welcome and I go and mention my mother,”
she sniffled.

“Shh. It’ll be fine.”

***

The air was charged with desperation. Carmelita, still weak and ill, was bundled in
several layers of clothing and a shawl. Carlos too was wearing three pairs of trousers,
 66

four shirts and as many socks as would fit into his shoes. They carried one small bag
holding a few belongings, some jewelry they intended to sell in Miami, and their papers.
It was all they could manage, running like thieves from their own country and prepared to
face the rigors of hiding on a ship until they reached American waters.

Charlie Price held out one more coat for Carmelita to slide into. Their eyes shot to the
window. They were in an upstairs bedroom of the big Fuentes house. Below, two jeeps
parked and several soldiers charged toward the door.

“Another way out, Carlos?” gasped Charlie. “There’s gotta be another way out!”

Carlos gripped his wife’s arm and all three rushed from the room and along the hall to a
back stairwell. In the big kitchen, the slithered lower to a basement then out a door and
up a few stone steps. Charlie led the way, peaking around the low wall and waving for
them to follow.

Getting to the car he’d borrowed again was impossible, so they raced through the trees
and toward another house. Looking back, all three said a prayer for the old woman,
refusing to come along, facing the soldiers alone and already armed with various lies to
sidetrack them. Oh, they all knew they were coming. They’d just hoped for a little more
time.

Crouched behind a shiny Cadillac, Carmelita gasped, grunted with pain and felt blood
gush from her center. Having lost her baby, she had cared little if she too would die. But
at that moment, knowing salvation, freedom and the promise of a new future was not far
away, she struggled against her weakness and the slow hemorrhage that had plagued her.
She gritted her teeth and nodded that she was fine.

Charlie slithered around the vehicle, finding the passenger door unlocked, he waved them
in and pulled himself behind the wheel. Of course, there were no keys, but a college
prank that nearly got him arrested years earlier was just about to pay off. Fumbling
beneath the dashboard, he found the right wires, twisted his lips and worked his fingers
until the engine came to life.

The car rolled from the driveway and onto the street, attracting no attention from the
Fuentes house where several soldiers were gathering. He drove three full blocks before
turning on the headlights then hit the gas and sped to the docks.

The money was his own. His father had given him a thousand dollars to enjoy his
vacation in Havana. He had brought another thousand bucks, knowing what was coming
and figuring to be prepared for a long stay. With the newspaper paying his expenses, he
was hoping to at least get the story and convince them to get him home. He retrieved his
funds from the hotel safe with a story about a high stakes game. After handing over the
cash to the captain of the boat, Charlie Prince was flat broke.
 67

He saw to it that the travelers were safely hidden, more than concerned about the pale
wife but glad he was almost finished with his part in it all. Watching the boat pull away, a
wave of success rushed through him. Too bad the sex clubs and fancy restaurants were
closing one by one … and too bad he was poor … he’d have liked to do a little
celebrating.

He turned as the boat disappeared in the darkness against a star speckled sky. White will
be pleased. Now, to please his editor.

“Mr. Prince,” a voice growled and Charlie closed his eyes tight. He sort of knew his luck
had run out. After all, it had gone quite a while. Lucky streaks always end. A soldier
stood, his pistol slung over his shoulder but pure danger in his face.

“Yeah, I’m Charlie Prince.” Wow, he thought. Could a man die of fear and fear alone?
His heart was rattling, not beating a strong rhythm, but rushing and sputtering.

“Fidel Castro will see you now.”

Chapter 10

Bud was nervous. Remembering Letti’s familial home in Havana, he was sure the small
bungalow would be a serious disappointment. But she was in awe, making him proud to
have finally done the right thing where she was concerned. They stood in the living room
and she walked to a wall, running her fingers along the faded old paint spotted with
brightened areas where framed pictures had once been.

“You can pick paint, wallpaper if you want. Got enough to cover that, new carpets,
furniture. You think maybe you can be happy here, baby?”

Her eyes rose to meet his and this time the mounting tears didn’t scare the shit out of him.
This time, he knew they were because she was happy. Her arms slithered up his chest and
snaked around his neck. This kiss was even more powerful. Fuck, he couldn’t wait to get
through the damn house and back to the bed back at the apartment.

“It is beautiful. Magnifico! Perfect!” She sighed into his lips. “Can I see the rest?”

“Sure, sure,” he reluctantly released her and followed as she inspected the kitchen,
luckily equipped with a pretty damn new stove and refrigerator. The cabinets were
chipped but he knew how to fix that, some sandpaper, a little wood stain and it would
look real good. The bathroom was small, but the tub was big. His mind was starting to
wonder about making love to her, deep in hot water, her softness against him. It was
getting harder to hide his need, pressing like a tent pole against his slacks.

“The bedroom?” She asked looking into a room.

 68

“Nah, I think that’s a second bedroom.” He couldn’t bring himself to say ‘nursery’ or
‘baby’s room’. He swallowed hard. “Across the hall, that’s our room.”

Our room. It resonated in his heart, thumping it harder. Damn if Exley wasn’t right.
Buying a house was sure as hell what married men did and Bud wanted to feel married.
His decision to go through with the purchase was definitely gonna jumpstart his marriage.

Letti stood in the center of the room. “Our room,” she said softly. “Love me, Bud.”

He gulped and blinked. His feet shifted on the worn carpet and he groaned. “I will. When
we get home, sweetheart.”

“No,” her fingers slowly unbuttoned the front of her pretty yellow cotton dress. “Here.
Now.”

He was mesmerized, watching the fabric peel away, slide down, billow like a cloud at her
feet, all in the light of a full moon drifting through the window. Her silky slip shimmered
and she lifted it over her head, slowly sat on the carpet and reached a hand out to him.

“Letti,” he sighed, running a hand down his chin. “Come on; let’s go back to the
apartment.” Fuck yeah, he wanted her right there, that minute. Wanted her more than he
thought he could handle … but this was his wife. You don’t fuck your bride for the first
time on the damn floor, for Christ’s sake. Letti was special, perfect, looking up at him
with hope in her eyes. Her fingers trembled but still reached for him.

“Please,” she whispered, reaching a hand back to release the clips of her bra.

Bud knew damn well, if she did that it was over. He’d just fucking pummel her, probably
scare the hell outta her in the process too. He knelt, held her shoulders. “Letti, let’s do
this right … in a bed.” His voice was shaking, translating as anger. It wasn’t.

Slowly she reached over and tugged her dress to cover herself. “You do not want me.”
Tears slid, catching the moonlight like diamonds on her beautiful face and Bud White’s
heart shattered.

“Fuck. Is that what you think? You’re wrong.” His lips dove for hers, pressed a hard,
crushing kiss, their teeth clashing until she gasped, freeing a path for his tongue to dive
deep. “Fuck I want you … wanted you since the minute I saw you … fuck …”

His own hands worked the little hooks and eyes at her back and the restraint holding full,
tender breasts slid away. Bud was a starving man. Sucking a breast his mouth widened,
needing as much of it as he could consume. The nipple was a pebble hard berry, sweet
and ripe, so ready. Hands fumbled for her panties and Letti was putty in his hands, raising
her hips and permitting him anything. He had to slow this down or he’d completely lose
control.
 69

“I don’t wanna hurt you, baby,” he gasped, his wet tongue slithering from one well used
breast to the other.

“Do not be concerned. They have told me it might hurt,” she sighed, trembling and
writhing to his touch, amazed at the way her body reacted, opened, invited.

It took a few minutes for it to sink in, Bud’s mind was taking a powder but it made a
sudden come back. They have told me it might hurt, she’d said. Who told her what might
hurt? Fingers slithered lower, reaching the abundant, hot moisture and as one inched its
way inside, the answer came like someone had dropped a brick on his head. He didn’t
expect it … but maybe he should have. Leticia White … his bride … was a virgin. Jesus!
He rose on his knees between her opened thighs and drew in a long, deep calming breath.

Bud White knew two things. She wouldn’t be a virgin real soon … and he was taking
care of that on the floor of his empty new house. There was no turning back. This new
revelation made her that much more desirable. To know no one had ever touched her
made her a treasure. He had a few choices here, he could just go for it … after all, they
did warn her it might hurt, right? Or … or … he could be a real man … take it slow this
time … make sure she’d be willing the next time he got so damn hungry for her. Yeah,
that’s what he’d do … take it slow. It wasn’t gonna be easy, but so what. It would lay the
groundwork for easy … later.

“Baby,” he said, catching his breath and feeling control return. He leaned down a kissed
her softly. “You gotta trust me, honey. I swear I’ll do everything so I don’t hurt you. Just
… relax. Easy, sweetheart. Relax.” And he went to work.

Not Bud’s first virgin, but he didn’t want to think about those two times; one in the
stairwell of the orphanage with Molly Collier. The sisters almost caught them. There was
blood and it scared the shit out of both he and his sixteen year old partner. The second
was Olivia Hanland. He was thirty, she was twenty and wanting to be his wife. There was
blood that time too, but not so much. More came from his nose after she slugged him.
He’d announced he wasn’t the marrying kind just after ejaculation. He never saw either
girl again. This was damn different.

The man who wasn’t the marrying kind had taken the plunge … the woman lying before
him was his virgin bride … and neither was going anywhere. He found he kinda liked
that dynamic. A plan formed in his muddled mind. If he showed her the best part, she’d
get through it and never be afraid of him. If he did it right, he could have her love and be
the most important thing in her life. Yeah, that’s what he wanted. That’s exactly what he
wanted.

Lowering a tender kiss at the most private part of her, his tongue slithered around the
growing hot point, circling pressing and he heard her breath accelerate. Yeah, this was
good. Lips locking on the nub, he sucked a slow rhythm and Letti moaned, her hips
shifted and she pressed herself even tighter to his mouth. Her sighs became music, a
 70

melody, the kinda thing songs were written about and he continued as slowly and
lovingly as he could, all the time struggling to remove his clothes without interrupting.

Finally naked, he could sense her nearing the climax. As much as he loved what he was
doing, he chose watching her explosion rather than tasting it. His head rose and one hand
took over. Slowly, carefully circling then rolling over the sensitive place.

“Yeah, baby. Just be easy, relax and let it happen.”

Her fingernails scraped at the carpet and her body twisted and as she trembled from her
core to the surface of her flesh, Bud slid one thick finger in deep. It massaged and pressed
tenderly at the barrier. As she climbed, he slid another finger in, creating a rhythm to
counter the motion of his sliding finger at the trigger. This … he knew how to do. This he
was good at. He didn’t do it as often as he liked, most of his women were in a hurry,
beating the clock before their next John or hurrying to keep some semblance of
discretion. That night there was no hurry, no need for pretended modesty. This was his
wife and he was her husband, they were in their own house and consummating a marriage
that should have been made real long ago. He watched her face flush, how she tried to
control the affects of the coming orgasm and he sighed.

“Let it happen, Letti. Let me give you this.”

He carefully added a third finger, her path was extremely tight and his motion was
limited to a slow, piston thrust. And as she cried out his name, he felt it give, felt his
fingers move past the wall and find the depth he needed. She struggled and thrashed, her
back arched from the carpet and he carefully slid his fingers free. There were strains of
blood in the moonlight but nothing bad, nothing he was worried over. Laying over her, he
protected her from herself, whispering, gentling her.

His hands cupped her face and as her tear filled eyes opened he kissed each cheek. “You
okay?”

She nodded and he was ready, hell, way more than ready. This was bigger than saying “I
do” for Bud White. He placed the head of his cock at the door and began his journey.

Entry was tougher than he expected but he was patient, pressing a tiny bit further with
each thrust, gaining momentum and force, a force he was not going to be able to control
soon. The aftermath of her climax whispered in waves, tightening a tremble around him
and each time he grimaced, hoping he could make his distance before he let go.

Finally he was there, as deep as he could get and again he stilled, kissed her eyes, her
mouth. Bracing his knees against the floor, he reached back and raised her leg high over
his hip. She willingly moved the other and locked her ankles tight at the small of his
back. That was all it took. One, two, three hard thrusts and he was ready to burst. Four,
five, six and it was done … he was done … jutting and grunting, gasping as everything
he’d been holding back released with an explosive series of gushes into her.
 71

Bud slowly caught his breath, rolled to his side and pulled her tight against him. Sweat
speckled his brow and he laid flat on his back. Raising his knees he pressed his lower
back against the floor and moaned. “Damn,” he sighed with a pleased rumble. “This is
just what I needed.” He looked down and Letti buried her flushed face into his chest. He
chuckled and rubbed her back. “Just what I needed.” The hard floor felt great on his
wounded back, the mellow aching in his balls was gone, and that worried pain in his heart
was history. It was exactly what he needed, all of it. Letti was what he needed and now he
knew it.

***

They woke in the bed, tired and sticky from a night of lovemaking and Bud wasn’t ready
to see it end, but he had a heavy day ahead; a one o’clock appointment with the doctor
that could clear him for work. Now wouldn’t that be the cat’s meow? Finally, life could
return to normal. Over breakfast, he and Letti talked about the house.

“Baby, why don’t you go pick out paint and stuff this afternoon.”

She looked up from her coffee. “But, I wanted to go to see the doctor with you, Bud.”

“Nah, nothing big. Some poking and prodding, no doubt he’ll clear me for duty. Why
don’t you ask Marlene to help you?”

She blinked, unsure. He grinned and dialed the phone, handing it to her and listened to
the one-sided conversation. Letti began a little nervous, but was soon grinning ear to ear.
“She will come with me,” she announced. “She will pick me up at noon and she has
asked that you meet us at her house for dinner again. I told her yes, is that alright?”

“Sure, sure. I gotta get a shower.” His instinct was to ask her to join him, but his back
would only take so much. At the moment he felt damn good and didn’t want to push it.

***

He waved the ladies off and jingled his keys before climbing into his car, feeling like
there was something he was forgetting. “Fuck it,” he sighed, wanting to get on with it and
get the doctor over with. It didn’t go like he hoped.

“Ten more days,” Doctor Gallagher said, closing the file.

“Why? I feel fine, dammit. What’s the point of sitting around anymore?”

“Recovery?”

“But I feel fucking fine! All I do is sit at a desk,” he huffed, shifted in his chair.
 72

The doctor glared over is glasses. “You don’t just sit at a desk and we both know it. It’s
ten days. I see you got yourself married, White. Consider it a honeymoon.”

Bud scowled, rubbing the gold ring and pissed that the man would use it to manipulate
him.

“I won’t sign off for active duty for ten more days, Detective Lieutenant White. It’s not
opened for discussion. I have other patients,” he dismissed brusquely.

“Fuck,” Bud hissed and drove to the station.

Walking through, several smiling faces called to him, a few patted his shoulder but Bud
had nothing to say. He entered his office and slammed the door. Within minutes, Exley
walked in, not even a knock.

“You back?”

“Ten more fucking days.”

“Ah, guess that makes sense. What are you doing here?”

He didn’t want to go home, knowing Letti was gone … and he sure as hell didn’t want to
admit it. “What’s going on with the case?”

“Your case load will be here when you get back on duty,” Ed snorted, dropping into a
chair. “Married life?”

“None of your business.”

The Captain chuckled. “Hear she’s out spending your money already. You guys are
coming for dinner so,” Ed stood, “best get my work done, since unlike you … I have
work to do.”

“Exley, you’re a real prick, you know that?”

Bud’s phone rang and he lifted it. “White.”

The voice was weak. Male. The words unrecognizable.

“Hello? Who the fuck is this?”

Ed stood, watched.

“Senior White?”

“Who’s this?”
 73

“This is Carmelita Fuentes,” she was breathless, obviously crying. He looked at his
watch, three o’clock.

“Where are you?”

“We are in Miami. Senior White … oh … Senior White, Carlos was shot. He is bleeding,
so weak.”

“He was shot! When?”

“A soldier had hidden on the boat. He shot Carlos in the shoulder. So much blood!”

“Alright, alright, exactly where are you? You gotta get him to the hospital.”

“I cannot carry him, I can not help him,” she sobbed and Bud shot a glare at Ed.

“Carmelita, listen to me. I need you to stay right where you are and I need you to tell me
exactly where that is. Look at the street signs. Give me a location.” He grabbed paper and
pen and Exley stood at his shoulder as Bud wrote down the corner. Immediately Ed left
the office and picked up another phone on one of the detective’s desks.

“Carmelita, listen to me, sweetheart. We’re gonna send some cops to pick you up. No …
no, don’t be scared. They’re not gonna arrest you. They’ll take you to a hospital. How
about you, you okay?”

“I … I am … bleeding.”

“Were you shot too?” panic pumped his heart into overdrive as Ed nodded at the door.

“No … I am … bleeding.”

He swallowed hard. “From … before?”

“Si.”

“Okay, now just stay on the phone with me. Is Carlos conscious? Let me talk to him.” He
imagined her pulling the phone booth cord to its limits and holding it to the man’s ear. He
could hear Carlos gasping. “Listen, buddy. Police are coming to take you both to the
hospital. You got all your papers?”

“Yes … yes …” the voice was so weak Bud started doing the math. How long ago since
the wound? How much blood lost? Was there anyone on the damn boat to at least try to
bandage the bullet hole? “After … we … we heard another shot ...”

“What?” Bud could identify the police siren moving closer to the phone booth.
 74

“Another shot … from the docks … Mr. White … I fear for Mr. Price.”

Bud’s eyes closed tight and the phone was again audibly shuffled..

“Officer Harold here. This LAPD?”

“Yeah, yeah. Detective Lieutenant White. Get that couple to the hospital. They’re my …
in laws. I’m comin’ to get them. Just get them some care. Both of them.”

“Will do Detective Lieutenant. Help this woman.” And the phone went dead.

Bud looked up at Ed. “I need you to lie for me, Captain.”

Chapter 11

Bud White’s odd new life seemed to be taking Ed’s over. Case loads were strangely quiet
so it wasn’t impossible or even impractical for the Captain to take an early afternoon. He
drove home and walked into the front door at four, smiling as casually as he could.
Marlene’s brows rose but Letti’s face brightened.

“Captain Exley! I am surprised to see you,” the lovely Cuban woman’s musical voice
chimed.

“Yes,” Marlene eyed her husband suspiciously. “We were expecting you and Bud later.”

Letti stood and looked out the window. “Where is Bud?”

Fuck. Ed hated this. “Uh … Bud’s back on active duty.”

“He is?” Marlene glared but Ed’s return glare warned her sufficiently. She sighed and
forced a smile. “How nice.”

“Yeah. Hey Letti, sorry honey, but I sent him to New York … to extradite a prisoner.
Seemed like the lightest duty I could give him … but he’ll be gone a few days. Sorry.”
Seeing tears well in her eyes he reached out and patted her shoulder. “Sorry.”

Little Betsy, completely focused on her father, was scaling Ed’s leg and he idly lifted her;
the perfect distraction. He headed toward the kitchen, little daughter in arms and his wife
at his heels.

“Just what is going on?” Marlene hissed. “We both know he shouldn’t be working again
yet!”
 75

“He’s not,” Ed whispered, watching the doorway carefully. He leaned in a kissed his
wife’s cheek. “I’ll tell you later. In the meantime, maybe Letti should stay here a few
days?”

“Of course she will!” Marlene was like an angry whirlwind, pulling food and pots and
pans.

“Mommy’s mad at you,” sang little Betsy and Ed nodded agreement.

***

Exley was kind enough to cover most of the tough stuff; shuffling Bud off to the airport,
telling the appropriate fibs to the new wife, and keeping Bud’s secret too. White had his
concerns. What if Carlos didn’t survive? The last thing he wanted was to distress Letti
more than necessary. He’d been quiet about her father’s arrest, damn hush-hush over how
and when Carlos and Carmelita were attempting to escape Cuba. Before boarding a plane
he took several deep breaths and walked to the nearest phone booth. Life was tough, but
this was something he needed to do no matter how complex things seemed.

He dialed a number he’d hidden in his wallet. Waited. The phone rang several times
before a maid answered and Bud went into full cop mode.

“LAPD Detective Lieutenant Bud White for Mr. Frank Price.”

“Is this important?” The belligerent woman spat.

“Yeah, damn important, lady. He there or what?”

“Mr. and Mrs. Price are celebrating their anniversary and entertaining several guests,
Detective. You will need to call another time.”

“Lady, if you want the death of their son on your head, you go right ahead and hang up.”

She squealed and soon enough, Mr. Frank Price answered. “Detective? What do you
know of Charles’ whereabouts?”

“Nothin’ Mr. Price. I was in Havana with Charlie until my wife and I left … just before
the city fell.”

“And you left him there?”

“Listen mister, nothing short of a face to face interview with that revolutionary bastard
was gonna get your son to even think about leaving Cuba. Last I heard, he had one
scheduled. But … I got a lead … Mr. Price, he might be hurt … or worse. I just wanted
you to know, it’s time to get your political connections in line and start pulling strings if
you ever wanna see Charlie again.”
 76

“Who are you, Mr. White?”

“I’m a Los Angeles cop who … shall we say … was damn impressed with your son. I’ve
got a lot on my plate, Mr. Price, but I think you should clear yours and get something
arranged to locate and get Charlie home.” Bud carefully avoided adding ‘dead or alive’.
The man was going to have enough to deal with.

“Thank you, Detective.”

“Oh, and hey,” Bud added, realizing he had to get moving or he’d miss his plane.
“Charlie, he was writing a story for the New York Times. Maybe start there, they might
have heard from him since my contact did. Just an idea. Gotta go.”

***

Letti rolled to her back and sighed. The room was dark and close; sweat gathered on her
skin and brought a strange chill. She snuggled beneath the sheets only to find the heat
unbearable. Standing to open the window, she looked around. Her eyes had long ago
adjusted to the darkness; sleep was not something she had found easily for the past three
days.

Twice she spoke with Bud, and both times it was brief and efficient, just enough to assure
her that he was fine and would be home soon. But exactly when, he would not confirm.
Never had she felt so alone in the world, never so vulnerable. The Exleys were generous
and kind … and extraordinarily evasive, making her even more frightened. Her mind
picked through a variety of possibilities; that Bud had changed his mind and left her; that
his back injury was far worse than he ever said, and he was undergoing more surgery
without telling her; that the extradition case the Captain had sent him on was more
dangerous than anyone would admit. Confusion and fear battled inside her chest and she
stood, pushed her head outside the opened window, begging air from and airless summer
Los Angeles night.

The guest room was pleasant, as were her hosts. The child, Betsy was an amusing
diversion that never lasted long enough for Letti to catch herself relaxing. The heat was
uncomfortable and her flesh begged for the relief of a tropical downpour she would not
see. She sat on the floor below the window and gasped back a sob. Bud had spent much
time in that bed, recovering under the Exleys’ care. She had hoped for his scent from the
mattress and sheets but it was not there. She had imagined being the one to care for him
but the mere idea of him, hurt and in pain, tore at her heart. She had to get away from the
room, from the house, from the Exleys.

Silent as a whisper, she slid her feet into slippers and wrapped a satin robe over her sweat
soaked nightgown. Her fingers shook as she turned the front door lock slowly. It clanked
in the dense quiet and she held her breath. No one responded, Ed’s snores were even and
muffled from the back of the bungalow. Letti had never tried to run away before in her
 77

life, and there she was, doing it for the second time. But she would return to the Exleys
before dawn … she would never return to Havana.

She walked the silent street then stood at her own front door. The key clicked and clanked
and the opening yawned before her. Her house … her home with Bud, yet it was sad and
empty. The new paint had been applied to the walls, the new carpet installed, but it was a
shell of a life she had hoped for. She moved around the house like a ghost, opening
window after window and reveling in the slight breeze that gently cooled the spaces. In
the bedroom, she lay on the floor where she and Bud had made love. She curled to the
side and gave herself to tears.

“Where are you my love? Come home to me, please.”

***

A full week had passed and night after night, Letti left the safety of Ed Exley’s house to
find the solitude of her own. It wasn’t the secret she thought it was, for Ed was standing
at the bedroom window, robe tight around himself and ready to run if anything happened
to her during her nocturnal jaunts. He could see her enter the empty house, and see her
leave it as the sun kissed the horizon.

Bud called daily, reporting to Ed but not talking to his young wife. What was there to
say? Touch and go was the name of the game at the beginning, then it just got too hard to
imagine explaining things from three thousand miles away. He ached for her, even cried
for her at night, knowing he wasn’t doing the right thing, keeping quiet … but how else
cold he handle this? Bud White really had no idea how to be a married man and he
prayed it didn’t turn him back into a bachelor.

On the seventh day, he tapped on Ed’s door long after midnight. He knew about Letti’s
nightly disappearances, but was hoping that night she’d stayed put. She hadn’t. Ed’s eyes
demanded he be gentle with her and no words were exchanged as Bud bounded from the
porch and charge at a full run down the street.

She lay silent and sleeping, a curled ball in the center of the newly carpeted bedroom
floor. Images rolled and flitted through his mind; standing beside Letti on the hillside
overlooking her family’s tobacco fields; holding her erect as her young brother’s casket
lowered into Havana’s soil; the crash of the surf in the port; the warmth of her hand …
the sweet heat of being deep inside her body. Saying “I do”.

Her face was so beautiful and he fought a painful groan. Fuck, she deserved better than
him, deserved a man who knew how to treat a treasure like her. Bud had done everything
he could and his heart was clear, his conscious was solid. What he needed now was to be
replenished, refilled … and there was only one way to get that.

He wanted to simply lift her and carry her to the stuffy apartment, but that didn’t seem
right. He didn’t like the idea of fucking his wife on the carpet but at least this time, it was
 78

new. He actually liked the muted tan color of it. Bud sighed and it suddenly occurred to
him that he had been officially married a month. He had some catching up to do.

He knelt silently beside her, not wanting to frighten her but unable to wait another
moment. Slowly he slid from his clothes and carefully snuggled close, spooning at her
back, his knees curled into the back of hers and his hand moving a tender circle on her
lovely, satin covered hip.

“Letti, sweetheart,” he whispered and she stirred. “Wake up, baby. I’m home. Letti, wake
up.”

Her head jerked and she pulled away, terror in her eyes as she swung to see who was
touching her. Faster than he thought an idea could register, her tear filled eyes smiled
with the rest of her body as it wrapped around him. Again, no words. There were none.

Removing the robe and nightgown proved impossible, their arms were twisted and tight
and he settled for hiking the satin up, pressing inside with one desperate thrust then
seeking the nourishment of a breast. But Bud wanted everything and he wanted it
immediately. His hips pumped but his mouth watered. He jerked out of her path and
plunged his tongue into it, tasting what he had come to think of was a flavor out of his
dreams. It was real. She trembled, shuddered then yielded to an explosive climax. More,
more, he wanted more. His fingers dove as his lips clamped over the rock hard button and
he sucked a relentless rhythm. Again she shot for the stars but until he heard her beg for
mercy, he didn’t stop. He was a starving man who thought he’d lost everything and would
never eat again.

Rising over her, he again pressed an entry, this time thoughtful, slow but intense. Her
tightness was taunting, teasing, the path still rippling with aftershocks. Love, marriage …
it was all complicated. An occasional, casual woman would have tossed him out on his
ear, probably called the cops for his behavior, just waking her up like that; his intention,
taking what he hoped was his to have. A different wife might have stopped the flow of it
all, insisted on negotiation or even retaliation before allowing him to love her. Was it
Letti … or their circumstances that made this marriage unique? None of it mattered, at
that moment, his body ran everything.

When it was done, when they were both washed over with exhaustion and ached from the
encounter, he curled her close and covered her with his jacket. Her head rested on his
shoulder and he reveled in the comfort of his injured back pressing against the solid floor.
Silently they watched a pale dawn brighten the window and Letti sighed. She didn’t ask,
so he did what he had to do. He told her everything, told her as gently as he could, then
held his breath. Everything was now in Leticia White’s hands.

***

Charlie Price held back his growing terror, pounded it down like the fists that had
pummeled him. Castro’s men were brutal by nature and even the young American could
 79

see that these guys were playing war for keeps. Long gone was his sympathy that the top
dogs in Fidel’s pack were rebelling against unfairness and a lifetime of poverty. The
officers cared nothing of political philosophy or the rights of men, communism or
democracy. They were animals drawn to the scent of a fight, resourceful enough to place
themselves in Castro’s line of vision and prepared to ride the man’s coattails to the top of
Cuba’s new found power.

They took pride and pleasure in their job, and they did it well … as evidenced by the
strategically broken bones, filthy clothing and blood soaked hair Charlie had come to
accept as the norm.

Three weeks they’d had him. He wasn’t an idiot; he had long ago given up the fantasy of
getting his interview, telling the truth about Cuba. He only had half a story without a face
to face with the monster. Hell, chances were, he’d see the gates of heaven before he’d
ever see the face of Fidel Castro. In slow bites he swallowed a few realities. He’d never
see America again; never see his family again … never breathe as a free man again. But
on the bright side … it probably won’t matter because he could endure as long as they
could, and he was sure he was beginning to bore the hell out of his captures. It wasn’t
going to last too much longer.

Fuck. Charlie was a kid, what did they really think he knew? What leverage did they
think holding him gave them? The revolution was supported and financed by more
avenues than even Charlie could imagine. Whatever they thought they could get from
him or for his release was minimal. Day twenty-three as counted on his fingers … and
time to try something else.

“Hey! Mi Compadre!” Charlie shouted. Yeah, they forgot to feed him again. It was
becoming a new pattern, now he got his bread once a day but he got to smell the delicious
food his captors ate three times a day. Pricks. “Hey! I got something to tell you! Hey!”

Fear didn’t come into play. Hell, what there left to be afraid of? He’d been beaten,
starved, shot and broken. What else could they do to him?

“What do you want?” shouted a hairy soldier, his fingers still holding a greasy piece of
chicken that looked like heaven to Charlie. The kid swallowed hard and pulled his eyes
from the meat.

“Hey, I got something to tell your boss. Get someone important down here or I might die
of starvation before I can pass on this really, really important information.”

The imbecile blinked, ran dirty fingers down his beard then tossed the chicken into the
wine cellar gate and left.

Charlie Price actually counted to ten before lifting the bone and sucking the ounce or two
of meat from it. It took little nourishment to brighten the lights in his brain, he hadn’t
eaten in nearly twenty-four hours and he realized that his choice of timing might just be
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counter productive. What did he have to tell the officer? Oddly, something he hadn’t even
thought to say before. He let his mind rehearse the speech.

Buddy, you want your message out, I’m the one to do it. I have a New York Times
publisher waiting for your story and I’m the man who can write it exactly the way you
want it stated. Exactly … to the letter. Trust me, mister; it’s the only thing I got to help
your cause. Either take it … of finish me off.

Yeah, that was exactly what he wanted to say and how he wanted to say it. And for the
first time since arriving in Cuba, Charlie was actually scared. No matter. The officer came
to the gate and Charlie repeated his rehearsed statement.

Epilog

Christmas Eve, 1959.

Bud’s first wedding anniversary. He’d made it, managed to stay married a year and what
a year. Active duty came soon enough and he went through the entire mess of arguing and
negotiating with Letti, convincing her that he was as safe as any cop could be. It was
frustrating and it was flattering. When had anyone cared like that about him? It made an
impact and Bud became a more careful cop, took risks only when he had no other choice
and often stopped to think before he swung a fist.

And there was more, lots more. One of the best things was lying in his arms. Well, earlier
that was Letti herself, but in the mid-morning quiet of a much needed day off, Bud was
sitting on his sofa holding his two month old son … Charles White, name for a brave
young man to which he and Letti owed so much.

Bud would never know if it was Castro’s men or the New York Times that really killed
Charlie Price. He felt it in his gut the minute he first read the story. The thrill of seeing
Charlie’s byline … the curiosity of how the kid escaped … then the realization that he
hadn’t. The story was obviously chopped up and the writing style was a mesh of several
hands. Doing a little snooping, Bud learned that the story, mysteriously received by the
editor in the mail, read like a communist propaganda flyer. The New York Times wanted
the story but not like that; so he wrote out what didn’t fit into his politics … and
inevitably placed young Charlie in front of a firing squad. Bud was enraged.

“You fuckin’ idiot! The story was a cry for help! That kid was trying to let you know he
was still alive!”

“I wasn’t printing that story as it was!” snarled the editor over the telephone.

Bud’s fists tightened, his heart raced and his blood heated dangerously. Lucky for Mr.
Newspaper Editor, he was thousands of miles away. “You weren’t supposed to print the
fuckin’ story; you were supposed to notify someone, dammit!” Two days later, Charlie’s
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body was dumped on a Florida beach and America got just a little more afraid of the
Cuban threat. Bud made one last call to Mr. Frank Price and offered condolences.

The infant snuggled and Bud’s big hand cupped over wispy soft curls. Fuck he loved the
smell of the baby, the way it slept like that in his arms. Delicious scents drifted from the
kitchen along with the happy voices of women. He closed his eyes and listened. Letti, her
sing-song accent; Marlene, reprimanding little Betsy and attempting to keep her from
Bud and the baby … and the gentle laughter of Carmelita Fuentes.

Ed Exley was at the station and Carlos was putting lights on the Christmas tree across the
livingroom.

Bud sighed and slouched deeper. He watched the man work carefully, making sure there
were no repeated colors too close together and that the bulbs were evenly spaced. Carlos
was a detail man … and the hero of a small, conquered nation. Under the penname of
Carl Franklin, (a safe author’s name according to Carlos’ publisher), he wrote the
fictionalized novel entitled “An Island Falls”. It climbed the best sellers list quickly and
Hollywood was nosing around it. The book brought comfort, a bit of wealth … and eased
the blow of everything the Fuentes family had lost. Carlos and Carmelita purchased a
house between the White’s and the Exleys’ and Bud had to grin at the neighbors and their
there goes the neighborhood expressions. What the fuck, things had to change and all
Americans, even those living in sunny Los Angeles had to learn it.

Life was about more than the good guys and the bad guys. It was about more than
Hollywood movies or fields of tobacco. Life was about the survival, about the struggle …
about the sadness and the joys.

Betsy had escaped the women and thrown herself onto the sofa with a little bounce. Bud
grinned and watched her lean her head against his arm and tenderly touch the baby with a
small fingertip.

Fuck. Life was about … life. How come he never new that before?

FINI