Tomlinson noted visibility and felt it safe to nod. “Vernum Quick, huh? That sounds Bahamian, not Cuban.”

“It’s the same. In way-back times, some men was named for their nature. See? Like how fast they move or their love for women. When the Guardia come, they were already convinced a Casanova took those girls.”

“Not just your name, though, right? It was because this dude Vernum lied. The man should be defrocked, if you didn’t kill . . . Well, if he’s still alive. What did you tell the Cuban cops?”

“The truth, brother. I always tell the truth. That’s why the Guardia took me straight to jail.”

Tomlinson had been nudging the conversation toward Gen. Rivera—how had the man learned about the machine guns and hidden Harleys?—but had to back up. “Even though you denied murdering the girls?”

“That’s not the way it happened. The lieutenant come to my mu-maw’s house and asked why I murdered three innocent people.”

“Your mu . . . ? Oh, your grandmother.”

“Yeah. I told him those people weren’t innocent, and I only killed two people, not three—and no way their bodies were found—so why was he bothering us? You see, at the time, I knew nothing about the girls in the cane field.”

Tomlinson took a minute to collect himself by pretending a need for the sextant. To the north, cumulus clouds that had once marked the Dry Tortugas were now a curtain of gray. All sorts of things—airplanes, ships, the steady flow of refugees on rafts—often disappeared out here in the Straits. He closed the box of polished teak, saying, “I’m sure you had a damn good reason to do whatever you did.”

“That’s what I explained to the lieutenant.”

“Explained why you had to kill—”

“Yeah. Two men come snooping around at night—big fellas like the one back there”—Figgy motioned—“so I used a baseball bat, a bat I’d carved from a madera, which also makes me sad. I packed their bodies on a mule all night and threw that bat off the cliff, too. What choice did I have? If I promise to protect a certain place, man, I protect it. Same with the briefcase . . . but only because I didn’t know what it contains.” The Cuban glowered at the cabin. “General Rivera, next time I see him, I think I’ll beat his head with my other shoe.”

“You clubbed them with a baseball bat until they were . . .”

“Of course. Isn’t that what I just told you?”

Holy Christ. This new shipmate of his was a stone-cold killer. But sitting alone with a felon in the middle of the Gulf Stream was no place to quibble over morality or the outcome of what was, perhaps, one drunken night and a whim.

Tethered off the stern, the dinghy, with its shiny black motor, urged the need for a plan of escape. Instead, Tomlinson forced himself to think about the briefcase. Intuition told him there was a connection between Castro’s letters and Figgy. No other way to explain the shortstop’s reaction when he saw them. Maybe the letters had been written to a woman in Figgy’s village. Possibly even to a relative. Or even Figgy’s grandmother, but that was a stretch. No matter—Tomlinson felt confident the Cuban would get to it. He offered support by saying, “Typical cops. Even when you tell the truth, they’re pricks.”

“Exactly what I said—‘Man, I being totally straight, here’—and the lieutenant ask me why didn’t I confess earlier? Confess? What a stupid question. Brother, why would I confess to something I never lied about in the first place?”

That made so much sense, Tomlinson wanted to write it down.

The shortstop continued, “I explained to the lieutenant about my vow of honesty. Know what he did? Laughed at me. Laughed right in my face. Said, ‘Boy, you are lying or you are crazy.’ I told him, ‘Cabrón, I never lie.’ For that insult, I knocked him on his puta ass—used my left hand, of course, ’cause, you know, I throw with my right.”

Listening, Tomlinson exhaled a long breath. “Dude, you’re as sane as the day is long. A ballplayer’s got to protect his throwing hand.”

“Yeah! But they took me to crazy prison anyway. The one on the road to José Martí, right there by the ball field.”

Prisión demente is what Figgy called the asylum in Spanish.

“Can you imagine? Sit in the dark, hearing baseball through the walls. You know that sound a bat makes when you hit it good? Hit a ball, I mean, not like the one I used to kill those fellas. Sometimes I cried and cried. Three years, three months, and three days. Got so them guards really believed I was crazy.”

A cooler was strapped to the cabin bulkhead. Tomlinson got up. “You know, Figgy—uhh, is it okay if I call you Figgy?”

“That’s cool. Although ‘Figuerito’ is more proper. Three, you understand now why three’s my lucky number?” The little Cuban accepted a beer and tossed the cap over the side.

Normally, Tomlinson would have mentioned the handy trash bag but stuck to the thread. “Thing is, Figuerito, on these little cruises of mine strange shit always happens for one reason or another. Nobody’s fault, understand. It’s God’s way of preparing us, I think, for the serious weirdness that awaits if a man outlives his pinga.”

A nod; a white-toothed smile.

“We’ve got to stick together, in other words. We’re shipmates, right? After last night, I feel like I can call you my very good friend.”

“Figgy’s okay, too,” the shortstop replied. He was interested in something portside, straining to see through the mist while his shoulders danced to Ms. Omara crooning “Pensamiento.”

Sensing a lack of focus, Tomlinson cleared his throat. “Being called a pussy in Russian was my first clue. That’s a new one even in my world. See where this is going? Amigo, I think we need to read those letters to understand why all this bizarre bullshit’s going down.” A tangent popped into his head. “Hey . . . how’d you know the Russian word for ‘pussy’? Because your father danced ballet?”

The shortstop didn’t respond, continued to stare into the mist, eyes widening while he grabbed the boom and pulled himself up. “Wow!” he said. “Is that Havana already?”

No . . . it was a cruise ship, its bow five stories high and cutting a wake that, if Tomlinson didn’t get the engine started, would crush No Más and drown them.

Thursday afternoon on Bahamasair, Key West to Nassau, Vernum Quick looked down at a glittering sea and watched a ship—one of those newlywed and nearly dead cruise liners—disappear into a cloudy mist. The entire flight, he hadn’t said a word to his Russian handler, a man so big he’d purchased two seats—same as two days ago when they’d landed in Fort Myers.

Kostikov was the guy’s name, supposedly. Who knew? In this strange business, lying was a way of life. It was easier to believe he’d been a super heavyweight way, way back in the day. Boxing or wrestling or weight lifting, Vernum hadn’t inquired. The man’s bad Spanish demanded a lot of work, as did his Cossack temper. Better to smile and pretend to understand.

One thing for certain: Kostikov was a killer. He could kill a man with his hands—snap his neck, crush him to death, or stick a pencil through his eardrum. Vernum had seen him do this in a grainy KGB video, a self-defense instructional that sacrificed three dumbass prisoners—Afghans, they looked like—who had volunteered. The huge Russian, after each demonstration, would grin as they dragged a body away. A man who had aged since those days but still loved his work.