Cuba Straits (A Doc Ford Novel)
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A remarkable installment in the Doc Ford series from New York Times–bestselling author Randy Wayne White.
Doc Ford’s old friend General Juan Rivera has gone into the business of high-profile collectibles, but when he manages to obtain a collection of letters written by Fidel Castro between 1960 and 1962 to a secret girlfriend, it’s not a matter of money anymore. Rivera has stumbled way out of his depth. Those letters contain a secret that someone cannot allow to be made public. A lot happened between Cuba and the United States in those years. Many men died. A few more will hardly be noticed.
block. Banyan trees shadowed sidewalks and the occasional utility gizmo, such as a fire hydrant or a post office drop box. After many seconds, Tomlinson relaxed and pointed. “Is that what scared you? It’s just a mailbox, for christ’s sake. How tall is this guy?” “Even bigger than me, but that’s not him. He must’a moved, the son of a dog.” Figgy shuffled closer to the drop box, shoes clicking like a shod horse. “Tell me something. Did Cerci give you a pill to eat?” “Maybe. And some dollar bills
choose. “Are you interested in a tour of Havana?” the driver asked. “I’m a licensed guide. Or a beautiful woman? I know a place that has food and music and the most beautiful women in the Caribbean.” Ford negotiated a price to Cojimar and got in the back. The driver said the trip would take an hour or less, but twenty minutes later they were still on the Prado, stuck in traffic, with no way to turn around. “There must have been an accident, señor.” Ford felt a welling uneasiness. They were
baseball field. Look—you can see it from here.” He moved a stool, stood on it, and opened the window. “This is how I got out at night. If there was a full moon, we’d play until morning.” For a moment, he was happy. Then, from a higher vantage point, he surveyed his old room and realized something was amiss. “Those maricóns,” he said after a moment. “Someone stole my best shit.” Tomlinson nearly winced. Weed that was more than three years old? No . . . Figgy was missing a sports coat he claimed
of lavender even stronger than the scented letters opened here sixty years ago by a girl who was in love. Not a girl . . . a beautiful young woman. Tomlinson, looking at a framed photograph, said, “That’s her—Imelda,” because it could be no one else. Stunning. A teenage mistress dressed in virginal white, black eyes that projected a yearning spark across the decades. He stood fixated while Figgy cracked a door, then another door. “She’s gone,” he said, and walked to a window that opened into
Ford explained. Mack, although disappointed, looked on the bright side. “I suppose there are enough ugly rumors about this marina, so I’m glad you weren’t involved. Particularly”—he motioned in the direction of Tomlinson’s mooring buoy—“you-know-who.” Ford scanned the newspaper for familiar names and zeroed in on yesterday’s box scores. In the afternoon, a shortstop named F. Casanova had hit three home runs playing for the Dallas BMW Bandits. Last night, pinch hitter F. Casanova, playing for