Dead Man's Land by Jack Patterson (digital e reader .txt) 📕

have to go to Cuba for this story—and I need a photographer.”

Kelly’s face lit up and then she eyed him cautiously. “You need any ole photographer—or you need this one?”

“I need you.” He paused. “Well, more to the point—I want you to join me.”

“And tight-wad Buckman approved this?”

Cal bobbed his head from side to side. “He said he’d find the money in the budget. He said this is the kind of story that wins awards.”

“Who would know that better than you?”

“I am familiar with award-winning journalism, yes—but this feels like something even bigger.”

“What do you mean?”

“I mean this story transcends sports. It’s a glimpse under the hood of another culture obsessed by sports with so many questions left unanswered.”

“And there’s a bit of mystery and intrigue as well, right?” Her face was beaming.

“Much more than just a bit. That’s what the story will center around, that is, if the paper is going to justify sending me over to Cuba on its dime.”

She ran across the room and jumped in his lap, giving him a bear hug followed by a kiss. “You had me at Cuba.”

“Well, Mrs. Kelly Mendoza Murphy, are you ready to tap into your Latin roots again?”

“Si, si, Señor.”

“Excellent. I’ll let Buckman know in the morning.”

***

THE NEXT DAY, Cal entered The Times office with a little more pep in his step than usual. He grabbed the list of messages left for him by the secretary before heading to the sports department.

Josh Moore, whose desk was located next to Cal’s, appeared to be re-reading his own article from that morning’s newspaper.

“There’s nothing new in there,” Cal said, as Josh quickly folded up the paper and tried to act as if he hadn’t been reading it. “The Mariners lost again.”

Josh rolled his eyes and picked up his coffee cup. “You can be so annoying sometimes.”

“It’s because I’m often right.” He draped his jacket on his chair and headed for Buckman’s office.

“And annoying,” Josh snipped.

Cal sauntered into Buckman’s office. His boss was still on the phone and motioned for him to shut the door. After a few moments, he hung up. He folded his hands and looked at Cal.

“So, we have a problem,” Buckman said.

“A problem? What kind of problem?”

“The kind of problem you and I don’t like—government bureaucracy.”

“Oh, great. What now?”

“You need a Treasury license for the purpose we’re sending you there for—and it’s not being granted.”

“You’ve gotta be kidding me?”

“Cal, I don’t know what we did here, but we’re certainly stirring up some kind of hornet’s nest.” He smiled as his eyebrows shot upward. “And I kind of like it.”

“Great. I’m glad you find pissing off the U.S. government funny. But that’s not going to help me blow the lid off this story.”

“What I don’t like is you not getting into the country when I know for a fact that they let some rag tag reporter from The Oregonian go last month for a story about Cuban art.”

“Maybe I need to wear skinny jeans.”

“We’re not that desperate.”

Cal put his hands on his hips and sighed. “I thought relaxed relations between the U.S. and Cuba meant easier access.”

“They do if it involves your family or humanitarian projects or religious and cultural programs.”

“This is a cultural endeavor—writing about the game of baseball in Cuba. It might as well be a religious one as well.”

Buckman chuckled. “No different than here really. But it’s what keeps us employed. Remember that. If people didn’t care about sports, we’d have to find real jobs.”

“So, what’s your backup plan?”

“What makes you think I have a backup plan?”

Cal shook his head. “I don’t know, but you’re not angry enough yet. It makes me think you’ve got something up your sleeve.”

Buckman winked at Cal. “Maybe I do.”

Before he could say another word, Buckman’s phone rang. Cal sat down and stared around the office while Buckman finished his conversation. It didn’t last more than a minute.

“Well, that was a call related to something I had up my sleeve,” Buckman said as he hung up.

Cal leaned forward in his chair. “And?”

“And what do you and Kelly know about building houses?”

“Come again?”

“Puget Sound Free Methodist Church is heading to Cuba tomorrow on a humanitarian aid mission for a week—and you and Kelly will be joining them.”

CHAPTER 23

TORRES GUIDED HIS BOAT in and docked at his slip in the Miami Beach Marina. Once Ortega helped him finish tying the boat off, Ortega slipped below and disappeared for several minutes. Torres checked his watch and eyed the Coast Guard cutter circling the marina.

He went back aboard and grabbed Ortega by the back of his collar.

“What’s taking so long down here?” he demanded.

Ortega ignored him, muttering under his breath. “Twenty-one, twenty-two, twenty-three …”

“Are you serious? You’re counting the money?”

Ortega stopped and looked up. “We’ve got to make sure it’s all here.”

“If it’s not, it’s too late now. But if you don’t hurry up, we might not have any of it.”

“Why’s that?”

Torres became animated, pointing toward the front of the hull. “There’s a Coast Guard cutter patrolling out there. And they can come aboard any time they like, even without our permission. So, let’s get outta here with our money before they decide to perform an inspection.”

Torres began shoving the money Ortega had separated out of the bag back into it.

“What are you doing?” Ortega protested.

“You’re not listening to a word I’m saying, are you? Put the money back and let’s get outta here before it’s all confiscated. I need that money.”

Ortega growled and joined him in replacing the money back in the bag. Torres climbed up the stairs and offered his hand to Ortega.

As Torres helped Ortega up and out of the boat, he eyed a Coast Guard officer staring directly at them and talking on his radio.

“Let’s go! Now!” Torres said. “Just don’t look back.”

Ortega turned around and looked over his shoulder.

“I said, don’t look back,” Torres said, slapping Ortega in the chest.

They both walked quickly to Torres’s 1973 gold El Camino. Torres unlocked his door