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

it’s too late for that now. I know when I’ve been had.”

Torres stood up. “This isn’t a cautionary tale.” He chunked his beer bottle in the water. “This story hasn’t been finished yet. There’s still time to right the wrongs, still time to redeem something, anything.”

“I wish you’d get on with it then,” Ortega sneered. “How do we even know we’ll get paid?”

“Trust me. We’ll get paid. Nobody will get on this boat without the cash first.”

Torres settled into his seat and watched the fishing boats return to the docks, one by one. Some of them barely had any fish in their nets. Others appeared to have nets that overflowed. But the faces of the fishermen were the same, regardless of the haul. It made no difference to them because success was mitigated by their socialist society. Success was a foreign term, one that didn’t matter. They’d collect their paltry paychecks at the end of each month, net-busting catches or not.

“Let’s go to the field and at least watch some of the game today,” Torres said. “Anything to get our minds off this hell hole of a country.”

Ortega rolled his eyes. “If we lived in this hell hole of a country, we wouldn’t be wondering about how we might get our next meal.”

Torres nodded. “How we get our next meal isn’t nearly as important as how we live our lives, no?”

Ortega took a deep breath and shook his head. “I desire freedom, but I hate living on the edge of hope and despair.”

“That’s the place where most men discover who they really are. If you lived here, you’d never discover it for yourself—you’d be a ward of the state, a slave doing the master’s bidding.”

“But I wouldn’t live in fear.”

“In fear of what? Where your next meal would come from? No, you wouldn’t. But you’d live in fear of where someone might designate you to work or live. Your life would be pliable in the hands of the Cuban government. And good luck with getting anything you want. It’d all be luck of the draw.”

Torres checked his watch again. “Let’s go to the game. This conversation is making me tired.”

“What for? So we can follow the bidding of our masters who live in America? No thanks. I’m just going to sit here and drink.”

Torres stood up. “That’s not the best idea. Suppose someone questions you and decides to arrest you. There won’t be anything I can do about it. Not now, not later.”

“But at least it’d be on my own terms—me sitting here in our boat, drinking a chilled Corona.”

“My boat—and I think the more you drink, the more you lose sight of reality.”

“Maybe so, but I’ll never be somebody’s slave.”

Torres put his hands on his hips. “C’mon, Ortega. Let’s go. Put the bottle down and let’s go to the game. It’s the best place for us to be. If we hang out here all night, someone will undoubtedly get suspicious.”

Ortega threw his hands in the air. “Whatever, man. I just want to make it out of here alive.”

“I can’t guarantee anything, but I think we’ll have a good time.”

Thirty minutes later, Torres and Ortega were sitting in the stands for the Grapefruit Cutters game, chipping off peach flecks of paint between each pitch by Bartolo Cortéz.

Torres laughed at the team from the United States getting slaughtered after the first inning of play, 7-0.

“Why are they playing this game again?” Ortega asked as soon as the Seattle Prep team secured the final out.

“Good will,” Torres said as a slight grin spread across his face.

“I wish they’d save their good will for something that matters, like a game against a team that’s just as awful as they are.”

“You can’t always get what you want.”

Ortega shot him a look. “Stop right there. Please don’t say, ‘but you get what you need.’ ”

“As long as we get our money, I don’t care what we came for. It’s about following orders and hoping that everything goes as planned.”

“That’s a risky proposition.”

“No riskier than the one we’ve been living. Now, look near home plate. It looks like something is about to happen over there.”

Ortega rubbed his nose and squinted as he peered toward the center of the action. “A speech perhaps?”

“Maybe, but we won’t know for sure until they start talking. But it’s packed.”

“Are you suggesting we should stay?”

“No, I’m suggesting we should be in the best position to catch our enemies doing what they’ve been doing for quite a while now—lying to us and making up falsehoods.” Torres paused. “You wouldn’t know anything about that, would you?”

Ortega rolled his eyes.

“It looks like someone is making an announcement near home plate,” Torres said. “Isn’t that Vicente Prado?”

Ortega turned and looked at him, his eyes wide from excitement. “Please tell me that’s not who we’re smuggling out tomorrow?”

Torres smiled. “I wouldn’t want to spoil the surprise now, would I?”

CHAPTER 29

CAL SHIELDED HIS EYES from the sun as he watched the Seattle Prep team look like the high school team that it was against the Grapefruit Cutters. Even with the rise of travel baseball and its rigorous schedule, the Seattle Prep team appeared to be far behind the Cuban team. With a national baseball program designed to develop high-level stars, any Cuban team would have had its way with even the most talented high school team from the U.S. Cal pondered a slew of good sportswriter words to describe the team from his city—toothless, punchless, overmatched. It didn’t matter. It’s not like he cared who won or lost and likely neither did the vast majority of The Times’ readers. But he felt confident they’d all be interested in the story of Vicente Prado.

He watched Kelly snapping pictures of the game along the first-base side.

Got to keep up appearances.

A picture or two might find its way to into the story he wanted to write, but for now there was work to be done. There was a player who needed his help.

“Hola, amigo,”