The billboard on Avenida 26 that had celebrated 50 years of the triumph of the revolution for as many years as Northwick could remember, now displayed a brightly coloured picture of a coral reef with the words: ‘Cuba Libre: restoring Cuba’s coral reefs.’
The Harley sang with two voices, an undulating hum and a growl as it sped past the gates of the run down zoo. The sun scorched his bare arms. The meeting with Yevgeny had left him feeling beached and isolated. He now believed the Russian government had no interest in Libre Coin, which left the Cuban government themselves, or Russian gangsters. The KGB at least was the devil he knew.
In the rear view mirror he glimpsed the nose of a sky blue Toyota SUV that he had noticed as he left the cemetery. A familiar, prickly sensation told him it wasn’t a coincidence.
He went straight over the roundabout at the saucer-shaped sports arena with its limp flags, heading out of town on the Avenida Rancho Boyeros. The Toyota was still on his tail. Had they picked him up at the cemetery or before? He kept the speed down and in a few miles he turned at an intersection and rolled up to a bar overlooking a patch of scrubland. The sign said ‘Compañeros’ Three Harleys were parked on the scrubland and a few dusty saloons, including a 1940 Packard with a caved fender. He joined the line of Harleys and tried not to notice the SUV pull into the lot in a cloud of sepia dust.
Stepping into the gloomy bar was a relief from the harsh sunlight. The wooden boards thumped under his shoes and the air was thick with stale sweat and cigars. The bartender was reading Granma and didn’t look up. The Beatles were playing ‘Love Me Do’ over tinny speakers.
At a table in the corner three men were conspiring over a bottle of Havana Club.
Northwick planted himself at the bar. ‘A beer por favor.’
One of the men rose from the table and glanced out of the door, then lumbered over to where Northwick stood. He was a giant of a man with a tangled beard and a barrel like belly, and he smelled of cooking fat.
‘That your Harley outside? The Hydra-Glide?’ He had a tattoo down one thick arm in a Gothic font that Northwick couldn’t decipher and was at least a head taller.
‘It’s mine,’ replied Northwick.
The big man considered. ‘1950 model, de verdad?’
The bartender uncapped a cold beer and put it on the counter.
‘You know your bikes.’
The man looked over at his friends. ‘You have a leakage problem?’
Northwick sucked on the beer. ‘Everybody does. It’s the tappets. I had it modified.’
‘Modified how?’
‘’53 engine.’
The big man thought about this and scratched his beard. ‘Figures,’ he said, making a signal to the bartender and returning to his chair. Northwick took a mouthful of the cold beer, which gave off a metallic aroma and offered up a handful of Pesos. The bartender shook his head.
‘He paid, señor,’ he said, picking up his newspaper.
There was laughter coming from the table, but they didn’t look back at him. They slapped their glasses on the wooden table and knocked back their shots.
‘You know I’ll be true,’ played over the speakers.
Harlistas, thought Northwick. That’s what they called them around here. He’d never broken into that crowd, but sensed they’d accepted him as one of their own.
Some sixth sense prompted him to look at the door, as two grim-faced, bulked-up gringos entered in polos and chino shorts. They didn’t look at him as they went to the bar and ordered beers.
Another Beatles track was playing to a deaf audience: ‘Yellow Submarine’.
The newcomers sat down at an empty table in silence. Northwick waited for something to happen. It felt like all the air had been sucked out of the room and his shirt was sticky and damp. He ordered another beer and watched the men’s reflection in a mirror behind the bar. They didn’t talk to each other and didn’t pay him any attention. One was scrolling on his phone, the other stared straight ahead.
‘Everything OK, señor?’ said the bartender, like he could care less, barely looking up from the baseball page.
‘All good.’ He checked his phone. Four missed calls from an unknown number and a single text message. ‘Call me. P.’ Only Petersen signed himself as P. He could wait.
‘…a yellow submarine, a yellow submarine…’
He wanted it to be over. The men’s room was in a shameful corner. He went inside and waited for the inevitable. Three stalls, two cubicles and a black rimmed ceramic sink with a dripping tap.
Seconds later both men entered. One pulled a knife—like a diver’s knife, curved, with a menacing glint. He made a feint. Northwick stepped back.
Then the door bust open to admit the giant from earlier, who ducked his head out of habit. He looked around with a grizzled face. Saw the knife.
‘Not your fight,’ said the man with the knife in flawed Spanish. ‘Walk away.’
The big man shrugged and went into a cubicle, letting the door bang behind him. A look passed between the assailants. Northwick wanted to heave. Everything froze. He sized up the men, trying to pick the weakest, but they looked the same. He bent at the knees and steeled himself.
The cubicle door opened. Fast motion. The big man smashed the top of a toilet cistern down on the head of the man with the knife, the thump resounding in the tiled bathroom. Then a slam of a meaty forearm sent the other careering into the sink as Northwick kicked the knifeman’s feet from under him—but he was already going down. The big man stooped, waiting for one of the men to come to, and when he did he hit him so hard his body slid across the floor.
The big man spat. ‘Russians,’ he said. ‘I can always smell them.’
‘Thanks,’ said Northwick.
‘Harlistas,’ said the man and gave Northwick a high five. One of his buddies in a Harley T-shirt tugged open the door.
‘Nothing left for us?’
‘You’re in time to take out the trash.’
In the bar the Beatles were singing ‘Back in the USSR.’ ‘Hasta la vista,’ said one of the Harlistas with a respectful nod, as Northwick passed him on the way out.
A young guy trailing a silky-skinned black woman in tight jeans opened the door of the bar and thought better of coming in, holding the door for Northwick who screwed up his eyes as he stepped with an unsteady gait into the bright light and fierce heat.
