The Edible Exile

  The Edible Exile

  By Carl Hiaasen

  BYLINER FICTION

  Copyright © 2013 by Carl Hiaasen

  Cover design by Mimi Dutta

  Cover illustration by Brett Lamb/Getty Images

  All rights reserved

  ISBN: 978-1-61452-091-7

  First e-book edition: December 2013

  Byliner Inc.

  San Francisco, California

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  Table of Contents

  Preface

  The Edible Exile

  About the Author

  About Byliner

  Byliner Recommends ... Everyone’s Reading Bastard

  Byliner Recommends ... You Were Never Really Here

  Byliner Recommends ... How to Get Away with Murder in America

  Preface

  This story has a peculiar lineage. Not long ago, the editors of Byliner approached me about a short piece of fiction I’d written a long time ago. It had been found in an old file by Will Blythe, the former literary editor of Esquire. Apparently my manuscript had been submitted to (and rejected by) the magazine.

  The working title was “Retirement Living at Its Finest.” As near as I can tell, it was written at least twenty-three years ago. At the time, I was writing two or three columns a week for the Miami Herald and working on novels at night, so it’s not surprising that I’d lost track of the manuscript.

  The plot is set in Miami during the wind-down of the long armed conflict between the Sandinista government of Nicaragua and the anti-communist rebels known as contras, who were supported and trained by the CIA. Cuervo, the main character, is a prominent, high-living exile who raises money in America for the contra cause.

  A shadowing element of the story is the notorious Iran-contra affair, in which operatives of Ronald Reagan’s administration secretly sold arms to Iran in a doomed scheme to gain the release of American hostages in Lebanon. Some of the money from that arms sale was illegally diverted to fund the contras, a ballsy though harebrained move.

  References in the story to figures like Eugene Hasenfus seem obscure now, but for me they stirred memories of scandal-filled headlines.

  However, the most intriguing thing about the “Retirement Living” manuscript was that the ending had been lost. The printout stopped at the bottom of page 16, with a character named Sixto saying, “Let us be alone for a while.”

  I had absolutely no recollection of how I’d finished the original story. I dug through a steamer trunk and many old files, uncovering several Esquire rejection slips but no trace of that particular story.

  So I decided to write a new ending. As a friend said, “How often does a writer get the opportunity to collaborate with a younger version of himself?”

  And because I know the younger version of me would be highly annoyed to get edited by the older version, I didn’t rewrite those first sixteen pages. I did put a new title on the story, but the younger me can just suck it up and deal with that.

  Carl Hiaasen

  December 2013

  The Edible Exile

  Cuervo no longer went swimming in the mornings.

  The TV news said somebody had spotted a great white shark off Key Biscayne. That was three weeks ago, and still local charter captains were advertising a big shark hunt. From the balcony of his penthouse, Cuervo could see the fishing boats every day, trolling back and forth a few miles offshore. He knew they were dumping buckets of blood and bonita guts to draw in the great white, and he knew that hammerheads and blacktips could be just as nasty.

  So Cuervo no longer went swimming in the mornings.

  “I need some exercise,” he said to Sixto, his bodyguard.

  “I’ll get you a woman,” said Sixto.

  Cuervo said, “No, that’s too much work.”

  Sometimes Sixto did not understand his boss. Exercise was exercise, although Sixto himself didn’t worry about it. He was six-five, two hundred forty pounds, not a pinch of fat, according to his mother. Sixto knew he looked strong: the sleek black hair, the high, strong cheekbones, the intense brown eyes, even the scar—the scar definitely added something. Cuervo told people that Sixto’s scar was a bullet wound, a crease from an M16. Actually, some little brat back in Managua had thwacked him in the face with a Pepsi bottle, point-blank, blood all over the uniform. Even better, the kid got away. Sixto’s captain had emptied his clip, but all he’d hit was a VW bus with a red cross painted on the side.

  “They’ve got a gym on the third floor,” Sixto said to Cuervo. The two men spoke to each other in Spanish.

  Cuervo said, “Fat gringos on bicycles, no thank you. Maybe I’ll buy one of those machines—what’re they called?”

  “Nautilus.”

  “Yes,” Cuervo said, tightening the sash on his bathrobe. “A Nautilus. Can you find me one?”

  Sixto nodded. “They are expensive,” he said.

  “So, life is expensive,” Cuervo replied. This was one of his favorite sayings. Sixto often wondered how any man who had lived such a long time could be so wrong.

  * * *

  Zacharias arrived the next day at noon. Sixto was in the lobby, waiting for the Nautilus machine, when he saw him drive up in one of the bank’s leased Cadillac Sevilles.

  “So how’s the big man today?” Zacharias asked.

  “Constipated,” said Sixto. He did not care for Zacharias or his phony collegial manner. Also, his cologne would gag a goat.

  “Hey, fantastic news,” the smooth young banker said. “I saw in the Herald today, our boys nuked a weapons depot near the Bocay. Eighteen Sandinistas wasted.”

  Sixto frowned. Our boys?

  “Hey, don’t look so excited,” Zacharias said.

  “My cousin says they’re eating rats in the hills,” Sixto remarked. “Rat stew, rat gumbo, rat burgers. The rebels, I’m talking about. Eating goddamn rats.”

  For once Zacharias looked uncomfortable. “Some of the supply planes are backed up in Honduras, the usual problems.” He patted his cordovan briefcase. “That’s one reason I’m here.”

  “You’re talking about real food?”

  “Meat, rice, veggies, you name it. Sitting in freezers at Tegucigalpa. Chicken McNuggets even.”

  Sixto said, “And you can get it out?”

  Zacharias pressed the button for the elevator. “Don’t I always?” he said, smiling.

  * * *

  Up in Cuervo’s penthouse, Zacharias said, “That guy’s got some chip on his shoulder.”

  “Who, Sixto?” Cuervo sipped a Bloody Mary. “He has relatives in the fighting.”

  Zacharias sat on a pale lavender sofa and opened the briefcase across his lap. “I heard he had something to do with the murder of that ABC guy, years back. I heard he did the shooting.”

  Cuervo’s brow crinkled. “I saw the footage. The soldier who did it was not so tall.” He brought the drink to his lips. “But, yes, Sixto was in the Guard at the time.”

  Not exactly a ringing denial. The way Cuervo figured, Zacharias was more efficient when he was worried.

  “Everybody’s got their hand out,” the banker began, “per the usual.” He spread the papers on the sofa.

  “Break it down for me,” Cuervo said.

  And Zacharias did.

  This time they’d started with nine hundred thousand, from the usual right-wing pipeline. The propane guy in Louisiana, the billionaire Bircher in Anaheim, the half-senile widow of a newspaper mogul in Cincinnati. Cuervo’s people had cute code names for all of them, Disney names—Huey, Louie, and Dewey. The Ducklings. Their che
cks were made out to a trust in Coral Gables; Zacharias’s bank, naturally. Officially, all the money was marked for humanitarian aid—food, clothes, antibiotics. Unofficially, some of it went for mortars and rifle parts, even in these final days. The CIA kept the shopping list, and the skim was heavy; brokers’ fees, that’s what they called it. Zacharias himself took one percent just for counting it.

  “Same as I charge the Colombians,” he told Cuervo, who looked as if he were about to complain but didn’t.

  “Things have tightened up since Hasenfus,” Zacharias said. When he talked about Hasenfus, he meant the whole Iran thing, from Secord to Hull to the Swiss. Even after it hit the fan, Cuervo had never paid much attention to the details. All he’d wanted to know was: How much was left? Same thing he wanted to know right now.

  “Four hundred fifty,” Zacharias said, “maybe.”

  “Half,” Cuervo said, almost to himself. He got up and filled his glass again. It would never occur to him to offer Zacharias a drink.

  “We’ve done worse,” the banker said. “Worse than half.”

  “But you see,” Cuervo said, “I’m the one who hears about it, not you. I’m the one they complain to, the big shot in Miami. The one who gets on television, the one with the fancy place on the ocean.”

  “You’re not the only one,” Zacharias said. “Surely they understand your importance—”

  “Not all of them do.”

  “And all the good you’ve done.” Zacharias waved the bank statement, the printout for the trust account. “Tell them to look for themselves—there’s money here. For Christ’s sakes, it could’ve all dried up after Hasenfus; it’s a blessed miracle it didn’t. I remember we had Huey and Louie looking at frigging Angola—talk about pissing up a rope!”

  “You don’t have to tell me,” Cuervo said evenly. “I’m the one who talked them out of it.”

  “Damn right,” said Zacharias, impassioned. “You’re the one said Wait, let it simmer. You’re the one said Africa’s hopeless, keep your money here.”

  “Nicaragua,” Cuervo said, “yes.”

  Zacharias got up and stalked to the refrigerator. He poured himself some Evian water and added three ice cubes. “Lemon?” he called to Cuervo.

  “We’re out,” Cuervo said. “Sixto’s going to the market later.”

  Zacharias came back with his drink and stood by the broad picture window, gazing down at the striped hues of the Atlantic. Sailboarders zigzagged through the shallow water while pretty girls in luminous swimsuits clapped on the beach.

  “The four-fifty,” said Cuervo, “is that before or after Honduras?”

  “Before. Figure another fifty to get the food out, seventy-five for the bang-bang. Don’t worry, I factored all this in for the Colonel.”

  The Colonel was an American, retired Army. He lived in Richmond, Virginia, with three poodles and a blond houseboy named Cleve. The Colonel’s cut was one-point-five on the weapons. The McNuggets he moved for free.

  Again, Cuervo seemed more interested in the bottom line. “Let me be sure I understand,” he said to Zacharias. “Out of nine hundred thousand dollars, only three hundred twenty-five is spent on the merchandise. The rest is—”

  “Overhead,” the banker said. “Expenses, if you like.”

  “That’s what’s so hard to explain.”

  “If the Ducklings don’t care, why should your people?”

  Cuervo chuckled grimly. “Because my people are the ones running out of bullets and food.”

  “This is a tough business,” said Zacharias. It was a line he used probably ten times a day.

  Sixto came into the apartment, dragging a tall cardboard box across the carpet. The box said NAUTILUS on the side. He nodded at his boss but scarcely glanced at Zacharias, standing by the ocean window.

  The banker said, “I was just telling the big man what a dynamite view he’s got. The ocean looks fabulous from up here.”

  “Yes,” Sixto said. “Sometime you should go for a swim.”

  * * *

  Vincent Pucci lived on the fourth floor, bayside. Only two bedrooms, but there was a Castro convertible for when his daughter brought the grandchildren. Pucci was supposed to be retired, but some things were hard to give up. Like making money. Pucci had been a mobster for so long, he couldn’t stop, even in his seventies. After moving to Florida, one of the first things he did was buy a video arcade, start raking quarters off the Pac-Man machines. Not exactly the major leagues, but it gave them something to talk about back in Philadelphia. The old bastard, still at it. Unbelievable. For Vincent Pucci, it was a matter of pride as much as anything. With his wife dead, how the hell else was he supposed to amuse himself?

  One day Pucci was down at the pool when Sixto and Cuervo arrived. Sixto was dressed in a black business suit, shoes as shiny as chrome. He was sweating so ferociously that his sunglasses had fogged from the inside. Cuervo wore baggy madras swim trunks and terry-cloth beach slippers; he took the slippers off and hid his Rolex inside one before easing into the pool with a sigh. Sixto sat down on a patio chair near Pucci, who leaned close and said, “Your piece is showing.”

  Sixto glanced down at his hip. The old geezer was right: his coat had ridden up around the black butt of the Browning. Sixto adjusted it and said, “Thanks.”

  “I used to have me a guy like you,” explained Pucci. “Back in Philly. Only he was nowhere as big.”

  Cuervo was starting his laps. He wore Speedo goggles, which pinched his cheeks into purple seams. The pool water matted his white hair into choppy bangs along his forehead.

  Pucci said, “I seen him before on television, am I right? Nightline, I think it was last week.”

  “Maybe so,” Sixto said.

  “He’s one of them contras. One of them freedom fighters.” Pucci sat up and reached for his Coppertone sunblock, number 18. He introduced himself to Sixto but didn’t offer his hand, didn’t want to get the suntan goop all over.

  “I seen you, too,” said Pucci. “Around.” Now Cuervo was trying out his backstroke. It didn’t look nearly so clumsy when he did it in the ocean. Sixto figured the waves made a difference; there were no waves to ride in a swimming pool.

  “I’m a businessman,” Pucci said. “My whole life.”

  “What business?” asked Sixto. The guy had some balls, talking to a stranger with a gun in his pants. Sixto was amused.

  “All kinds of business,” Pucci replied. “You name it, I did it. Only don’t tell the IRS. Far as they know, I’m still just a greengrocer. Retired.”

  Sixto smiled appreciatively.

  “Million ways to make money in this town, even a man my age,” Pucci said. “Chickens, for instance. Not food chickens, but religious chickens. See, there’s this Cuban voodoo religion where they cut up chickens for their gods.”

  “Santeria,” said Sixto.

  “Whatever. Anyway, they got churches and statues and everything, but what they don’t got is a good line on live chickens. See, the chickens gotta be alive.”

  Sixto said, “Yes, I understand.”

  “Well, that’s where I come in. I know a guy who knows a guy, and so on. These church people used to pay five, six bucks a chicken. Now I got ’em a deal where they pay three-fifty. Truck comes down from Waycross, Georgia, delivers a hundred a week. I get a dollar a bird, the Cuban voodoos save six bits, and everybody’s happy. That’s business, am I right?”

  Sixto nodded. He knew nothing about the true market value of chickens, but this Vincent fellow seemed very interesting. Sixto asked what was the difference, flavorwise, between a food chicken and a Santeria chicken. Pucci said no difference, as far as he knew. “Maybe ask the priests,” he said. “I mean, these voodoos got their own actual priests. Father Babaloo, names likes that. No joke.”

  Sixto said, “Your people in Georgia—what other places do they ship these chickens?”

  Pucci laughed and stroked the naked pink spot on the crown of his head. “Anywhere I say. They got airplanes, too, not just
trucks.”

  “Nicaragua?”

  “Sure.”

  “The hills, I mean.”

  Pucci nodded. “No sweat, my friend.”

  “How soon could you do such a thing?” Sixto had completely forgotten about Cuervo, dog-paddling a course between three shrieking toddlers in water wings.

  “Friday,” said Pucci, matter-of-factly. “Tell me how many.”

  “Seven hundred,” said Sixto. “Tell me the price.”

  “Aw, later,” Pucci said. “The first batch, I’ll front you.”

  Sixto wondered what the old man’s angle was, but he couldn’t help but like him. “You would do that, front me these chickens?”

  “The first load, you bet.”

  Vincent Pucci stuck out his stubby brown hand and Cuervo’s bodyguard shook it, suntan goop and all.

  * * *

  Two weeks later, with the war grinding down, Sixto’s cousin crossed into Honduras and caught a flight to Miami International. The cousin’s name was Elena. She was nineteen, and had been with the rebels three years. The first thing she said to Sixto when she hugged him outside Customs was: “Those chickens saved our lives.”

  “So they arrived!” Sixto was incredulous. The old gangster had done practically overnight what the Colonel and all the spooks and shysters couldn’t do in two months: deliver decent food to starving soldiers. And he had done it cheaper, asking pittance for a commission. Sixto said nothing more about it in the car, but he was thinking cold thoughts. As he dropped his cousin at a trailer park in Sweetwater, he noticed how gaunt she was, and he noticed the scarlet insect bites on her arms and neck. Some of these would turn into scars, and this gave Sixto a feeling of anger.

  Cuervo was huffing on the Nautilus machine when Sixto arrived at the penthouse on Key Biscayne.

  “Can you … call … for … a barber,” Cuervo said, not in the form of a question.

  Curtly, Sixto said, “What for?”

  “Brokaw … show,” Cuervo panted. “Remote feed … live.”

  “When?”

  “Tonight.”