Cuba Straits (Doc Ford, 19, Band 19) - Hardcover

White, Randy Wayne

Hardcover

ISBN 10: 0399158146 ISBN 13: 9780399158148

Verlag: PENGUIN GROUP, 2015

Inhaltsangabe

The remarkable new novel in the Doc Ford series by New York Times–bestselling author Randy Wayne White.

Doc Ford’s old friend, General Juan Garcia, has gone into the lucrative business of smuggling Cuban baseball players into the U.S. He is also feasting on profits made by buying historical treasures for pennies on the dollar. He prefers what dealers call HPC items—high-profile collectibles—but when he manages to obtain a collection of letters written by Fidel Castro between 1960–62 to a secret girlfriend, it’s not a matter of money anymore. Garcia has stumbled way out of his depth.

First Garcia disappears, and then the man to whom he sold the letters. When Doc Ford begins to investigate, he soon becomes convinced that those letters contain a secret that someone, or some powerful agency, cannot allow to be made public.

A lot happened between Cuba and the United States from 1960–62. Many men died. A few more will hardly be noticed.

Über diesen Titel

Über die Autorinnen und Autoren

Randy Wayne White is the author of twenty-one previous Doc Ford novels; the Hannah Smith novels Gone, Deceived, and Haunted; and four collections of nonfiction. He lives on Sanibel Island, Florida, where he was a light-tackle fishing guide for many years.

Randy Wayne White is the author of twenty-one previous Doc Ford novels; the Hannah Smith novelsGone, Deceived, and Haunted; and four collections of nonfiction. He lives on Sanibel Island, Florida, where he was a light-tackle fishing guide for many years.

Auszug. © Genehmigter Nachdruck. Alle Rechte vorbehalten.

1
At sunrise in November, Marion D. Ford, wearing shorts
and jungle boots, jogged the tide line where Sanibel Island
crescents north, and finally said, “Screw it,” tired of wind
and pelting sand. To his right were colorful cottages—red, yellow,
green—The Castaways, a popular resort during season, but this was
Tuesday and a slow time of year. He went to the outdoor shower,
thinking he’d hide his boots and swim through the breakers. He
was ten pounds overweight and sick of his own excuses.

A porch door opened: a woman backlit by clouds of cinnamon,
the sun up but not hot enough to burn through. “Want some coffee?”
She cupped her hands to be heard. “Your dog’s welcome, if he’s sociable.”

No idea who the woman was. Wearing a sweatshirt, with an
articulate, strong voice that suggested Midwestern genetics: a descendant
of dairymaids good at sports and baking pies. Late thirties, a
rental compact in the drive, only one pair of sandals outside the door:
a woman on a budget vacationing alone.

Ford said, “Can’t. I’m punishing myself.”

The woman replied, “You, too?” and walked toward him, started
to speak but stopped, got up on her toes, focusing on something
out there in the waves. “What in the world . . . is that someone drowning?”

Beyond the sandbar, Ford saw what might have been a barrel
but one thrashing appendage told him was not. He removed his
glasses. “A loggerhead, I think. This isn’t mating season, so it must
be hurt.”

“Logger-what?”

“A sea turtle.” Ford handed her his glasses, jogged to the breakers,
and duck-dived, still wearing his damn boots. The dog, which was a
retriever but not a Lab or golden, swam after him. That was a mistake, too.

The turtle, barnacles on its back, was tangled in fishing line, and,
yes, drowning. Ford had to alternately battle his dog, then the turtle,
which hissed and struck like a snake while he maneuvered the thing
through waves into the shallows. The woman was impressed. “You
seem to know what you’re doing.”

“On rare occasions. Do you have a knife?”
“You’re not going to . . . ?”
“Of course not.”

The woman galloped to the cottage, her sweatshirt bouncing in
counter-synch, legs not long but solid. Nice. She watched Ford cut the
turtle free, inspect it for cuts, then nurse the animal back through the
surf, where he side-stroked alongside for a while.
 
The woman was waiting with a towel, coffee in a mug, and water for the dog.

“Why not come inside and dry off? Or a hot shower, if you like,
but you’ll have to forgive the mess.” The look the woman gave him
was unmistakable—not that Ford often got that look from women
he didn’t know. “Three mornings straight I’ve watched you run past
here,”—an awkward smile—“so I finally worked up the nerve. Is
it always this windy in November?”

Ford cleaned his glasses with the towel. “Nerve?”

“Old-fashioned, I guess. You know, speaking to strange men and
all that.” Another look, eyes aware, before she added, “I’m here all alone.”

Ford tested several excuses before he followed the woman inside.
He was thinking, Why do the lonely ones choose islands?

That night in Fort Myers. off Daniels Road, he was at Hammond
Stadium, where the Minnesota Twins train, one of the practice
fields, listening to his friend Tomlinson ramble on about something,
but not really listening.

“Which is why,” his friend concluded, “I won’t even watch a game
on TV without wearing the ol’ codpiece.”

Mentioning fish got Ford’s attention. “You caught a cod? They
don’t migrate this far south.”

“No, man—my cup. Until a woman finds an expiration date on
my dick, I simply will not risk the Hat Trick Twins.” Tomlinson
rapped three bell tones from between his legs to illustrate, which
proved nothing, because they were sitting in a dugout, under lights, 
wearing baseball uniforms, not in a bar watching TV. On the field
was a Senior League team from Orlando, a left-hander warming
up while the umpires kibitzed, game time stalled for no apparent
reason.
 
Tomlinson muttered, “Geezus, what’s the holdup?” He grabbed
the fence, yelled, “Hey, blue—while we’re still young, okay?” before
returning to Ford. “You seem distracted, ol’ buddy. Romantic problems
or is it something unusual?”

Ford replied, “This morning I found a turtle tangled in fishing
line—one of those crimped wire leaders tourists buy at Walgreens. I
assumed it was a loggerhead because they’re so common. Now I don’t
think so.”

“Was it dead? Goddamn pharmaceutical companies. They’d sell
Pop-Tarts to diabetics if it bumped their numbers.”

“The turtle was only about fifty pounds but already had barnacles
growing. See what I’m getting at? Even a young loggerhead or
hawksbill would be closer to a hundred. Or maybe I’m wrong about
that, too. I had him in my hands but didn’t bother to notice details.
Embarrassing, how little I know about sea turtles. Wouldn’t you expect
a biologist to notice what the hell species it was?”

Tomlinson knew the pitcher from Orlando or would not have
yelled, “Joe . . . Hey, Joey—put some color in that rainbow. Slow-pitch
is for commies, dude.” This ultra-left-wing Zen Buddhist priest (he’d
been ordained in Japan) and dope-smoking boat bum was a different
person when he exited reality and entered a baseball field.

Joey flipped Tomlinson the bird.

Ford mused, “Now I’m thinking it might have been a Kemp’s
Ridley turtle, or even a Pacific Ridley. Two of the rarest in the
world—the thing snapped at me like a dog, which is typical according
to the literature. And its shell was too round. Had it right there in
my hands; swam with it and still didn’t dawn on me. If that’s not a
metaphor for something, I don’t know what the hell is.”

Ford hunched forward and retied his spikes, Tomlinson saying, “I
should’ve never gotten rid of my old Kangaroos. These new Mizunos
pinch my toe rings. I hate that.” Then hollered through the screen,
“Oh great, now I’ve got to piss again. Guys . . . I have a Masonic meeting
tomorrow. Any chance we’ll be done?’”

Ford sat up. “Know what’s odd? Two days ago, I was reading
about sightings of Pacific Ridleys in the Cuba Straits. I just remembered.
Olive Ridleys, actually, but they’re the same thing. A few nests
documented along this coast, too. Even north of Sarasota.”

Tomlinson reverted to his role as Zen master. “Nothing accidental
about coincidence, Doc. Hey—just listen, for once. You’re being
nudged toward something. Or away. Or into a new avenue of study.
Karma seldom grabs a rational man by the balls.”

“I didn’t say it was a coincidence.”
“Oh?”
“Not the Cuba part.” Ford checked the bleachers—only a couple
of wives in attendance—then found the main field, where stadium
lights created a silver dome. Minnesota’s minor league team, the Miracle,
was playing St. Pete,...

Details zur Ausgabe

• Verlag: PENGUIN GROUP
• Erscheinungsdatum: 2015
• Sprache: Englisch
• ISBN 10: 0399158146
• ISBN 13: 9780399158148
• Einband: Gebundene Ausgabe
• Anzahl der Seiten: 336
• Kontakt zum Hersteller: Nicht verfügbar
• Verantwortliche Person: Nicht verfügbar