Justified Malice

PROLOGUEAs instructed, Mateo walked into the bustling café on Calle San Rafael, Havana. The salsa music and laughter emanating from the jam-packed clubs he passed did little to calm his nerves. His assignment was to wait until after dark, pick up a package at the café, and deliver it, undetected, to El Jefe. The thought of meeting the new, and often brutal, crime boss had Mateo’s brow dripping with sweat. Once he had the package in hand, Mateo drove along Havana Bay toward the residential Miramar neighborhood. The full moon’s reflection in the calm sea added an eerie backdrop to his drive. He pulled into the Quinta Avenida Habana Hotel parking lot at 10:00 p.m., parked his car, and set off on foot down several dimly lit streets to his real destination, a modest casita across the road from Monte Barreto Ecological Park. As he approached the casita, the thought of meeting El Jefe was so intimidating that his hands were trembling, loosening his grip just enough for him to drop the package. The possibility that he may have damaged the contents of the box absolutely terrified him. El Jefe was rumored to be ruthless and unforgiving. He would not take kindly to such a misstep, nor would his associates in Mexico who had sent the package. When he reached the casita, Mateo had to take a moment to calm himself down before he knocked on the door. The door opened and a huge man with a pistol tucked into his belt appeared. “Stay here!” the man demanded in Spanish and grabbed the box. Mateo watched with trepidation as the man delivered the box to a well-dressed man seated at the kitchen table. Mateo was sure that man was El Jefe. The man ripped open the box, revealing a cell phone; several stacks of what appeared to be American dollars; and some documents, one of which looked like a passport. After he reviewed the contents of the box, El Jefe smiled, which also made Mateo smile. El Jefe rose and walked toward Mateo. “Do you speak English?” he asked. “Sí, señor. A little,” Mateo answered, still trembling a bit. “You were not followed.” El Jefe’s glare showed it was more of a statement than a question. “No. I’m sure of it.” Mateo had taken great pains to ensure he had arrived undetected. “Good. Here are 1,000 Cuban pesos for a job well done. Make sure no one sees you when you leave,” El Jefe said, and motioned for Mateo to go. “Sí, señor. Gracias,” Mateo replied as he made a hasty retreat. He had literally dodged a bullet.