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    Sour Life
    Sour Life
    Sour Life
    Ebook299 pages4 hours

    Sour Life

    By Pablo Zaragoza

    ()

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    About this ebook

    A Cuban family patriarch, late in life, narrates Sour Life, historical fiction surrounding his family's fight to preserve democracy in that Caribbean island nation; their ultimate loss of their beloved homeland and emigration to the United States; his service as a Green Beret in the Vietnam War; and subsequent medical service in Afghanistan and Pakistan. Underlying these efforts is his struggle to thwart drug trafficking and find the CIA killer of his Laotian wife and unborn child.

     

    Revisionist history dominates the first section on Cuba and takes the reader around the world as the patriarch fulfills his mission to deliver healthcare and hunt the killer, ultimately ending in war-torn Nicaragua, where he exacts his revenge. He descends into one careless delivery of drugs and lands in federal prison on a five-year sentence. That section departs from fiction and gives an eye-opening inside look at the problems in the U.S. criminal justice system, as does his re-entry first through a halfway house and then back into the real world where he again struggles to find his rightful place and restore relationships with his family. From beginning to end, Sour Life is touching, well-balanced historical fiction, filled with romance and revenge, drama and determination: a real page-turner.

    LanguageEnglish
    PublisherPablo Zaragoza
    Release dateMar 26, 2021
    ISBN9781393188865
    Sour Life

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      Book preview

      Sour Life - Pablo Zaragoza

      SOUR LIFE

      Pablo Omar Zaragoza

      Susan Giffin, Co-Author

      To my family—my children, father, mother, brother, uncles, and

      cousins—whose stories inspire me to write

      Pablo Omar Zaragoza

      To my parents, my brother, sister, cousins, niece, and extended

      family for their support and encouragement

      Susan Giffin

      Table of Contents

      Title Page

      PROLOGUE

      CHAPTER ONE

      CHAPTER TWO

      CHAPTER THREE

      CHAPTER FOUR

      CHAPTER FIVE

      CHAPTER SIX

      CHAPTER SEVEN

      CHAPTER EIGHT

      CHAPTER NINE

      CHAPTER TEN

      CHAPTER ELEVEN

      CHAPTER TWELVE

      CHAPTER THIRTEEN

      CHAPTER FOURTEEN

      CHAPTER FIFTEEN

      CHAPTER SIXTEEN

      CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

      CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

      CHAPTER NINETEEN

      CHAPTER TWENTY

      CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

      CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

      CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

      CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

      CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

      CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

      CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

      CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

      CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

      CHAPTER THIRTY

      CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

      CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO

      CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE

      CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR

      CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE

      CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX

      CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN

      CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT

      CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE

      CHAPTER FORTY

      CHAPTER FORTY-ONE

      CHAPTER FORTY-TWO

      CHAPTER FORTY-THREE

      CHAPTER FORTY-FOUR

      CHAPTER FORTY-FIVE

      ABOUT THE AUTHOR

      ALSO BY PABLO ZARAGOZA

      COPYRIGHT

      PROLOGUE

      I’m an old man. Looking forward, the light is brighter than it is behind me. I’ve spent a lot of time on this planet, and I don’t know if I’ve done anything that’s worthwhile. Oh, I’ve been places and done a lot of stuff, but did it do any good? I know I had fun, but did it do any good?

      Why, after all this time, do I want to tell you? Because I don’t want you to waste your life. I want your life to be better than memories of whorehouses, drugs, guns, and bodies. I am not proud of any of it, but I did some of it for country. A lot I did because I wanted to make money and have a good time. No noble cause—saving democracy, spreading Christian values, improving the lives of the people. That’s all the horseshit the army feeds the young recruits as they come into boot camp—brainwash ‘em and send ‘em out into the dark to do the dirty work of guys in suits who don’t even know their names. Sometimes they pin medals on black body bags, as if the dead needed medals, and give flags to the living, as if they fill the holes left by their loved ones who aren’t here anymore. Those are the lucky ones—the dead. We the living carry the scars, hurt, and stink of death with us each day and wonder why we’re not in a hole somewhere.

      Why did I choose to write this down? Because you came into the world, and before anyone tells you anything about me, I wanted to tell you. I wanted to give you all the details of your grandfather’s life and how he roamed the world and did the things he did. If you’ve got some time, this is going to take awhile. You don’t just talk about sixty-eight years of life in a second, although your great uncle Ed would say he didn’t do anything wrong because he was a revolutionary, and in revolution, anything is allowed. I don’t know if anything and everything is allowed in revolution but he did.

      I’ll tell you about him and your great grandfather and then me because I’m the product of them. I was brought up on the stories and whispers of what they’d done, and I wanted to be just like them. Funny how it never turns out to be that way, funny.

      CHAPTER ONE

      Despite what you’ve heard, your grandfather was born in Cuba. That’s an island ninety miles from Key West, south of Miami. Life was fair in the 1950s. No, dinosaurs didn’t roam the earth, and covered wagons weren’t around, either.

      Your great grandfather was a quiet man, really quiet. Now and then, you’d get a story out of your great grandmother, but he and his brother didn’t say much. He had come over to the United States in 1958 because of the troubles on the island, because he was involved. You see, he and his brother were part of an organization called ABC. These were three-member revolutionary cells; a fourth member would know one member of another cell but never all the members. So, if he were captured, he would know only one member. He was known as the postman and his brother, the pharmacist. Not because of the professions that they had chosen but for the special work they did.

      The pharmacist, my Uncle Rick, was a bomb-making expert, and he’d been doing it way before Batista’s coup that overthrew the legitimate government. He’d done it in the 1920s and 1930s against Machado. His younger brother saw him as a superman. He bombed police stations and communication centers, and he’d faced a firing squad. I remember hearing that story for the first time.

      He stood there in front of the gun. Many men were lined up and ready to die for what they believed was the injustice of the dictator Machado. They sang the national anthem. I’ll sing it in Spanish and in English, so you will understand, but it has a greater feeling when sung in its intended language:

      Run to battle, people of Bayamo!

      For the motherland looks proudly to you;

      Do not fear a glorious death,

      For to die for the motherland is to live.

      En cadenas vivir es vivir

      En afrenta y oprobio sumidos,

      Del clarín escuchad el sonido;

      ¡A las armas, valientes, corred!

      Living in chains is to live

      Mired in shame and disgrace,

      Hear the sound of the bugle;

      Run, brave ones, to battle!

      Third stanza (excluded)

      No temáis; los feroces íberos

      Son cobardes cual todo tirano

      No resisten al bravo cubano;

      Para siempre su imperio cayó.

      Fear not the fierce Iberian

      They are cowards as is every tyrant

      They cannot oppose spirited Cubans

      Their empire has forever fallen.

      Fourth stanza (excluded)

      ¡Cuba libre! Ya España murió,

      Su poder y su orgullo ¿do es ido?

      Del clarín escuchad el sonido

      ¡A las armas, valientes, corred!

      Free Cuba! Spain has already died,

      Their power and pride, where did it go?

      Hear the sound of the bugle

      Run, brave ones, to battle!

      After the Gatling gun mowed down his student compatriots, it faced Rick. He stood tall in the morning sunrise. His black hair waved in the light breeze, and as the gun turned to him, it jammed. Guards led him away to wait until they fixed the gun or found an alternative. Neither one happened because, in the interlude, he plotted with those in his cell and started a prison riot. They took control of the prison, and the prisoners escaped, fleeing into the hills. Uncle Rick went into exile in New York where he met some interesting people. These people started to listen about the tropical paradise ninety miles from Key West.

      In those days, a ferry boat would take you from Key West to the Bay of Havana for a couple of dollars. Sailors and soldiers had known about the relaxed atmosphere of the people, gambling, and prostitution that the island had. Uncle Rick’s friends were very interested. They had names like Lucky, Santos, and Meyer, and they were willing to put up good money to have a piece of the action.

      When Lucky Luciano held his Havana meeting and said that this was the place where no government was going to stop their business, he’d learned that from the pharmacist. The family did well in those days. They held contracts to import all the beef, liquor, and goods the mob needed for their hotels and casinos. The mob was pro-American. Nothing was bought in the country because even with the duties and taxes, they still got a better deal by importing it. Tio, as we called him, and el desbanado, the uncombed, made sure that they got through customs one way or another. That’s about the time that my father was coming of age, and that’s how he got introduced to the business.

      That’s where my father—your great grandfather—comes into the picture. You see he’s the youngest of twelve children, and he was a troublemaker. The only person he didn’t make trouble for was his brother Rick. His mother had been widowed while he was still inside her womb. He never knew any father except his older brother. So, it was not the love they shared between two brothers but that of father and son.

      My father would and did do whatever his brother asked. He’d not been a saint during his teen years. A rare story would come out as he remembered with friends about stealing cars, taking money from the Chinese grocer, and not going to school. He’d been given a chance to go to New York to play in the show, The Majores, but my grandmother would not hear of it.

      I guess to make sure he didn’t wind up in prison, she made Tio take him under his wing. In the time that he started working for his brother, my father was immersed in the politics of his age because his brother was deeply political. There are men who are on the fringes of history who facilitate events without their fingerprints on them. That was my father and his brother. They worked tirelessly for Ramon Grau, a liberal leader of the Auténtico Party. He initially became the chairman of the Constitutional Assembly in 1939, but Fulgencido Batista outmaneuvered him. You see, Grau wanted the breakup of the propertied oligarchies which had kept the landless peasants, guajerro, under their thumbs since before the war of independence. In spite of all the money and power that was behind them, the Conservative Party, with their puppet Carlos Marquez Sterling, created a progressive constitution, a shining example for the Americas. Understand this: Your family helped to create that.

      Sugar was at an all-time high, thanks to the war. We joined the winning side, and after the war, prosperity was going our way. People visiting the island rode the ferry, hopped on a plane, came by steamer. Hell, you could go to the Floridita and have a drink with Ernest Hemingway any day of the week. He never had to buy one because there was always somebody who’d set them up for him.

      Business was good. People had money in Havana, but away from the city, there was poverty. The dirt floors, the illiterates, the barefoot, the hungry—they were part of it all, but the tourists didn’t have to see them. The country was green with sugar cane, tobacco, beans, and rice; there was an abundance of cattle, pigs, and chickens to feed us and a good part of the world. Of course, there was corruption.

      Corruption in Latin America is as old as the Spanish colonization. The viceroy would hold the king’s decree over his head and say, I recognize but I do not comply, and with that, he was absolved. So when the government changed hands, a minister would go to his private bank—the national treasury—and take whatever cash he wanted. In the center of the capital building, according to my father, that was spectacular.

      ***

      Grandfather, are you tired? my grandson asked kindly. Maybe he was tired.

      "Yo cansado, me tired? I could go on." Then I gave a deep sigh. The oxygen mask wasn’t giving me enough of what I needed.

      I can come back tomorrow.

      You haven’t taken any notes.

      I’ve had the camera on you the whole time, and I have enough memory to last several days.

      This is the only record that you, your children, and your children’s children will have of where you come from, who you are, and why we are built this way.

      I know, Grandfather.

      I’ve done some good and some not so good things and so have others that make up your family.

      I know.

      When will you be back?

      Tomorrow about noon.

      He packed up his camera and came over and kissed me on the forehead. He reminds me of his grandmother. How much I miss her, especially now. These tubes, these monitors! Why won’t they just let me die? Well, maybe not until after I get the story out. I don’t know if there is anything after this, but the dead do come and say hello, especially at night when the nurses are in the breakroom half asleep, sipping on a Diet Coke, waiting for a good-looking doctor to come by and make them feel alive. I’ll close my eyes. I won’t have the cold chicken and mashed potatoes they’ll serve tonight. I’d rather sleep. Sleep.

      CHAPTER TWO

      You’ve never beeen to Cuba, have you? I asked my grandson as he came through the door.

      The nurse was there to adjust something, making sure that they changed my catheter bag, that I hadn’t soiled myself. I wanted to tell her that I’m ill but not so ill that I can’t go to the shitter when I need to go.

      Grandfather, you know that no one has ever been to Cuba except you, and you left when you were three years old.

      Yes, but if you ever wanted to go, I guess you could.

      Why couldn’t I?

      All of the people who would have had a grudge with our family are long dead. The Castro brothers are gone, and the revolution is a dead horse. So if you want to, you should go.

      How about you? Would you go with me?

      Let me get a little better and we’ll see.

      "Okay, viejo (old man)."

      Is that all the Spanish your father has taught you?

      No, but most of it are curse words he says he learned from you.

      He’s probably right. Now where did we leave off?

      The capital.

      ***

      You mean El Capitolio. It’s now some kind of museum, but it was once the site of the Cuban Legislature. You went up fifty-five steps leading to the entrance, La Escalinata. On the left was El Trabajador, the Worker, and on the right, La Virtud Tutelar, the Virtuous Tutor. As you enter the portico, the cupola was 118 feet high, and in the center was the statue of the Republica. Zanelli used a mulatto woman, Lily Valty, as his model, a gorgeous woman. The statue was as tall as our ambition, and he left an extra, another eight feet. She was made of bronze and covered in 22-carat gold leaf. At her feet was a 25-carat 5-gram diamond, said to have belonged to Tzar Nicholas II.

      You ask yourself why I bring this up. I’ll tell you. On March 25, 1946, the patrimony of the country disappeared, and on June 2, it reappeared, on the president’s desk. No one knows exactly what happened, except there are rumors and stories. I’ll tell you the truth. It was on the news that March day, and my uncle, upon hearing it, asked my father to drive him to the president’s dispatch. Now if you were a somebody, you had easy access to the president, and Tio was a somebody. He came into the president’s office in his white short sleeve shirt, unruly hair, and black mustache, and he looked the president in the eye. He asked him point blank, Did you take it?

      Ramon Grau de San Martin was an intellectual, not a politician. He was confused by the question, Did I take what?

      Tio said, The diamond.

      Grau answered, No, and I’ve received no ransom note, nothing in order to recuperate it.

      Don’t worry. I’ll look into it, Tio said.

      Well, any other citizen the president would have dismissed as a crazy man and sent him on his way, but Uncle Rick had friends. One friend that he and my father went to see was Roithman, a real Roithman, not the fake kind you see in Godfather II. Roithman was under the orders of the Capo di tutti capi Santos Trafficante, and if they didn’t know what was shaking, the earth opened up and ate the damn thing.

      They went that night to his club, the Sans Souci, a Moroccan place with gambling upstairs. My father had told me that Roithman had been involved in the great Canadian train robbery. Historically, Billy Miller in 1904 stole seven thousand BC from the Northern Pacific, but Roithman outdid him by stealing, several years later, money and money orders worth considerably more. He’d been hiding in Cuba, avoiding the law, and since no one asked, no one cared.

      The place was a sultan’s palace with a garden and fountain on the inside. The porcelain fountain was embellished with blue and gold designs. There were fish in the artificial pond surrounding the fountain and an orchestra playing a mixture of Latin and American music. My father and Tio walked toward Roithman, an impressive six-foot three-inch, muscular man who was starting to go bald.

      Roithman outstretched his hand, Rick, it’s always a pleasure.

      Tio responded, Likewise, this is my brother.

      Roithman was always cordial, but he knew why we were there. You’ve come about the diamond?

      Tio said, That’s right. What do you hear?

      Roithman replied, It was a deputy who jacked it. He’s got himself a woman in the old part of town. You know, a paid woman. Some of these guys don’t understand that if it’s paid for it, it ain’t love. Yet what is marriage but a lease?

      Where? Tio asked.

      Roithman wrote down the address, and the two men headed out. They reached the place at two in the morning. My father stood outside, in case a nosy cop or citizen wanted to snoop into their business. The story goes like this: Tio bounded up several flights of stairs in a building that had been constructed in colonial times. The paint was chipped, the light fixtures were frayed, and, he told my father, mice were eating their midnight snack as he went up to the third floor. He knocked on the door and heard the man tell the woman not to say anything.

      Tio said, I hear you! as he busted down the door. The mulatto screamed bloody murder and went after Tio, desperately trying to scratch his eyes out. My father rushed up there to help. He grabbed the woman and pulled her off Tio. The man, who was struggling to put his pants on to leave, stumbled and fell on his face. Tio put his right foot on the man’s neck and pressed hard.

      Where is it, Maximo? Where is it!

      Maximo, barely able to speak, said, I don’t know what your talking about.

      The balcony was open. Tio bent over, and, grabbing the man by the shirt collar, dragged him to the balcony. He picked the man up and grabbed his ankles.

      Maximo, the drop may not kill you, but I’ll make sure you never walk again.

      Maximo saw murder in Tio’s eyes and gave up his prize. Maximo and his woman were never seen in Havana again. My father says they took the ferry that night and left the island. I couldn’t tell you where they ended up.

      The next day was June 2, 1946. On the president’s desk, there mysteriously appeared the diamond. How it got there only two men knew. The night before, they had broken into the presidental palace while everyone was asleep, including the guards, and placed it on his desk with a note. I wasn’t here. The person responsible will never touch Cuban soil again: your friend Rick.

      ***

      The alarm on the monitor went off and the nurse flew in to see what was happening. She looked at the lines and made sure I was okay.

      She glanced at my grandson. I think he could use some rest.

      I protested, but in the end who is going to listen to me? I’ve lost my influence in the world. I told my grandson that we would pick it up again tomorrow. He smiled and said okay. I turned on the television to Judge Judy, Cops, and something about who could sing better, and in the midst of all that, I fell asleep.

      CHAPTER THREE

      I woke up groggy, you know, that dumbed-up feeling. Well, if you’ve done downers, you know what I mean. There were these faces around me, concerned and detached at the same time. These faces had bodies, all of them wore white coats and had black, blue or pink stethoscopes around their necks. Why do these people come into my room? Can’t a man die in peace?

      Good morning, Mr. Materson. How are you this morning?

      My name is Melendez! Who the hell is this Materson guy?

      The rattled doctor looked at his papers and found my name. I’m so sorry, Mr. Melendez. How are we feeling today?

      I don’t how we are feeling, but I feel like shit, I said in the most sarcastic tone I could find.

      Any chest pains, shortness of breath, cramps, anything?

      No, just the same aches and pains I had yesterday and the day before. By the way, who the hell are you and who are all these sad, pathetic-looking people in my room?

      I’m Doctor Bell, and these are my students. We’re here to review your case and find the best course of treatment.

      Oh, really? All this brain power just for me? How flattering.

      Well, your case is problematic...

      Tell me what in life isn’t?

      Well, you have this area on your chest X-ray which is a concern and...

      So, you see a tumor, and you want a piece to be able to analyze it before you tell me it’s inoperable and I have less than a year to live?

      Well, we don’t know what it is, and you may have much longer than that, especially with the new immunogicals that are in use today.

      Doc, don’t bullshit a bullshitter. A day, a month, a year is no big thing with me. I’m ready to meet my maker, and I know where He’s going to send my sorry ass.

      Mr. Melendez, it may be considerably more than a month or a year, but we will need to have your consent to get the ball rolling and place you on a treatment protocol.

      Sure, Doc, whatever floats your boat, just...

      Then, as I was about to tell them that they could take their drugs and put it up their collective ass, I saw my grandson. A tear rolled down his cheek, and I held back and told the doctor that I’d sign the necessary papers to start the protocol.

      They piled out of my room, and my grandson entered. He looked at me. You will take the treatment, won’t you?

      Sure, as long as my pecker isn’t affected, I’ll take the treatment. Now where were we?

      I took a deep breath, and he turned on the camera.

      ***

      Okay, let’s move forward to 1948, the last free and fair election the Cuban people ever had. He was a cordial man, Carlos Prio Socarras, fundamentally even a good man, but the legacy of corruption and party fighting became accentuated under his government. What we see here in the good old USA is kid stuff compared to what these people did to each other and sometimes to themselves: shootings and bombings between political factions weren’t uncommon.

      Eduardo Chibas was a politician of a different kind who denounced people on his weekly radio program on CMQ radio station. He went after corruption, gangsterism, and the fraud that the government and political parties were doing. He found out that the Minister of Education, Aurelio Sanchez Arango, was responsible, and he told his radio audience that he had evidence to support his claim. The person who had the evidence never came forward, so what does this sick bastard do? He shoots himself on national radio! Chibas does such a bad

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