The Consummata Read Free

man with but one name. Morgan the Raider, the militia keep calling you. A pirate for our day. But we do not reveal what we know of you in front of the intruders. We think that is more wise.”
    Being known at all was something I wanted no part of. Why did a bunch of Cuban exiles know who the hell I was? There were too many possibilities, none of them good.
    I said, “Why should you know me, Pedro? I’ve kind ofmade a point of staying under the radar. Only cops and crooks know who I am...or anyway, that’s what I thought.”
    “It is more a matter of knowing of you, Señor Morgan. Until now, none of us have had the pleasure of meeting you. But we are glad to do so now.”
    “Why?”
    He caught the look in my eyes and smiled again. “Some months ago you did our neighboring country, Nuevo Cadiz, a great service. There you have become a legend. They sing of you in the cantinas, they write your name on the wall.”
    “Not restroom walls, I hope.”
    He didn’t get the joke and seemed momentarily dismayed. “No, no, you are a hero in that country!”
    I had to smirk. “Probably not to everybody.”
    “This is true, Señor Morgan. To certain people connected with the former corrupt government, to mention your name to them is to make them ill in the stomach, no? They talk of you in Cuba, too, where the people hope and dream that perhaps one day you might honor them with your presence, your talents, and give those thieves in control...” He paused and spat on the floor with vehemence. “...the taste of death they deserve.”
    “I have no business in Cuba, amigo .”
    His head nodded in sad agreement. “A man’s business is his own. His choices are his to make. We all know this.”
    “Good.”
    “But, señor , to Cubans, you are still a symbol. Someone to be admired, even to be...imitated. A great hero makes small heroes out of others, and enough small heroes can be...”
    “An army of revolution?”
    “Yes. And those heroes, they will arise when the time comes.”
    I tried to make sure my smile didn’t seem patronizing. I owed this guy, and his people.
    “Friend,” I said, “you’re talking to a man with a price on his head and the police at his back. I’m about as helpful to you right now as a rabid dog. If the federales knew what you did for me? Hell, they’d slap you in the pen so fast your eyes would cross.”
    His smile blossomed again, but melancholy now. “Ah, again true. But the people who helped you, who look up to you, they do not care. They brush up against a real hero, and they help this hero, and they feel good about themselves and each other.”
    “Yeah, well, whatever works for them.” I swallowed more beer. “How did you work it, Pedro?”
    Navarro’s shrug was a masterpiece of understatement. “Heroes are recognized...by police and populace alike. There was one of our people...he was in Nuevo Cadiz, when you staged your small revolution, señor , and when he saw you on the street here he recognized you...knew you at once.”
    “A break for me.”
    “And he saw those who followed you, too, and when you headed our way, we were called...and called to action . In just a few minutes, several things were planned for coming to your assistance.”
    I let out a little laugh. They sure had done a great job on the fly like that.
    “You see, we are good Americans, Señor Morgan, but we know that police, those with badges, don’t always work for... what is the phrase? The public interest. And American or not, we are still Cubans. And the hero of Nuevo Cadiz, well ...we have more loyalty to him than to any militia.”
    I had to laugh again. “My God, were those kids really in on it from the start?”
    “Ah, yes, the children. The police didn’t believe the little ones could be organized like that. They forgot one thing. These muchachos grew up in the knowledge of much injustice. Only because of lessons learned in the streets of Havana are these children here in America with the rest of