Pacing inside his executive office in Makati City, the red-haired man, dressed in a flannel shirt and black slacks spoke softly on the phone as rays of the late afternoon sun filtered through the open spaces between the fulcrums of the window and the dark window shades. “There is a business I want you to fix for me,” he said casually, his left hand with the gold ring resting on the table, the right hand caressing the edges of a customized iPhone.
It was the first time the old man was speaking with the Cuban, and he would have loved to meet him personally and watch his eyes; he wanted to see those eyes that have seen victims writhing in pain as they struggled and labored with their last breath, begging for mercy. He just wanted to see the Cuban, to observe his face, his gestures, and to read the message in his eyes. Looking at people straight in the eye was something he’d always relished. It made them trust him and it helped him read whether they could be trusted or not.
He wasn’t granted that favor.
No one was ever granted that favor, and that could be one of the last things that the man can’t buy. The Cuban was really a legend, a ghost that none has ever seen. The little that was known about him was that he was the “Cuban.” The silver-haired man hated anonymity, especially when it came to business transactions, and this was a very sensitive kind of business. He’d always wanted to know everything about those he traded with. In his sense of business operation, knowing one’s partners in crime always gave an edge of power.
“When do you want me to fix it?” asked the Cuban with a voice that the man can’t place, a blend of Italian, Spanish, South America, and everything.
“As soon as possible,” said the silver-haired man.
There was an unsettling silence, and the old man bit his lips, listening nervously and hoping against all hope that the answer shouldn’t be no.
“Where is your business?”
“Manila,” said the old man. “It’s a small detail,” he added like an afterthought.
There was a brief silence, uneasy, and unsettling.
“I’ll get back to you in a week?” said the Cuban.
“You haven’t made up your mind yet?”
“I’ll tell you where to send my money.”
The silver-haired man lifted his cup of coffee and gently sipped from it. Putting it down, he said. “This could only the beginning of a long term contract, I guess.”
“I am sorry?”
“I mean, this could start a long business relationship between us,” he said.
I don’t do repeat business. “That is too fast,” said the Cuban, “I don’t work for anyone. I’ll do this for you.”
“Okay,” said the old man, “One more thing, it should look like an accident.”
His voice was suave, like music, “Maybe you know how to do this job better than me,” he said.
“I didn’t mean that,” said the old man. “I trust your skills, and your reputation precedes you, by the way. I just wanted to make sure that it is done in the most discreet way possible.”
In the most discreet way possible, repeated the Cuban half-to-himself. So he doesn’t want anyone to know. Yet someone already knew. The legendary Cuban would know.
I would know, thought the Cuban, disconnecting the call.
