Hot Schemes by Sherryl Woods Page A

licensed.”
    “That is not necessary,” Martinez said. “Others will volunteer, I am sure,” he added with a pointed look at his colleague.
    Bienes sighed. “I suppose one more day of missed work will not matter.”
    “Who would fire you, eh?” Martinez asked him. “You are your own boss.”
    “And when I am not there, nothing gets done,” Bienes countered with a rueful expression. “But under these circumstances, I suppose that does not matter.”
    “God will reward you for your good deeds,” Martinez assured him.
    “Perhaps some of my clients will pay their bills, then, yes?”
    “For that you need a collection agency, not divine intervention.”
    “What do you do?” Molly asked Bienes.
    “I am an attorney.”
    “A very well-paid attorney,” Martinez added. “Do not let him stir your pity, señorita. He will not wind up in the poorhouse because of one extra day off. Besides, he loves any excuse to fly that fancy new plane of his, a plane paid for by the very clients he would have you believe are deadbeats.”
    “I think what you’re doing is wonderful,” Molly told both men. “Not many would dedicate themselves to such exhausting searches, especially when the results are so often tragic.”
    “But there are days like today,” Martinez reminded her, “when our efforts are rewarded. It is these moments we cherish. It is what we owe to those who remained behind in Cuba and now can fight no more, to those who desperately seek to escape the suffering.”
    “When did you come to the United States?” Molly asked him. “During the freedom flights in the sixties?”
    “No. Much later. It was Miguel who rescued us.” He glanced at Michael. “You did not know that, did you, my friend? Your uncle brought his fishing boat to Mariel in the days of the boatlift in 1980. He brought us here at the request of my wife’s brother. He took nothing for his time and trouble. As I said before, my family owes Miguel García.”
    From the distance of a college campus, Molly had read hundreds of similar stories at the tumultuous time of the boat lift. Every available seaworthy vessel and some, perhaps, that were not, made trip after trip to Mariel to bring back those who wished to flee the island, along with those Castro himself deemed unfit to stay, including prisoners and the mentally ill. One hundred twenty-five thousand in all.
    But now, for the first time, looking into Jorge Martinez’s eyes and seeing the gratitude reflected there, she understood the powerful ties binding those who had gone through that particular Cuban exile experience. He clasped Michael’s hand.
    “We will do this search for Miguel,” he said. “You will be more valuable here, conducting your investigation.” He patted his pocket. “I have your beeper number. You will know the minute we find him.”
    “And if you don’t?”
    “Trust me, my friend. If Miguel is on the seas, we will find him. I make that promise to you.”
    •   •   •
    When they left the airstrip in southwest Dade, Molly debated insisting on going home to Key Biscayne to shower and change, but decided that would give Michael a perfect excuse for dumping her there. Instead, she persuaded him to make a quick stop at Dadeland Mall, where she bought two pairs of lightweight slacks, a couple of T-shirts, and a few other necessities. She was back at the car, where Michael was making phone calls, in the promised twenty minutes.
    “Any news?” she asked.
    “Nothing. I talked to Tío Pedro and he said there was nothing on the national news or the local news about any kind of guerrilla excursion into Cuba. If that’s where Miguel was headed, he arrived safely and without being detected or he is still adrift in those damnable straits.” He regarded Molly with a bleak expression. “Who knows how long he can survive out there.”
    “Those boys were at sea for six days, two of those days without water or food,” Molly reminded him.
    “But as you said, they are