A Pagan's Nightmare (19 page)

Disappointed, Ned frowned and went back to painting. He told the Former Donald that he held little interest in a duck proverb,
or any other kind of proverb, for that matter.

“Wanna hear the rest of it?” the Former Donald asked. He dipped his brush again and sloshed the excess on the wall.

“No,” Ned replied. “I don’t wanna get caught talking and have days added to my sentence.”

He turned to check behind him and saw at the far end of the block Marvin the Apostle huddled with the guards. Marvin donned
purple fatigues and matching armbands, and in his hands he held a glossy-covered book. He flipped its pages and was overheard
instructing the guards on the subtleties of brainwashing. After observing this spectacle for another minute, the Former Donald
stopped painting and began peeking the opposite way again, around the corner of the building.

DJ Ned stopped in mid-stroke and said, “Don’t tell me you’re gonna try to escape.”

The Former Donald had his back to Ned, still peering around the corner and scanning the streets of Havana. “I can’t take any
more of the brainwashing, Ned. I’m just a poser, ya know.”

Ned sloshed some more paint on the brick wall and spoke out of the side of his mouth. “Ease up, Big D. We’ll think of something.”

The Former Donald knelt beside the paint bucket and pretended to tie his sneakers, which were already tied. “That’s why I’m
nervous. I’ve just thought of something.”

Ned saw three guards huddled far behind them, still listening to Marvin’s instructions and nodding with regularity. Ned knelt
beside the Former Donald and pretended to tie his own shoes. “What’d you think of?” he whispered. “Tell me.”

“Last time I was here, I was working on the roof of the building
across the street, cleaning off pigeon droppings. And from up there I saw his estate.”

“Whose estate? The pigeon’s or Marvin’s?”

The Former Donald leaned close to Ned and whispered, “Castro’s.”

Ned untied and retied his left sneaker. “What’s so important about that? I figured Castro would have an estate somewhere.”

Their whispering grew louder, and from fifty feet down the sidewalk Lanny whistled at them and held a finger to his lips.
Quiet.

The Former Donald could not restrain himself. He moved to within inches of Ned’s ear. “The estate is on the waterfront, man.”

“So?”

“So, the zealots haven’t touched his boat yet.”

Ned tied his right sneaker for the third time, and now a trace of a smile formed on his lips. “Castro left a boat?”

“A huge one.” The Former Donald spread his arms wide. “It’s actually more like a yacht.”

Ned and the Former Donald picked up their paint buckets and toted them over beside Lanny and MC Deluxe. Quickly the foursome
huddled together while the Former Donald explained his plan—to sneak into Castro’s compound after dark, steal the yacht, and
be back in the U.S. before the zealots woke the next morning.

“We’ll rename it the
Cuban Conversion,”
he continued, “just so the Coast Guard won’t suspect us.”

All nodded their approval.

One of the guards looked up from the curbside lecture, pointed at them, and said, “Shhh.”

MC Deluxe, whose arms were by now polka-dotted with white droplets, lowered his voice and informed the others that he was
hip to any escape plan. He then boasted that he’d be the perfect guy to drive the vessel, given that one of his rap songs
was about a drug dealer who owned a big yacht.

This last point resulted in a brief argument from DJ Ned, who claimed his flight-school experience as justification for captaincy.
After a push and a shove, MC and Ned agreed to split the duty.

“Aren’t we getting a bit ahead of ourselves?” the Former Donald asked, kneeling to paint the bottom of the wall.

“Way ahead,” Lanny replied.

He wiped the sweat from his eyes and checked over his shoulder for the guards. Across the street Marvin the Apostle now brandished
a leather whip, and his face grew stern as he instructed the guards in how to properly make it crack. One by one, each guard
practiced cracking the whip against a metal dumpster, and the sound of punishment echoed through Havana.

The Former Donald winced at each crack. “We gotta go for it, guys. Maybe even tonight.”

MC snuck two more glances at the guards flailing away at the dumpster. “Man, I say we bolt the first chance we get. They look
serious ‘bout them whips.”

Paint droplets dotted Lanny’s face, but he ignored his appearance and sloshed more latex on Cuban brick. Around him the whisperings
came frequently now—almost as frequently as the crack of whips that frightened them—and he listened as a plan came together.

By the time the sun dropped behind the buildings and the day’s work detail was nearly complete, a tired DJ Ned and a sweaty
MC Deluxe had resumed their argument. Still facing the wall, they whispered harshly back and forth about why each should be
the one to captain Castro’s yacht—one man anxious to return to Harlem and his street rhymes, the other itching to return to
the airwaves and his Margaritaville contentment.

And then, of course, there was Lanny, a man bent on finding his own lost shaker of salt.

She had to be
somewhere.

A
T DUSK THE GUARDS
ushered everyone back to the long, dark, dank room. Tired captives carried with them their makeshift beds—lawn chairs. During
the work detail someone had discovered a stash of reclining lawn chairs in one of the graffiti-stained buildings, and these
nylon chairs were doled out for each prisoner to sleep upon.

Arranging their chairs along the left wall were, in order, DJ Ned, the Former Donald, MC Deluxe, and Lanny. The guards then
distributed burned fish sandwiches and TraitorAde, telling the captives that they had but five minutes to finish dinner. The
door shut and the captives ate in darkness.

DJ Ned had just taken his second bite when the door pushed open again. This time Marvin’s robe was purple, and he shined a
flashlight around the cavelike walls and across imprisoned faces. “Tonight thou seeth only this beam… but soon thou shalt
seeth light that thou not yet knowest thou crave.” He pulled his beam across each face a second time. “Thou doth understandeth?”

MC Deluxe swigged his TraitorAde and said, “Dude, I’m from Harlem, and you talkin’ religious smack.”

Marvin raised his head high and peered down his nose at MC. “My smacketh shall overcometh thy stupidity.”

“Oh yeah? Then why you wear a gold robe one day and purple the next?”

“Monday Wednesday Friday I weareth the gold;Tuesday Thursday Saturday I weareth the purple.”

Crackhead spoke up from across the room. “What about Sunday?”

“Thou art not yet prepared to seeth me on that day.”

“Try us,” Lanny shot back. “Thou art psychedelic?”

MC snickered. DJ Ned spewed TraitorAde on the floor.

“Shusheth thy mouths, captives!” Marvin demanded, clearly offended. “Tomorrow shall be thy testing. So prepareth yourselves,
oh ye of little brains, for absorbing wisdom from my soon-to-be bestseller.” He pulled the glossy-covered book from inside
his robe and held it high.

“The Dummies’ Guide to Zealotism?” asked DJ Ned, unable to see the title for lack of light.

“The Marvinci Mode.”

With a swoosh of his robe Marvin the Apostle left the dank room, and this time he tugged his purple train through the threshold
before slamming the door.

Before anyone could swallow his next bite of fish sandwich, the burliest guard reopened the door and counted down dinnertime
on his watch. All this coming and going was confusing to the captives, but Lanny and crew ate without complaint and tried
to look as energetic as possible. The guard counted off the last seconds and told Crackhead to collect the paper plates and
dump them in a plastic bag, which he did.

Everyone settled back into their lawn chairs, and the guard stood in the doorway and gripped the frames. “Everyone comfy now?
Everyone gonna sleep well before facing the next level of reform?”

The Former Donald reclined the back of his lawn chair and tested it for squeaks. Then he stood again and addressed the guard.
“Sir, I have a question.”

“About the lawn chairs? These are the only beds you’ll get.” He swept his arm across the room like a furniture salesman.

“No, not about our accommodations,” said the Former Donald.

“About Marvin’s? He sleeps in his Lear Jet.”

“Not that, either,” said the Former Donald. “I was wondering, since there are so many buildings left to be whitewashed, if
my team of four could be allowed to work a night shift and possibly earn points for initiative… or at least good attitudes.”

Lanny and DJ Ned and MC Deluxe all nodded earnestly, as if they loved the idea.

The guard rubbed his chin and said, “Let me check on that.” He shut the door, and the room plunged again into total darkness.

The men lay on their backs and put their hands behind their heads. “Think he fell for it?” Ned asked.

“Let’s hope so,” Lanny replied.

“Gullible religious dudes always fall for it.” MC whispered.

Five minutes later the guard returned with four spotlights, extension cords, and a little red wagon filled with paint buckets
and brushes.

The Former Donald rose from his lawn chair and thanked the guard in a manner that could only be described as overly enthusiastic.
DJ Ned and MC Deluxe quickly volunteered to carry the extension cords and spotlights.

Lanny was last out the door—and was left with the duty of pulling the wagon of paint buckets and brushes. He felt embarrassed
to be pulling a little red wagon through Cuba, though he’d do anything to assist with the escape plan and renew his search
for Miranda.

Down the baked streets of Havana, the guard led the foursome past the building they had whitewashed earlier in the day, and
on to an abandoned, four-story apartment building. A rusty fire escape ran from top to bottom on one side, and the grafitti
of forty summers covered every brick and crevice.

“This one looks like it needs lots of work,” the Former Donald said, first to remove the lid from his bucket and take up his
brush.

The others hooked their extension cords to spotlights and lay the lights face up on the sidewalk, beaming up the side of the
building.

Their initiative impressed the guard, and he stepped back into the street and crossed his arms, surveying their progress.
For a good hour—it was now just after 10:00 p.m.—he stood and observed. Spaced in their usual ten-foot intervals, the foursome
painted with diligence, very aware that they were being watched.

“What now?” whispered MC Deluxe, re-dipping his brush.

“Shhh,” Lanny whispered back. “Maybe he’ll get sleepy or visit the restroom and leave us out here alone.”

The guard remained in the street, monitoring progress, occasionally moving one of the spotlights to adjust its beam. For a
long time he sat on the curb with a flashlight and read the first chapter of
The Marvinci Mode.
Meanwhile DJ Ned tried to appear calm by whistling while he painted, though he remained stuck on the chorus of “It’s the
End of the World As We Know It (And I Feel Fine).”

MC Deluxe could not take much of that. “Don’t you know any other songs?”

“Perhaps you’d like to rap for us while we paint?” Ned shot back.

The Former Donald moved between the two men. “Relax,” he whispered, “each of you can have a turn at steering the yacht.”

Sometime after midnight the guard told the men that he had eaten some bad fish and would thus be reading Marvin’s next chapter
in a Portalette. He said he would check back with them before quitting time, which he set at 2:00 a.m. He began to walk away
but turned with one last comment. “I’m only allowing you captives to work five hours. This is because we want you fresh for
Marvin’s lecture on the long-term advantages of joining the
big team.
And we all want to know the advantages of joining the
big team,
don’t we?”

He made a whipping motion with his right hand and walked away.

All four kept painting and did not reply, although MC did give a brief wave with his brush, if only to urge the guard to leave.

As soon as the guard was out of sight, the Former Donald hurried to the fire escape and climbed the metal stairs to the roof.
Lanny peered up from the sidewalk. “Can ya see anything?”

“The yacht is still there,” said the Former Donald. “And the lights are off at the estate.” He hurried back down the metal
stairs to find the others anxious, waiting to bolt.

“Which way do we run?” asked Ned, dropping his brush in a paint bucket.

The Former Donald pointed south. “We go down one block, then left at the next street, then it’s about a mile to the waterfront.”

MC Deluxe wiped his hands on his shorts, flexed his leg muscles backward like a sprinter, and said, “Let’s get goin’, then.”

Lanny said, “Wait, guys. There’s something else we can do to help ourselves.” He went over to the unpainted part of the apartment
building and stood against it, nose to brick. “Someone come paint around me,” he said. “Quick, do it.”

“What?” asked Ned, incredulous at this stupid idea. “Let’s get going, Lann-o.”

The Former Donald was the first to catch on. He saw the spotlights casting Lanny’s shadow against the wall. “Lanny’s right.
Grab a brush.”

The three others painted white around Lanny as he faced the brick wall and raised his right arm as if it held a brush. When
they finished and he stepped away, Ned and MC realized the effect—a guard peeking from down the street would see the silhouette
of a man painting. And though it might only buy them a few minutes, those minutes could be critical.

“Do me next,” whispered MC Deluxe. He faced the wall some ten feet farther down than Lanny, held his arm high in the brushing
position, and watched the others paint around him.

The Former Donald was next to face the wall, followed by Ned, whose silhouette turned out extra pudgy due to everyone being
in a hurry to finish.