Dead Man's Land Jack Patterson (classic novels txt) 📖

After a brief period of silence, Cal asked Prado about his host home. For several years, the Seafarers had asked local residents who wanted to host a player for a couple of months in the summer to open their homes and let the players live with them for free.

Prado’s face lit up for a moment. “It’s nice to live with people who care about you. It makes it easier than living by yourself.”

“What’s your host family like?”

“They’re great—except for the lizards.”

Cal cocked his head and furrowed his brow. “The lizards?”

“Lizards, iguana—a big green animal with scaly skin that crawls.”

“You don’t like them?”

“I’d rather have Aroldis Chapman throw at my head than have to be in a room with a lizard.”

Cal snickered. “Has Chapman thrown at your head before?”

“More than once when we were in Cuba—and I still hate lizards more.” He paused. “Just today, I was on the couch with my host family’s kids watching a movie and one of the boys thought it would be funny to put their lizard on my shoulder. I just looked at them and said, ‘If you don’t get this lizard off of me in five seconds, I can’t promise it will live after I sling it against the wall.’ They took it off quickly.”

Cal laughed and shook his head.

They rode along in silence for a few minutes until Cal re-engaged him in conversation. “Your English is excellent. Most of the Cuban players I’ve met who’ve only been here a short time struggle with English.”

Prado smiled. “I used to hang out at the docks and talk to tourists when I was a kid. I picked it up right away. But I didn’t really grasp it until one of the foreigners gave me their English-Spanish dictionary. I didn’t let everyone know about it because it’s not something that’s encouraged.”

Cal’s eyebrows shot upward. “So you got this good at speaking the language just by reading a dictionary?”

“No, that just helped my vocabulary. But I met a guy about two years ago who really helped me with the language. He said something to me in English one day and I turned around and answered him. I think I caught him off guard. We later started talking and began to meet regularly. He wanted to talk in English with someone and I wanted to learn. It worked out well.”

“So not many people know about your special talent?”

He shook his head. “I heard it was best to keep that hidden so you don’t have to talk to newspaper reporters.”

Cal laughed. “You’re not doing a very good job at it, but if you want me to keep your secret safe, I will.”

Prado nodded. “Thank you. I’m still afraid I might say something stupid and look like a fool.”

“I share that same concern over what I write every day. Eventually, someone is going to discover that I really am the fool.”

“I doubt that. You seem like a kind person.”

“You haven’t seen me before noon. I can be quite grumpy in the morning.”

“If I see you acting that way, I’ll call you a malhumorado. It will be your nickname.”

“Of course! Everyone from Cuba has a nickname. It’s more of a national pastime than baseball.”

Prado cocked his head and narrowed his eyes. “That’s taking it a little too far.”

“What’s your nickname?”

“El Roque.”

“The Rock?”

Prado smiled and nodded proudly.

“Did you get it playing baseball?”

“No—chopping rocks in the quarry.”

“Well, it’s a great name, but you might want to consider getting a new one.”

Prado drew back. “Why?”

“Because there’s a pretty famous actor with the same name. And while you’re a big guy, he’s far bigger.”

“Do they call him El Roque, too?”

Cal shook his head. “No, just ‘The Rock.’ ”

“Unless he suddenly becomes Hispanic, I’m keeping my name.”

Cal smiled. “Well, I still like it—even if you have to share it.”

The break in their conversation occurred partially due to the fact that Arnold Schwarzenegger was pounding a helpless man’s head into the pavement on the monitors scattered throughout the bus. A fiery explosion in the background didn’t faze him as he forced the evil villain into submission.

Cal tapped Prado and pointed at the screen. “Does Cuban television show such violence?”

“We don’t get many American-made movies in Cuba, but there are plenty of violent films. Mostly Spanish-speaking movies about war. Nothing like this, though. I’ve seen too much real violence for this to bother me.”

Cal wanted to ask him a follow-up question based on his response but decided against it.

The bus made a sudden shift right and exited I-84 for a gas station. It rolled into the sleepy town of Baker City, Oregon, still over two hours outside of Boise.

Cal noticed an old windmill fashioned in a Dutch style just beyond the neon glow of the gas station.

“Pit stop,” the bus driver said on the intercom. Many of the players were asleep, but a few aroused to hustle off the bus and line up to relieve themselves inside. Others took the opportunity to use the cramped bathroom located at the back of the bus.

Cal didn’t move and neither did Prado.

Once Cal started to search for music on his iPhone. He swiped upward through several screens until Prado grabbed his wrist.

“Wait—is that Chichi Peralta?” Prado asked, pointing at Cal’s phone.

Cal stopped and looked up slowly, eyeing his companion cautiously. “Yes. Do you know Chichi’s music?”

Prado broke into a salsa rendition of chair dancing. “He’s my favorite.”

“So, no Schwarzenegger movies, but Chichi Peralta? Maybe Cuba isn’t such a bad place.”

Prado shook his head. “It’s not perfect, but Cubans know how to dance and celebrate.”

Cal handed one of his ear buds to Prado and cranked up “Me Enamore.” Prado started to juke and shift in his seat as a big smile spread across his face.

“My favorite song,” he said.

The bus jerked forward and pulled back onto the surface street leading to I-84 East.

Before they reached the Interstate, Cal watched Prado’s face turn from a smile to a frown as the bus swerved back and forth.

“What’s going on?” Prado asked.

Cal craned his