Off the Record

Chapter 25

We copied couples around us, swaying and twirling, pressed closer and closer together by the ever-expanding crowd of dancers as Maricela switched between mambo numbers and poignant ballads that made me long for a homeland that wasn’t mine and that I had never laid eyes on.

I lost count of how many songs we danced to, stopping only when Maricela took a break, promising she would return in a few minutes.

“Let’s get a drink,” Fields said as she retreated off stage.

“We have to talk to her.” I could tell my eyes were starry, and quite honestly, I wasn’t sure if I was more interested in whether she was our Havana lead or whether I just wanted to know more about her.

“After the show,” Fields said. “We won’t get anything now.”

“How do you know that?”

He nodded toward a man who was making his way backstage, and my eyes widened. It was a very well-known and prominent senator. But not a Texan.

“Patricia said she was with a senator the other night.”

“He’s from Missouri. And he’s a Republican who hates this administration with a passion,” Fields said. “If they have anything going on, she’s definitely not our girl in Havana.”

“What if she’s working with him to get to the vice president?”

Fields shook his head. “No. He wouldn’t do anything underhanded. It’s more about filibustering and braggadocio.”

My shoulders dropped. “Then this was all pointless.”

“Not necessarily,” he said. “I still think we talk to her. She could be a good resource.” He nudged me with his shoulder. “And that was fun, wasn’t it?”

It was. But I wasn’t about to admit that.

“I could use some water,” I conceded, flushed. All that dancing and the heat of the crowd. That’s all it was.

“Not a champagne cocktail tonight?” He had a hint of a smile on his face, and I was tempted. But no. We were working.

“Clear heads,” I said. “You may be used to working with a drink or two in you, but I’m not.”

“Water it is.” He led me back to our table, where he left me while he went to the bar, then returned with two glasses. I drank half of mine in one long gulp. “How ladylike.”

“This isn’t a date,” I reminded him.

“Of course,” he said. “I cowrite with Bob Jenkins all the time, and we always dance that close.”

“What you and Bob Jenkins do in your spare time is no concern of mine. We”—I gestured between us—“need to keep up appearances.”

“In that case, look a little more like you actually want to flirt with me. The typing pool girls are looking.”

I scowled at him for a couple of seconds, then threw my head back in a laugh, placing a hand on his arm. “Better?”

He leaned close. “Better.”

Something fluttered in my stomach, but I ignored it.

Then the lights dimmed, and Maricela reappeared. Fields offered me a hand, and I joined him again on the dance floor as she sang her way effortlessly through a second set.

I had been to dances before, but nothing like this, with no chaperones, a man’s arm around my waist, our bodies close in the darkness as other couples pressed even closer, forgetting that anyone else was there at all.

I looked at Fields in the dim club lighting at one point, forcing myself to remember that none of this was real.

It was just the music, the lighting, the atmosphere, making my eyes drift to his mouth. Nothing more.

Besides, I reminded myself, as soon as he opened that mouth, he was quite annoying.

Usually.

“We have a special guest tonight,” Maricela said breathlessly. “In DC for one night only, ladies and gentlemen, from my home country, Mr. Desi Arnaz!”

My eyes widened as the man who had spent so many evenings in black-and-white in my living room took the stage next to this magnificent woman, and the band behind them launched into Mr. Arnaz’s hit “Cuban Pete,” Maricela taking the Lucille Ball part of the song.

Fields spun me around, holding me close as I watched the two of them together on stage.

He looked older than he did in his I Love Lucy days, a little sadder and more tired now that he, in real life, no longer loved Lucy.

But the energy of the song was infectious as they danced a samba together onstage.

He dipped her low at the end of the song, and the two of them took a bow, retreating together. I searched the crowd for the senator but didn’t see him. I wondered if he had left earlier or if seeing Maricela with the television star had been too much.

I looked back at Fields. “What now?”

He chewed his lower lip for a second. “We try to get to her backstage.”

I shook my head. “They’ll never let us back there.”

Fields grinned at me. “Sure they will.” He reached into a pocket and pulled out a laminated ID card from The Washington Digest with his picture on it.

I needed to remind Miss Kelly that I still didn’t have one of those—even if mine was just for the typing pool.

“We tell them we’re writing a profile on her. ”

“But you cover the White House.”

“You know that. I doubt she does.”

“What happens when there’s no profile?”

He shrugged. “We worry about that later. If she even notices. She may not read her reviews.” He took my hand, leading me through the crowd, most of which were going the other direction, toward the bar, the tables, or the exit.

I glanced back over my shoulder, and the girls from the office were heading toward their table. Patricia was nowhere to be seen.

We reached the door to backstage, where a burly man stood, arms crossed, shaking his head at men with flowers. “No,” he said as soon as he noticed us.

Fields pulled out the badge. “Jack Fields, Washington Digest,” he said confidently. “I’m writing a piece on Senorita Maricela’s performance tonight. I wanted to confirm a few things for it.”

The man studied it for so long that I wondered whether he could read.

Finally, he opened the door behind him with one arm. “Just him,” he said to me as Fields entered.

“She’s my stenographer,” Fields said. “No article if I don’t have her.”

“Where’s her badge?”

“They don’t waste them on the women,” he said with an eye roll. I knew what he was doing, but his tone still made me want to stomp on his foot with my high heel.

“Where’s her notepad, then?”

I reached into my purse and produced one. A good reporter always had paper and a pencil on her. He stared me down for a moment, then grudgingly let me pass.

“Glad you had that,” Fields said with a nod.

“Stenographer.” I rolled my eyes.

“Hey, it worked, didn’t it?”

I did have to give him that.

We walked down the narrow hallway. A room to the right had a faded star on the door, with a handwritten paper taped to it reading “Maricela.”

“Not so glamorous back here,” I murmured.

“Ready?”

I put a hand on his arm. “What’s our plan? We can’t just come out and ask her if she’s working for the Russians.”

“No,” he said quietly. “We start with some general questions and feel her out.”

I nodded, and he knocked on the door. “Miss Maricela? Jack Fields, Washington Digest.”

“Come in,” she called, and Fields opened the door.

She had stripped out of the silver number she had worn onstage and was in a pink satin dressing gown, feathered at the neck, sleeves, and hem, but her makeup was still on.

Flowers from admirers adorned the small makeup vanity as well as the coffee table that sat in front of a sagging loveseat.

But the dingy dressing room was barely noticeable as Maricela’s stage presence extended offstage as well.

“I hope you enjoyed the show,” she said, waving a manicured hand toward the sofa, indicating that we should sit. “It is, of course, a smaller crowd than I was used to back home, but”—she smiled sadly—“circumstances have changed.”

I followed Fields’s lead, sitting on the sofa. It was small, and our legs just touched. I tugged awkwardly at my dress.

“Yes,” Fields said earnestly. “Allow me to introduce my associate, Miss Judy Greenberg.”

She nodded to me, and I offered a smile.

“That’s what I do love about this country,” she said. “So many more opportunities for women.”

Hah, I thought. I would have loved to set her straight. But that wasn’t what we were there for. I opened my notebook. “We just have a few questions,” I said. “Can you spell Maricela for us?”

She complied.

“And your last name?”

“Just Maricela. Of course, that’s just my stage name. I was born Anamaria Castilla.”

Fields and I exchanged a glance. Either this wasn’t a spy, or she was giving us a fake name.

I wrote that down. “And you’re from Havana?”

She laughed. “Didn’t you hear the announcer? The queen of Morro Castle.” We shared another look. “No. I was born in a town called Banes. My parents were poor until I became famous enough to help them.” She sighed sadly. “I got out when the revolution came. My parents weren’t so lucky.”

She had said were. “Are they—?” She shook her head.

“They weren’t political. But they knew Batista back when he was still Rubén Zaldívar. If I hadn’t been so well known . . .” Her voice trailed off. “But that’s done now.”

My eyes threatened to well up as I imagined feeling responsible for a loss like that. If this was true, no, she definitely wasn’t working for Castro’s government in any capacity. But we did have to be sure before we could ask anything else.

“Let’s speak of happier things,” she said, the sadness disappearing behind a mask. “How did you like the show tonight? My guest should make for quite a headline.”

“How did you get Desi Arnaz?” Fields asked.

She smiled. “He was passing through town, spending the night on the way from New York to Miami. My agent called in a favor.”

“So you didn’t know him from Cuba?”

Maricela laughed. “No. His family left in the 1933 revolution. Nobility, you know? I wasn’t born yet. He’s practically as American as you are.”

I didn’t know much more than him telling Lucy she had some ’splaining to do. And I realized most of what I knew about Cuba, aside from recent headlines, I had learned from a man playing up stereotypes of a country he left as a teenager.

“Full of promises that one. Swears he’ll put me in a show. I doubt I’ll hear from him. You don’t get far in this business believing men like that.”

I thought of Patricia and her congressman. Our worlds may not have been that different after all.

“Tell us more about leaving—I heard you were a favorite of Batista’s?”

She smiled wryly. “That’s one way to put it.

” She leaned forward, and there was a heaviness in her face.

“He wasn’t a good man—not for the people.

Not for Cuba. But I wanted to be the most famous singer in all of Cuba.

I did what I had to in order to make that happen.

And when the revolution came, they weren’t interested in what you actually believed.

” She looked straight at me. “I think with a last name like Greenberg, you understand that better than Mr. Fields here.”

My breath caught. Yes. I understood what she meant. My family had been here during the war, but so many others hadn’t been so lucky. I found myself nodding.

Then she shook her head, and the heaviness was gone again. “It was an honor performing with a man such as Desi,” she said. “You write that down. I shouldn’t have spoken so freely of him before. Forgive me.”

Fields started to speak, but I put a hand on his arm. I couldn’t explain it, but I trusted this woman who could shift faces so quickly it could give a person whiplash. “Maricela,” I said softly. “Have you ever been to Texas?”

“Texas? No. Miami and New York mostly.”

“Have you spent time with anyone from Texas?”

She looked at me curiously. “No, not that I know of. Though I suppose if they don’t wear those big hats and speak like in the movies, maybe.”

“Judy,” Fields said warningly.

“That senator,” I said. She sat up straighter, looking like she was going to object. “He’s married, you know.”

“I don’t know what—”

“They don’t leave their wives for singers. Or girls from the typing pool at a newspaper.”

She chuckled, shaking her head. “I know. I’m not so green as that. But men in power are good protection. Old habits and such I suppose.”

“We’re not actually writing about you,” I said suddenly.

She looked alarmed, and Fields said my name again, louder this time.

“We need your help.”

“Can I have a minute with my . . . associate?” Fields said, rising.

“Fields. She’s not the one we’re looking for. But I like her. She can help us.” He stared at me. “Sit. Please.”

He sat down, and I turned back toward Maricela.

“I take it you’re not a fan of the current leadership in Cuba?”

She turned her face toward the door, looking at me from the side of her eye, like she was ready to call for security. “Who are you?”

“We told you our real names. And we do work for The Washington Digest. But we’re following a lead, and I think you might be able to help us crack this one.”

She shook her head again. “I’m just a singer. I don’t know about anything else.”

I leaned forward. “I think you know more than you realize. Do you think you could spot someone else from Cuba? If they were pretending to be American?”

“Maybe?”

“Judy!” Fields said again, more insistently. “What are you playing at?”

I looked at him. “We take her to the bar with us. See if she can find who we’re looking for.”

“I don’t think this is a good idea.”

“And I don’t think we have any other options if we want to figure this out!”

For a long moment, he held my gaze. Then he turned toward Maricela. “Would you be willing to go to the Hay-Adams Hotel with us? To try to find a woman from Havana?”

“I’m not going to a hotel with you,” she said, standing up. “I don’t know what the two of you want from me, but I think this has gone on long enough.”

“Not the hotel,” I said quickly. “Off the Record. The bar. In the basement. We think a woman is meeting someone important there.”

“Judy!”

Maricela blinked a few times, looking at me. “A Cuban woman? You mean a spy?”

“We don’t know exactly. But—”

“They are here,” Maricela said quietly.

Fields’s mouth dropped open. I felt a chill run down my spine at the certainty of her statement. They are here. Were we too late?

“They?” I asked.

“Castro’s people,” she said. “I don’t know who they are. I got a message—in code—from a friend at home telling me to be careful. Not to trust anyone from Cuba if I didn’t know them already.”

I tried to imagine how that must feel. What if any other Jewish person I met could be gathering information at best, trying to kill me at worst? “Will you help us?” I asked.

She didn’t reply, staring past me, and I was sure she was going to say no. It was too dangerous for her, and I had pressed too hard. Fields was right. I should have kept my mouth shut.

“Yes,” she said finally, so quietly it took me a moment to register that she had spoken at all. “I will help you.”