It would be a few days before anyone found Alberto Gonzalez. Barring unexpected visitors or suspicious neighbors, the old man would be pretty ripe by the time his American born son made his weekly visit, around noon on Saturday.
He was an easy kill for Jose Falto. Alberto lived alone in the single-story, yellow stucco house in Miami’s Little Havana. His wife had passed away the previous year. Alberto’s habit was such that at dusk, just after dinner, he would come out from behind the security bars that covered the doors and windows of his house—imagine that; he owned a fucking house. He would sit in a plastic folding chair beneath a shade tree on the meager front lawn and light up a Cohiba. Jose recognized the familiar aroma as it lingered in the humid October air. Cohiba was Fidel’s favorite. Alberto was an indignant son-of-bitch; a fucking communist until the very end.
Jose waited in the car parked across the street. He would let the old man finish his smoke, and then when the bastard would get up to go back inside, Jose would come up from behind and force his way into the house. That was his plan. The street was quiet. The eighty-one-year-old would offer little resistance; he was too weak and too old. Fuck him.
There would be no investigation, no autopsy. When the kid shows up on Saturday, he’ll figure Papa died in his sleep. In the cafes along 8th Street there would be some chatter about the communista, about his history; a body guard for Fidel Castro, he paid a smuggler to get him to Miami after El Presidente started getting a little leery about his inner circle. It was a smart move; everyone else was executed. No. Nobody in Little Havana would mourn Alberto Gonzalez.
How could the fucking bastard be so unrepentant? He had no friends in the exile community. Sure, they tried to talk sense to him, and when that went in one ear and out the other, it would get angry: “Why are you here you fucking hypocrite?”
Alberto needed to justify his sins. The revolution was for the good of all, and those who stood in the way deserved what they got. Fucking Americans would chase a Nazi to the ends of the Earth and that bastard can just sit there blowing his communist stink up everyone’s ass.
He had stood over them as they begged for mercy. He would listen for a few seconds and then pull the trigger. Pop!—and then silence. He liked that quiet moment when the begging stopped. And then the next one on his knees, hands tied behind his back and his eyes locked on the motionless body beside him, he would start to beg. If they didn’t beg, they prayed. If they didn’t pray, they cursed and spat at their murderers. It didn’t matter; they all ended up the same way—laying face down in the dirt with blood spilling out of the back of their heads. Never had Alberto felt such power, such glory! He was fucking God!—at least until he realized that Fidel was God, and that without El Presidente, Alberto was nobody; just another poor Cuban who believed the lie—and still believes it, at least until he finishes that Cohiba. Without a gun, Alberto had nothing but his big fucking mouth. That was what he would take to the grave with him. Fuck him.