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had taken in twenty-five teenage Cuban exiles; that the diocese was housing them in the local Catholic retreat camp; and that the boys needed jobs “to earn money for extras.” It was all part of some hush-hush church charity program—Operation Pedro Pan, O’Meara called it, Spanish for “Peter Pan”—to help Cuban Catholics get their children out of the clutches of “that infidel Fidel.”
    “Fourteen
thousand
children airlifted out so far, Mr. Avery. Can you imagine?”
    No, Avery couldn’t. “Where you putting them all?”
    “Catholic parishes all over Florida and twenty-nine other states,” the priest answered proudly.
    Was a parish the same thing as a congregation? Avery wondered. And what the heck was a
di-oh-sees
?
    In the end, Avery had agreed to one job for one boy. It was good timing, he told the priest, since his previous help, Billy Jameson, had just gone off to college in Gainesville. No special skills required, he said, so long as the boy was reliable and spoke English.
    Steve had expected some kind of teenage Ricky Ricardo, small and dark, so Emilio’s height, his sandy-blond hair, and his aqua-blue eyes surprised him. But Avery, who’d spent two months in over-water flight training at Batista Field outside Havana, shook his head. “You’d be surprised how many blue-eyed, blond Cubans there are.”
    Turned out, Emilio’s English was impeccable and his customer sense outstanding. Almost immediately the boy intuited that although the tourist trade was important at the pumps, it was the locals who kept the service bays busy. Like Avery, he checked each car’s license plate first thing and paid special attention to those whose Florida plate began with No. 7, the state’s designation for Orange County. Lady customers were charmed by the teenager’s good looks and proper, Continental manners. Asked to do anything extra, he’d grin and say, “It would be my pleasure.” And by all appearances, it was. Back in the service bays, Emilio amused the mechanics with tales from his obviously privileged childhood in Cuba, which he pronounced
COO-ba
with quiet pride and affection. His stories—about Antonio their chauffeur’s passion for Havana showgirls; Marcellina the cook’s hapless attempts to catch a husband; and trips to his grandfather’s coffee plantation on a mountainside honeycombed with pirate caves—were full of intrigue and laughter, but often ended with a frown passing like a cloud across his sunny features. “Of course, that was all
before
…,” he’d say darkly, turning to spit in the nearest trash can, “…
Fidel
!”
    Now, for some reason, the priest was back, brushing rain off his freckled forehead and the shoulders of his black suit.
    “Please, uh…
sir,
have a seat,” Avery said. In his mind, the term
Father
was reserved for prayers to the Almighty.
    The priest nodded, sat, and began. “It’s been a month, Mr. Avery. I’m making the rounds, checking how our boys are doing.”
    Overhead the gas bell, triggered by the arrival of a powder-blue Ford Fairlane, rang its rapid
ding-ding.
Both men turned to watch Emilio snap the sides of his clear plastic rain poncho, straighten his cap, hustle out to greet the driver, then sprint around the car to the red Fire Chief pump.
    “Great kid,” Avery said. “Gets along with everybody…even old Steve in there, the station grump.”
    “Heard that,” Steve called from under the big Merc in his service bay.
    “I know it,” Avery called back. “Turns out they’re both nuts about baseball. Same team, too,” he told the priest. “What is it, Steve? The Senators?”
    “The
Twins
!”
    “Yeah, that’s it. I can’t keep up. Anyway, the boy’s a walking encyclopedia on Cuban ballplayers. Played catch as a kid with one of the rookies. What’s his name?”
    “Tony Oliva!”
    “Ah, yes.” The priest nodded. “They’re from the same town in western Cuba. Pinar del Rio. Pines by the River.”
    “Well, you should’ve heard