Ricky stares at me with widened eyes. "Grand theft auto? Wow, you know fancy English words for a new guy."
"What do you mean?" I ask, confused by his reaction.
"That's from that movie, right? Released last year. Grand Theft Auto with Ron Howart." Ricky snaps his fingers excitedly. "About those lovers stealing cars and running away while everyone chases them. Didn't think many people saw it, definitely not many Cubans who just got here."
I bite my tongue, realizing I've used a term that's probably not common slang yet. In 2025, everyone knows "grand theft auto" from popular video game series, but here in '78, it's just a legal term and apparently a movie title.
"My English is pretty good," I say, deflecting. "Learned it young."
Ricky nods approvingly. "No kidding, man. You don't even have much of an accent. My mom's been here fifteen years and still sounds like she just stepped off the boat."
I turn back to examining the tools, grateful for the distraction. Another slip-up. I need to be more careful about what I say, the last thing I need is people questioning where I really came from.
"Actually," I say, studying the bolt cutters, "I might have an idea. Something I heard about when I was on the streets in Cuba."
Ricky looks skeptical. "What kind of idea?"
"License plate switch. You take plates off an abandoned car, put them on yours temporarily. After the job, you switch them back."
"That works?"
"If the abandoned car's been sitting long enough, cops aren't looking for those plates. Gives us a few hours of cover."
Ricky grins. "I know about the salvage yard off Route 1. Place is full of cars that ain't moved in years."
We pay for our tools and head back to the truck. The late afternoon sun beats down on the cracked asphalt as Ricky starts the engine.
11:30 PM
The salvage yard sits behind a chain-link fence topped with rusted barbed wire. No lights, no security guard shack, just rows of dead cars baking under the Miami stars. Ricky cuts the engine two blocks away and we walk the rest.
"There," Ricky whispers, pointing through the fence. "That Buick on the blocks. Plates look good from here."
A 1974 Buike Electra sits propped up on cinder blocks, both front tires missing. The Florida license plate HJG-847 hangs slightly crooked but intact.
The fence has a section near an electrical transformer where the links are loose. Ricky works them apart with his hands while I keep watch. My heart hammers against my ribs. First time stealing anything in this new reality.
"You okay?" Ricky whispers, noticing my hands shaking.
"Just keeping alert," I lie.
The fence gap opens wide enough for us to squeeze through. Ricky goes first, then me. We move between the car husks, stepping carefully over broken glass and scattered auto parts.
The Buick's plates come off easy with Ricky's screwdriver. Two minutes and we're back at the fence with our borrowed plates.
"Now the hard part," I mutter.
Switching the plates on Ricky's truck takes longer. The bolts are tight and we're working by streetlight. Every passing car makes me freeze.
"Relax, hermano," Ricky says. "You're gonna give yourself a heart attack."
But as the stolen plates click into place on his pickup, something cold settles in my stomach. We just crossed a line. No more small-time debt collection or cigar smuggling. This is real criminal territory.
"There," Ricky says, pocketing his original plates. "We're ghosts now."
I count my money one more time while he works: hundred singles for emergency rewinds, forty-five in larger bills for regular expenses. One hundred and forty five dollars total. Not much of a safety net for what we're about to attempt.
12:15 AM
Miami at midnight feels like a different city. Empty streets, flickering neon signs reflecting off wet pavement, the distant thump of disco music from nightclubs we can't afford. Ricky drives carefully, obeying every traffic law with religious precision.
"Container B-47," I repeat information for the third time. "Secondary Inspection Area C."
"I heard you the first time."
But repetition helps calm my nerves. In my mind, I trace potential escape routes from Ricky's description of the port layout. North exit toward the highway. South toward the marina. East back into the city proper.
The Port Authority complex sprawls along Biscayne Bay like a small industrial city. Massive cranes rise against the star-scattered sky, container ships moored at distant piers. From two blocks away, the place looks bigger than I expected. Much bigger.
"Jesus," Ricky whispers. "It's huge."
"Your contact was sure about the location?"
"Secondary Inspection Area C, near the eastern fence. But..." He squints through the windshield. "Man, there's a lot of containers in there."
We park behind a utility building that houses electrical equipment for the dock cranes. The truck's engine ticks as it cools. In the distance, a ship's horn echoes across the water.
My fingers tap against my thigh: thumb, index, middle, ring. The familiar rhythm that always surfaces when I'm nervous. In 2025, this habit drove people crazy during tense moments. Here in 1978, Ricky just thinks I'm keeping time to music only I can hear.
"You ready for this?" he asks.
"Ready as I'll ever be."
But staring at the massive shipping complex, I wonder if we're in over our heads.
12:25 AM
The fence section Ricky's contact described sits near a electrical transformer that hums with steady voltage. Someone has already cut partway through the chain links, leaving a hidden gap that opens with pressure.
The bolt cutters make quick work of the remaining links. We slip through into a maze of stacked shipping containers that stretch in every direction like metal canyons.
"Damn," Ricky breathes.
From outside, the shipping yard looked organized. From inside, it's chaos. Containers stacked four high create narrow passages that twist and turn without apparent logic. Some passages dead-end at walls of steel. Others branch into multiple directions.
"Secondary Inspection Area C should be..." Ricky consults a hand-drawn map. "That way, I think."
We move between the container stacks, our footsteps echoing off metal walls. Every shadow could hide a security guard. Every sound makes us freeze.
The maze is disorienting. After five minutes, the passages all look identical. After ten minutes, I've lost track of our entry point.
"This way," Ricky whispers, taking a left turn between two red containers.
"You sure?"
"Pretty sure."
12:50 AM
We're lost.
Twenty-five minutes of wandering through identical metal corridors, and we're no closer to Secondary Inspection Area C than when we started. Worse, I can't find our way back to the fence.
"We should have brought bread crumbs," Ricky mutters, studying his useless map.
"This is idiotic," I snap, frustration boiling over. "We should have studied the layout better. Should have—"
"Hey," Ricky interrupts. "We're learning as we go."
My fingers tap frantically: thumb, index, middle, ring, thumb, index, middle, ring. The familiar rhythm helps me think.
"Okay," I say, forcing calm into my voice. "What do we know? The inspection areas are near the administrative buildings. Those have to be closer to the main entrance."
"So we head toward the biggest lights?"
"Exactly."
We backtrack through the maze, using the glow from the administrative complex as our guide. This time, I pay attention to landmarks: a dented blue container with Cyrillic lettering, a yellow container with a broken lock, a stack that leans slightly to one side.
After another ten minutes of careful navigation, we finally see a sign mounted on a chain-link fence: "SECONDARY INSPECTION AREA C - AUTHORIZED PERSONNEL ONLY."
"There," Ricky grins. "Told you I'd find it."
Beyond the fence, containers sit in organized rows rather than random stacks. Each one marked with inspection tags and paperwork. Container B-47 should be somewhere in there.
And hopefully, it contains something worth the risk we're taking.