Red Angel (11 page)

“Next is two shells up, two down. This is
Eyife.
It is a definite yes, a conclusive answer.”

He pointed to the third drawing—three shells with the convex side up and one down. “Here the answer is
Otawe.
This means that the answer could be yes, but there is an obstacle to overcome.

“Next is three shells down and one up—
Ocana.
This is a definite no to the question or request. It tells us that something is wrong, or has happened, or was done by some enemy. To overcome this there must be an
Ebbo
, an offering to the god of the
nganga.

“And finally is
Oyekun
, which is all shells facing down.
This means that the dead one wants to speak, and you must question him.”

Devlin stared at Tamayo. The man seemed sincere in all he had said, like a Christian explaining the equally unfathomable resurrection of Christ.

“And you believe all of this?” he asked. “You believe that it works?”

“I have seen it work, my friend.” He gave Devlin a small smile that seemed a mixture of patience and tolerance. “And tonight, at midnight, when you visit the great
palero
Plante Firme, I believe you also will see it work.” He turned to Adrianna. “And it will be you who will make this magic happen. Because tonight, with Plante Firme’s help,
you
will speak to the dead man.”

Ollie Pitts sat on the terrace that ran the entire length of the Inglaterra Hotel. It was ten-thirty in the evening. Devlin and Martínez had picked him up at José Martí Airport two hours before, and Pitts had simply dumped his bags in his room and retreated to the terrace to have the first of the many beers he planned to add to Devlin’s tab.

Martínez sat on the other side of the small tile-covered table, a cup of strong Cuban coffee before him. He had offered to keep Pitts company while Devlin returned to his room to give Adrianna whatever comfort he could before her meeting with the dead man, now only an hour and a half away.

Pitts had only rolled his eyes when told of their midnight séance with the Palo Monte witch doctor. Now those same cop’s eyes roamed the sidewalk, taking in the array of beautiful young prostitutes who strolled by, smiles flashing at the tourists who crowded the terrace. Pitts let out a small snort and brought his attention back to the sad-eyed major.

“So, listen, Martínez. We pull this thing off, and find this
old broad’s body, I figure Fidel owes me a big one. Am I right?”

Martínez fought off a smile. “I am sure the Comandante will be very grateful.”

“Yeah, well, gratitude don’t quite cut it. You know what I mean?”

“What is it you would wish in payment for your services, Detective?”

Pitts smirked and again fixed his gaze on the young prostitutes parading along the sidewalk. “I want the Lycra concession for the whole island.” He let out a louder snort. “Hell, I’ll be a fucking millionaire overnight.” He shook his head and turned his gaze back on the major. “Where do these broads get their clothes, Martínez? You got a store down here called Whores ‘R’ Us?”

Martínez closed his eyes momentarily. “It is more simple than that, my friend. They see these clothes in American movies and on American television, and they think this is how they must look to be desirable.”

Pitts was now staring at a young woman with dark hair and garish makeup. She was no more than eighteen, and she was wearing a jersey-style top, tight about her neck but with a hole cut in its center large enough to allow half of each breast to protrude lasciviously. “I must be seeing the wrong fucking movies,” Pitts said.

The young woman seemed to sense mat Pitts was speaking about her. She stopped at the row of plants that created a barrier between the terrace and the street. Slowly, she withdrew a cigarette from her purse and indicated she wanted Pitts to light it.

“You are being offered one of the few capitalist delights of Cuba,” Martínez said. There was a hint of regret in his voice.

“I’ve been here for two hours. It’s about fucking time,” Pitts said.

Pitts pushed himself up from the table. He was dressed in
a flamboyant Hawaiian shirt over khaki slacks, but his feet were still clad in the black iron-toed cop brogans he had worn since his first day as a patrolman. He clomped over to the woman, grinning at the sizable breasts protruding from her blouse.

“You need a light, sweetheart?” Pitts raised his eyes, then glanced quickly over her shoulder toward the street.

The young woman gave him a coy look, drawing his eyes back, then placed the cigarette between suggestively puckered lips. When Pitts had applied flame from an oversized Zippo lighter, she tilted her head back and sent a stream of smoke into the air. Then she thanked him and rattled off a stream of Spanish in a soft, suggestive voice.

“You speakee the English?” Pitts asked.

The woman shook her head and offered up another soft phrase. It required no translation.

“Sex?” Pitts asked.

“
Sí.
Sex,” the woman said. She smiled at his sudden comprehension.

“Fuck?” Pitts asked.

“
Sí.
Fuck,” the woman said. She was still smiling.

Pitts shook his head in mock regret. “I’m sorry, sweetheart, but I promised my old mom that I’d never ball a chick who didn’t speak English.” He grinned again and started back to the table.

“You are a cruel man,” Martínez said as Pitts reclaimed his chair.

“So I’m told,” Pitts said. “By the way, there are two assholes standing next to a car over by that little park. They’re both dressed in white. Are these the two voodoo boys we got tailing us?”

“Is there anyone else near them?” Martínez asked.

“Not within fifty feet.”

Martínez nodded. “They will be our Abakua. No one will get very close to them.”

Pitts leaned forward and lowered his voice. “These guys are dangerous? Armed?”

Martínez nodded again. “With knives, only. But they are—how do you say?—very proficient with these implements.”

The detective’s eyes glittered. “Listen, Martínez. Since we got these armed scumbags—these known fucking killers—shadowing us, what are the chances of you getting me some heat?”

“Heat?”

Pitts rolled his eyes, “A
pistolero.
Boom, boom.”

Martínez shook his head. “Ah, a
pistola.
No, my friend. Not here in Cuba. It is not allowed for citizens, and certainly not for tourists. Besides, if Colonel Cabrera were to learn of it, it would give him an excuse to lock you away in one of our very unpleasant prisons for many, many years.”

“You carry one?” Pitts asked.

The major dropped a hand to the waistband of his trousers, which was covered by the tail of a pale blue shirt. “
Sí
, my friend. I carry one.”

Pitts sneered at him. “If it gets too heavy, I’ll relieve you of the burden.”

“Thank you, Detective,” Martínez said. “But it is very light, this
pistola.
”

Colonel Antonio Cabrera climbed out of the rear of his car and glanced casually over his shoulder. The large truck that had followed him had pulled to the curb on the opposite side of the park. Cabrera was dressed in civilian clothes and walked casually now to one of the benches that faced the Inglaterra Hotel. He beckoned to the two Abakua, and watched with satisfaction as people nearby scattered as the two white-clad men approached.

“Your truck is on the other side of the park,” he said. “If
they leave the hotel, take care of this matter tonight. If not, do so in the morning.”

One of the Abakua, a tall, lean, hard-eyed man somewhere in his thirties, stared down at Cabrera. There was no fear in his eyes as he confronted the colonel.

“It will be easier to make it seem an accident if they are driving.”

“They will definitely be driving in the morning,” Cabrera said. “They have an appointment at State Security at ten. But tonight, if possible. It will be better in darkness. And an evening stroll could put them in your headlights.”

“And if the major is with them?” the second Abakua asked.

“As I told you once before, I have little concern for the major’s safety,” Cabrera said.

Devlin and Adrianna arrived on the terrace at eleven-thirty. Adrianna was dressed in khaki slacks and a scoopneck, sleeveless yellow jersey. Despite efforts to appear outwardly calm, she could not hide the hint of nervousness in her eyes.

“You are dressed in the color of Ochun,” Martínez said. “Plante Firme’s
nganga
is dedicated to Oggun, who has always favored this goddess of beauty. It is a good omen.” He turned to Devlin, taking in his green, short-sleeved shirt. “And green is the color of Oggun,” he said. “Another favorable omen.”

“What about me?” Pitts asked, pulling at the front of his flamboyant Hawaiian shirt.

Martínez smiled. “The gods are tolerant,” he said.

Devlin glanced at Pitts, noting that his shirt was not tucked into his trousers—the street cop’s method of concealing a weapon when going jacketless. He knew Ollie was not carrying, had made sure of it when he arrived at the airport, and he wondered if he had chosen to wear his shirt this way
out of habit or to give himself the comfort of at least pretending he had a weapon.

Devlin had no such need. He hated guns, a hatred that stemmed from the times he had been forced to use one lethally. He still dreamed about those times, especially the first, when he had been forced to take the life of a fellow cop gone mad.
That’s right, the man’s a cop killer.
John the Boss Rossi’s words flooded back at him. He shuddered inwardly. Never again, he thought. Please, God, never again.

“I think we must be going,” Martínez said. “Plante Firme’s home is in the Lawton district, and it will take us twenty minutes, or more, to get there. And I want to go carefully, to see if we are followed.”

Martínez drove his old Chevrolet along the Avenida de Maceo, which fronted the coast. Like the streets of Old Havana, here the sidewalk promenade was awash with people, many with small children, all escaping the heat-filled confines of small apartments. At the National Hotel, which stood on a high bluff overlooking the sea, Martínez cut back inland, then headed south on the Avenida de los Presidentes. As they entered a large traffic circle with a fountain at its center, he pointed to a tall, stark building on his right.

“That is the Hospital Infantil,” he said. “It is where your aunt worked as a young intern before the revolution.” He gave a small shrug. “But then it was only for the children of the rich. Later your aunt changed that, and it was at this hospital that most of Havana’s children received their inoculations. To this day many people still call it the Hospital of the Red Angel.”

As he had done since they started out, Martínez kept a constant watch in the rearview mirror. From the rear seat, where he sat with Adrianna, Devlin glanced out the back window.

“I don’t see our Abakua friends,” he said.

“No,” Martínez said. “Just the same truck that has remained fifty meters behind since we began.”

Devlin gave the truck greater attention. As he did, the truck pulled out and accelerated. It seemed to leap ahead, coming quickly alongside their rear quarter panel. Now, under the streetlights, Devlin could see two white-clad men behind the windshield.

“Watch it,” he shouted. “They’re in the truck.”

“I see them,” Martínez shouted back. He hit the accelerator and the old Chevy’s big V-eight threw the car forward.

Devlin watched as the truck also jumped forward, quickly coming even with the Chevy’s rear bumper. Before he could warn Martínez, the truck cut sharply to the right, and he felt the jolt and the simultaneous thump as the truck struck the rear fender. Instinctively, he threw his arm around Adrianna and pulled her toward him, hoping his body would serve as a buffer to any heavier impact.

The truck pulled out, preparing to swerve into them again. They were headed down a steep incline, a large rock formation on their right, a sharp right-hand curve rapidly approaching.

As the truck started to jerk toward them again, Martínez hit the brakes, allowing the truck to slide past. Then he cut the wheel left, pressed the accelerator to the floor, and began a quick passing maneuver before the truck could respond.

“Give me your piece,” Pitts growled from the passenger seat. “I’ll pump a few in their door.”

“No,” Martínez snapped.

The Chevy leaped forward, and Martínez took it into the sharp right-hand turn at full speed. The car fishtailed, then straightened, racing along Avenida Rancho Boyeros, then into another sharp turn onto Avenida 20 de Mayo.

To their right, as they made the rum, the large marble monument to José Martí loomed above them. Opposite the
statue, the wall of the Ministry of the Interior displayed an illuminated silhouette of Che Guevara.

“Back there, in the heavily treed area behind José Martí’s statue, is where Fidel’s office is,” Martínez said.

Devlin noted there was no hint of fear in his voice. “Never mind the tourist crap, Martínez,” Devlin snapped. “Just get us the hell out of here.” He tightened his arm around Adrianna. He could feel her tremble under his touch.

“Hey, maybe we should drop in and pay a social call,” Pitts said. “Maybe Fidel’s got some boys with Uzis who can discourage these fucking voodoo assholes.” He jabbed a finger toward Martínez. “You know, you really pissed me off, not giving me your piece back there.”

“I will try to remember next time,” Martínez said. “For now, I must concentrate on losing our pursuers.”

Martínez cut off the main thoroughfare and into a rabbit warren of small streets, turning right, then left at every third or fourth intersection, gradually weaving his way through clusters of small houses, past scattered residential shops, the streets growing darker, the houses poorer with each turn.

The old Chevy, with its large engine and more maneuver-able chassis, quickly left the truck behind. Now the streetlights vanished, the houses became even smaller and more squalid. Here the occasional faces staring out from the sidewalks and front porches were entirely black, the quiet broken only by the sporadic strains of Latin music drifting out from open windows.