Red Angel (13 page)

“Eleggua, ile mo ku e o.”

“‘In your care I leave my home.’ Señorita Mendez must now say
‘A kue e ye,’
which means, ‘We greet you.’”

Adrianna repeated the chant.

“Eleggua, mo du e o,”
Plante Firme said, resuming his chant, and instructing Adrianna to again chant her response.

“They are telling Eleggua that they trust him completely,” Martínez whispered.

“Ariku, baba wa.”
Plante Firme’s voice rumbled out the words.

“He says, ‘Health, Father, come,’” Martínez whispered. “Now Señorita Mendez must say
‘Akuana.’
This is like saying amen to the prayer.”

Plante Firme raised one arm, holding it high above his head.
“Yu sow mo bi.”
He lowered his arm.

“He says, ‘Come in.’ Now we will ask the dead one.”

Plante Firme’s voice bellowed out into the room.
“La fo!”

Martínez lowered his eyes. “He is casting out the last of all unexpected evil,” Martínez whispered. “Now we may begin.”

Plante Firme turned to Adrianna. telling her that she could now consult the
nganga
, but only with questions that could be answered with a yes or a no. As Martínez translated, she asked if they would be able to find her aunt.

Plante Firme picked up a leather pouch and withdrew seven coin-shaped pieces of coconut shell, the concave portions painted white, the convex stained with a black dye. Again, he chanted in a low, rumbling voice, then cast four of the shells on the floor. When they rolled to a stop, all four came to rest with the white, concave sides facing up.

“
Alafia
,” Plante Firme said, nodding.

“This means the answer is yes, good news,” Martínez said. “But not conclusive. More must be asked.”

Adrianna lowered her eyes. Devlin could see her lip tremble.

“Has my aunt’s body been placed in a
nganga?
” Her voice was barely audible, as if she did not want to hear the question as well as the answer.

Again, Plante Firme cast the shells. This time all four black convex sides pointed up. The
palero
stared at the shells and drew a deep breath.

“Oyekun,”
Martínez said. “It means the dead man wants to speak. Now Plante Firme must ask the questions. Only he can speak directly when the dead one asks to talk.”

Plante Firme rumbled forth with a heavy mix of Bantu.

Martínez shook his head. “It is too complex. I do not understand the question,” he whispered.

Again the shells were thrown. When they stopped rolling, three convex sides faced up.

Now Martínez drew a long breath.
“Ocana,”
he whispered. “The answer from the dead man is no. Something is wrong, or has happened, or was done. It is needed some
ebbo
, some offerings.”

Plante Firme opened the bottle of rum that had been given to the god Oggun, drank deeply, then sprayed the rum onto the
nganga.
Then he spoke again to the dead man, a long, rambling question, almost exclusively in Bantu. Only the word
Santiago
was in Spanish. Again he cast the coconuts. This time two of each side faced up.

“Eyife,”
Martínez said, his voice excited. “This is a conclusive yes. The dead one has told the
palero
what must be done.”

The
palero
lowered his eyes, then slowly picked up the shells and returned them to the pouch. When he raised his eyes, his face seemed heavy with concern. Martínez translated as he spoke.

“He says it is as he feared. The
palero
of the Abakua has the body you seek. You must go to Santiago de Cuba and confront him. But before you go there, you must go to the cemetery where María Mendez was to be buried. There, if the words of the dead one are true, you will find that earth has been removed from the four corners of the grave. You must take handfuls of dirt from each of these places, and carry it with you. Only this will protect you from the
palero
, and the dead one he has created. Only in this way will you learn the truth. The
palero
you seek is called Baba Briyumbe.”

The
palero
reached out to the
nganga
and withdrew a red feather attached to a gnarled stick and handed it to Adrianna. He spoke again.

“The feather must be placed with the earth and carried at
all times,” Martínez translated. “It will create a charm that comes from the dead one, and from a power greater than Baba Briyumbe. Only this will protect against the evil of Baba Briyumbe.”

Plante Firme rose, leaned his staff against the wall, and removed his feathered hat.

“You should make an offering,” Martínez said.

Devlin was momentarily confused, his mind filled with visions of earth from a grave and bright red feathers.

“Money,” Martínez said. “An offering to the
palero
for his work.”

Devlin reached into his pocket and withdrew some folded currency. He took a twenty-dollar bill from the top and glanced at Martínez for some indication it was enough. Martínez nodded.

“Place it on the floor, before the
nganga
,” the major instructed.

Devlin did so.

“Now you must ring the bell.”

Devlin’s jaw tightened. He felt like a fool, but did as he was told. Again, the sound of the iron bell filled the room. When Devlin stood, Plante Firme placed a meaty hand on his shoulder, nodded his approval, and spoke again in his mixture of Spanish and Bantu.

“He likes you,” Martínez said. “But he says you must put aside your fears and follow Oggun.”

“For a picture of Andrew Jackson, he should give him a kiss,” Pitts said.

Adrianna threw Pitts a disapproving look. The big detective gave her a shrug and an impish smile.

Out in the courtyard, Pitts held up his hand. “Let me check the street before we go out,” he said.

He opened the gate, stepped out, then returned smiling. “There’s a big truck parked about three quarters of the way
down the block,” he said. He turned to Martínez. “Ask the man if there’s a way to get into the backyard next door so I can work my way down the street and check it out.”

Martínez relayed the question to Plante Firme. The
palero
nodded and answered in rapid Spanish.

“There is a rear gate that leads to an alley and into the next property,” Martínez said.

Pitts glanced around and saw a piece of lead pipe lying on the ground near the rear wall. He pointed to it. “Ask the
palero
if I can borrow that.”

When told he could, Pitts turned to Devlin. “Give me five minutes, then you and the major step outside, okay? Just keep their attention on you while I see if it’s our boys in white.”

“How far away is the truck?” Devlin asked.

“About fifty yards,” Pitts said. “Close enough for you to get there if it looks like I need help.” He glanced at Martínez. “You still got your peashooter?”

“
Sí
, I have my peashooter,” Martínez said.

Pitts entered the alley and moved into the next yard. It was pitch-black, the only light seeping through an occasional curtained window. He felt his way, climbed over succeeding fences, until he thought he had gone about sixty yards. When he made his way out to the street, he was no more than ten yards behind the large truck. A glance at the fresh gouge in its right front fender told him what he wanted to know.

Pitts moved up behind the truck, then inched along the passenger side, until he could hear voices inside the cab. He gave the side of the truck a solid whack with the lead pipe, then ducked down under its bed.

The passenger door opened immediately, and as it slammed shut Pitts saw two white-clad legs standing next to him. A grin flicked across his broad, flat face.

“Hola,” he whispered as he drove the pipe up between the legs, feeling it crunch against the softness of the man’s crotch.

The Abakua hit the ground with both knees and began to gag as Pitts emerged from under the truck and sent a second blow to the back of the man’s head.

Keeping low, he circled the front of the truck and crouched again. The second door slammed, and another white-clad figure came around the front fender. This time Pitts used the lead pipe like a police baton, jabbing it forward into the second man’s solar plexus. A knife clattered to the street as the man pitched forward, and Pitts grabbed the back of his head and drove his knee up into his face. The second Abakua sprawled on the street like a bag of white linen. Pitts picked up the knife, checked that both men were unconscious, relieved them of their wallets, then circled the truck, puncturing each of the four tires. He watched with satisfaction as the truck settled on its rims, then walked slowly back to the
palero
‘s house.

“You wanna cuff those scumbags?” He was grinning at Martínez.

The major shook his head. “Are they alive?”

Pitts gave him a shrug. “Yeah, but they ain’t gonna feel too good tomorrow.”

Martínez nodded, and Devlin thought he detected a note of approval. “I would like to see them,” the major said.

Martínez removed Adrianna’s sketches from his pocket and walked to the fallen Abakua. When he returned he handed the sketches back to her. “They are the same men from this afternoon. The likenesses are excellent,” he said.

A gleam came to Adrianna’s eyes, and Devlin could tell she was pleased she was finally a part of their ragtag investigation. “It might be better if we just leave those clowns where they are,” he told Martínez. “There’s no point in tipping Cabrera that we’re onto him. All those Abakua will be
able to say is that they were run over by some elephant with a lead pipe.” He turned to Pitts, shaking his head. “Did you get their IDs?”

Pitts handed over the wallets. Devlin opened the first, noted it was empty of any money, and eyed Pitts again.

“Hey,” Pitts said. “It’s a poor country.”

Devlin handed the wallets to Martínez, who immediately withdrew two small books. “Their identity papers,” he said. “I will have two of my most trusted men pick them up later tonight.” He glanced at Pitts. “If they have recovered from the elephant attack, they will be taken someplace where Cabrera cannot find them. We will hold them as long as our law permits.”

U.S. Senator Warren Burgess sat behind the dark mahogany desk. It was midnight and the only light came from a solitary banker’s lamp, its luminous shade casting a green tint about the small study tucked into one corner of the senator’s nine-room apartment in the Watergate.

The man seated across from Burgess seemed suited to the dim lighting. Everything about Michael DeForio was dark—his hair, his eyes, even the five-o’clock shadow that covered his cheeks and chin. Tonight, his clothing was dark as well, black jacket over black slacks and a black polo shirt.

Burgess could feel the sweat in his palms as he smiled at Mickey D, the street name given to DeForio by his bosses. It could stand for Mickey Dark, Burgess thought as he realized yet again just how unnerving it was to have this man in his home.

DeForio was forty years old, the youngest capo in the Gambino crime family. But he was a different breed of gangster. Unlike other mid-level mobsters, he did not head a crew of thieves and legbreakers and shakedown artists. He was a graduate of the Wharton School of Finance, with a
master’s degree in business administration, and for the past seven years he had worked as the Gambino family’s “Washington liaison.” It was something that gave the man weight. Especially for a U.S. senator who had been in the mob’s pocket for the past fifteen years.

DeForio took a sip of the drink Burgess had given him. Single malt, just like the man who poured it. He studied the senator, took in the very patrician nose, the distinguished wings of white hair along the sides of his head, the slightly uplifted, slightly arrogant chin. The perfect WASP. The perfect candidate for the moneyed set. But the man was a cheap cardboard cutout. Very cheap. Still, with a little luck—for us—he might one day find himself sitting in a large white house on Pennsylvania Avenue.

Mickey D leaned forward, struggling to keep the amusement out of his eyes. It was time for business. Real business.

“Senator, I always enjoy drinking your scotch. But it’s time for a little serious talk. We’re very close to moving ahead with our Cuban plan. But we’re a little disturbed by the rumblings we hear that the administration may lift the embargo after the November elections.”

“I thought there were problems in New York,” Burgess said. “I thought there was a war going on because of Rossi’s little blunder.”

DeForio waved his words away. “All settled,” he said. “In fact, Rossi’s going to Cuba to resolve that problem. I’ll be there at the same time to finalize things with Cabrera. But we’ll want assurances that the sanctions will remain in place.”

Burgess twisted nervously in his chair. “I’ll beat the drums. Where Castro’s concerned, it doesn’t take much to stir up the conservative wing of the party. But there are people in the administration who are especially adamant this time. We may have to call on the Miami Cubans again.”

A smile flickered across DeForio’s lips. The last time plans had been laid to lift the embargo, the Miami Cubans had come through like champs. They had set up a special flight for one of their planes, then had fed phony information to a known Castro spy that the plane would be dropping plastique to anti-Castro insurgents. Castro’s boys had bitten like the chumps they so often were, and had shot the plane down. And the embargo had remained in place.

“I love those Miami Cubans,” DeForio said. “They’ve made so much money, and gained so much political clout, the last thing they want is to see Castro gone. Christ, when the old bastard dies, they’ll all be crying in their rum.”

Burgess relaxed momentarily. “They have been helpful. And I’m sure they will be again if we need them.”

DeForio let out a raucous laugh. “Helpful. Hell, their little Helms-Burton bill was a stroke of genius. Castro was in a box with no place to go. The Soviet Union had collapsed and the Cuban economy—what was left of it—was in the toilet. The people wanted changes and they were fed up with the Comandante’s bullshit about remaining true to the revolution. They wanted trade with the U.S., and the money it would put in their pockets. They wanted freedom to travel, just like all the tourists who were flooding in from Europe and Canada and Mexico. They wanted the whole damn ball of wax, and they had Castro’s back to the wall. It was either give in, quit, or face a rebellion. Then the Helms-Burton bill passes, and all the Cubans who want change are faced with a very sticky problem. Suddenly all the very real goodies they’ve gotten over the past forty years are being threatened. All the agricultural land, all the houses they’ve been given, all of it will be up for grabs if Fidel goes under. And, just that fast, remaining true to the revolution doesn’t look so bad after all.” DeForio threw back his head and laughed again. “It was the smartest political maneuver in this cen tury,
and it did the one thing we all wanted. It kept Fidel in power.” He paused, gave Burgess a wide grin, then added: “For now.”