Hungry Ghosts

by Peggy Blair

  “Edel is disappointed. His team lost. Estella has a loose tooth. I think they are both ready to come home.”

  “I can’t wait to see them. I miss you all so much. You know, Francesca, I met an old woman today who knew my grandmother. She remembers when José and I were little boys not much older than Edel is now.”

  “Really? She must be ancient,” said Francesca, but her voice was a little warmer. She was fond of Ramirez’s younger brother.

  Ramirez laughed. “I’m not that old.”

  “Tell me about her, Ricky.”

  Ramirez boiled water in a dented saucepan on the stove in the small kitchen as he described the old woman. Francesca’s bad mood dissipated as they shared the day’s events.

  As he spoke, Ramirez carefully measured a handful of rice and poured it into the battered metal pot. He pulled the telephone cord taut so that he could reach the pot while he stirred. His family received only six pounds of white rice each month in their rations. Every grain was precious.

  He cradled the receiver between his neck and ear while he stirred the boiling water with a spoon, making sure the rice didn’t stick. The dead woman leaned against the door frame, watching him, one bare leg bent. He motioned her away with his free hand.

  “I should probably go, Francesca. I don’t want to overcook the rice. I’ve been running around all day. I didn’t have time to eat.”

  “Just rice, Ricardo? No beans? You’ll melt away to nothing.”

  “No fear of that,” said Ramirez. He thought of the sweets he’d consumed while his family was away. If Francesca knew how many, she would scold him. They ate badly enough as it was, she would say, without him mainlining sugar.

  He missed her terribly when he hung up the phone. When he was still a bachelor, there was no other girlfriend who got as angry at him as she did. That’s how he knew how much she loved him.

  Juan Otero probably loved LaNeva too, Ramirez thought. Was he angry because she was selling herself, as he claimed? Or because she was indifferent to their wedding anniversary? Were either of these reason enough for him to kill her? Divorce in Cuba was easy; only a few pesos and a notary. There was no property to divide.

  The apple in the victim’s stomach still nagged at him. Where did LaNeva get it? She had no money to buy things like that on the black market. There was something he was missing. But he was too tired to know what it was.

  Ramirez picked up Estella’s storybook from the floor. He looked at the picture of Snow White on the cover. Hector Apiro was right. It was peculiar for a woman to want to find true love after she died.

  He went into the bedroom. The dead woman lay stretched out on the bed in the same position as Snow White, her hands folded across her ample chest. She opened her eyes and smiled at him.

  “What happened to your foreign boyfriend, Antifona? Was he LaNeva’s client on Lovers’ Day? Did Juan Otero kill him too? Or maybe you did, for sleeping with another woman.”

  The dead woman shook her head and pointed to the ceiling. He looked up and saw nothing new except another crack in the stained plaster.

  “I’m sorry, Antifona,” he said. He was tired and had no more time for games. “You really need to leave. I can’t have you hanging around my apartment. My wife and children will be back soon, and believe me, Francesca wouldn’t appreciate you being here when she’s not home. Besides, you’re far too attractive. It’s distracting.”

  The dead woman smiled sadly. She put her finger to her full red lips. She got up from the bed and walked through the front door of the apartment. She didn’t look back.

  49

  It was after two in the morning and hot inside the stuffy apartment. Ramirez was too exhausted to sleep, his mind still trying to pinpoint what it was that troubled him about his investigation into LaNeva Otero’s murder.

  He got out of bed and pulled on a guayabera and jeans. He slid on a pair of sandals and walked downstairs to his car.

  He drove around aimlessly for a while, keeping an eye on the needle of the gas gauge. He finally parked on a side street in Old Havana and wandered along the Malecón towards Vedado, hoping the long walk there and back would tire him enough to get some sleep. He declined the calls from gay and transgendered men along the seawall to party with them.

  He purchased a bottle of Hatuey beer from a kiosko and followed the sounds of street music. He stood at the edge of a small crowd, sipping from the bottle, applauding the musicians. As the music got louder, residents poured out of their apartments, smoking, dancing, drinking, laughing.

  Foreigners, sunburned and stiff, tried dancing to the music, but they were awkward. Every now and then, locals would show them how it was done. A couple danced salsa to the clave, the mixture of African percussion and Spanish music that throbbed through Ramirez’s veins like a heartbeat; its rhythm was almost erotic.

  The music throbbed. Ramirez ached physically for his wife. He looked at his watch. It was already three thirty. He drained his beer and started the seven kilometre walk back to his car.

  Sex workers stood outside the downtown bars, hooting softly to potential clients. One leaned against his car, a bare leg bent against its scratched metal exterior. She wore a tight white skirt with yellow flowers, a blue top, and sheer black nylon stockings. Her face was unmistakeable. She’d haunted him for days.

  Ramirez stopped cold. He stared at Antifona Conejo, unbelieving.

  “Hey, cabanero,” she said softly. “You look lonely. We could go to a nightclub together.” The code words for intercourse, the come-on reserved for foreigners. But he was no foreigner. And she was no ghost.

  Antifona Conejo was alive? He looked up and down the street. How could that be? He put his hand tentatively on her arm and felt her smooth, warm skin. He felt a jolt of pure longing, the full impact of a week without lovemaking.

  “No touching,” she said, and winked at him. “Not yet, sweetheart. Not here.”

  “Do you have a twin?” he asked, bewildered.

  “You want two of us? For the right amount, anything is possible.”

  He was tempted, beyond tempted. “I’ve been looking for you,” he said finally.

  “All your life? I hear that all the time.” She ran her tongue around her lush red lips. “Believe me, you won’t be disappointed.”

  He considered taking Antifona back to his apartment but decided against it. It was too risky.

  “Let’s go to my car. We’ll get some beer to drink on the way.”

  She slipped her arm though his. Their hips brushed as they walked down the sidewalk; he felt electric sparks. He stopped at another kiosko and bought two more beers, all he could afford. They walked to his car. He opened the passenger door for her.

  “Well, aren’t you the gentleman.” She smiled. “I like a man who treats a woman well.”

  He walked around to the driver’s side. As soon as he was seated she leaned over. She circled his neck with her arm, running her fingers along his stubble. She ran her tongue around his ear. She reached for his fly with her other hand and lowered her head.

  “No, not here,” he said. He caught her hand in his. “There are too many policemen around.”

  Her palm was warm, the skin smooth. He felt her heat. His erection strained against his pants. He looked at the nylon stockings she wore, and his heart pounded. “Where did you get those?”

  She lifted her face and smiled. “From another woman. Does that make you hot, thinking of two women being together? She was hot too, believe me.” She sat back in her seat and hiked up her skirt. She lifted one long leg and put it on the dashboard, wiggling her toes. “They’re nice, aren’t they? Smooth as silk.” Her toenails were painted a deep red. “Do you want me to take them off for you? Or do you want to undress me yourself? I’m all yours tonight.” She put her fingers between his legs and squeezed lightly, caressing his balls.

  There was a shar
p rap on the windshield. A young policeman peered through the dirty glass. Ramirez recognized him, a foot patrolman. The policía nodded and walked away quickly, embarrassed.

  “I told you, not here.” Ramirez turned on the ignition. He decided where he wanted to take her, already knew what he needed to do.

  “Where are we going?” she asked, snuggling in to him.

  “Somewhere private,” Ramirez said. “My apartment has neighbours.”

  She ran her warm fingers along his thigh, cupping the bulge between his legs. He swallowed hard as they passed the same billboards he and Espinoza had seen on Thursday morning.

  On Airport Road, he pulled onto the shoulder and parked the car where it was darkest. The yellow tape was almost invisible in the shadows. He reminded himself to remove it when they were finished. Barrier tape was hard to find.

  “Why are you stopping here?” she asked.

  “We’re going into the forest.”

  She pulled her hand away and made a little girl pout. “I’d rather take the seat down and do it here, in your car. It’s a little small, but that could be fun.”

  “Look what happened in the city. You don’t want to be arrested, do you?”

  “But it’s dark in the woods. And there are mosquitoes. Maybe snakes too. You’re starting to frighten me.” She leaned away, pushed back in her seat, straightening herself. She folded her arms across her chest.

  “I’ll make it worth your while, I promise.”

  “How worth my while?” she said, smiling, and snuggled close to him again. “You ever see Cuba Gooding Jr. in that movie with Tom Cruise? Show me the baro.”

  That’s what’s missing, thought Ramirez. There’s no money in those purses. But no jinetera would be naive enough to go to an isolated spot with a stranger without getting his money up front. “If you show me your carné first,” he said. He reached into his pant pocket and pulled out his badge.

  “Fuck,” she said. “I don’t have it. I gave it to someone.”

  “Who?”

  “I won’t tell you, she’ll get in trouble. I’m nineteen,” she said, trembling. “I can do whatever I want. And now that she’s married, so can she.”

  He got out of the car and opened the passenger door. He took her firmly by the arm and pointed to the trees. “Come with me.”

  She walked in front, stumbling a little, catching her high heels in the hard rutted dirt. Déjà vu, thought Ramirez. Except she was alive. How was that possible?

  “Are you sure you don’t have a twin?” he asked her again.

  “Of course not,” she said indignantly. “Why do you keep asking? I have a sister, but she’s not my twin. Besides, I’m enough woman for anyone.”

  Headlights of passing cars caught them, but no one stopped. It was just like the young police officer; people averted their eyes. There was nowhere in Havana for unmarried Cubans to have sex; it was the same for married men who wanted to stray. Hotels were for foreigners; apartments were crowded. Ramirez stopped for a moment. He turned his head to look back at the road. A man and a woman walked into the woods. People saw them but looked away. A profiler sees what’s so obvious that no one else notices.

  “Are you going to arrest me or fuck me?” she said, yanking her arm away. “Make up your mind. I suppose this night is going to be free.”

  Is this how he does it? thought Ramirez. Bad policeman, Dr. Yeung said.

  Manuel Flores had warned that the serial killer could be in law enforcement. Was it one of their own? Or someone pretending to be a policeman, like the vandal from the museum?

  “Keep walking.” He kept a hand firmly on her back, making sure she knew he was in control. The woods were so dark he couldn’t tell what colours the flowers were on the blue mahoe tree. He could barely make out the yellow caution tape strung between the trees.

  “Lie down,” he said. “On your back.” He could barely see her. He might have lost her in the darkness without the white skirt.

  “No, I won’t,” she said. “I’ll get my clothes dirty. I have no soap to clean my skirt. It’s the only good one I have.”

  Good, thought Ramirez. She wasn’t making it easy. Did LaNeva Otero refuse to cooperate with the killer too? She was proud of her appearance. She wouldn’t have wanted to walk into the forest or lie on the debris of the forest floor in her new nylon stockings.

  He watched the lights of chebis—official tourist taxis—flicker through the foliage. Antifona could still break and run, despite her high heels. Badge or not, the killer had to have a weapon to keep his victims in line. But then he used his bare hands to kill them. Why?

  Because it was personal, Ramirez realized. He wasn’t just angry at jineteras, he hated them. Juan Otero didn’t hate prostitutes, he hated their clients. He was angry at his wife, not at hookers. He had no reason to kill Prima Verrier. Ramirez was suddenly certain that whoever killed those women, it wasn’t him.

  “What if I pull out a knife? Will you do what I tell you then?”

  “Jesus,” she said, her voice dropping to a whisper. “Are you going to kill me?”

  “I told you to lie down,” said Ramirez. He could have this woman all night if he wanted, make her pretend that she liked him, that she enjoyed being violated. But the women weren’t raped; Apiro had found nothing. What was the motive?

  She pulled off her nylon stockings and stuffed them in her purse so they wouldn’t snag. She collapsed on her knees and slowly crumpled on the ground. He could hardly see her, could only hear her stifled sobs and the dry rustling of leaves. He felt sorry for her, but not sorry enough to stop what he’d started.

  “I’m going back to the car now. I want you to scream when I walk away. I want to hear you scream all the way from the road.”

  “You’re loco,” she said. The outrage in her voice was impressive, the fact that it outweighed her fear. “Is this supposed to excite you? If the police find me alive, I’ll tell them that too. You kidnapped me, you left me alone in the woods like some kind of animal. Oh, I’ll scream all right. I’ll scream until the fucking trees fall down.”

  He walked back to his car. From the road, he couldn’t hear a sound. The white skirt with yellow flowers had vanished in the dark.

  Antifona walked out of the woods a few minutes later, picking leaves from her skirt. There were dirty streaks of tears on her cheeks, twigs caught in her thick hair. Ramirez waited, leaning against his car. He held the beer, felt condensation trickle down his wrist.

  “What the fuck were you doing? Are you a queer or something?” She got in his car and slammed the door.

  He got into the driver’s seat. He twisted the top from the second bottle of cerveza and gave it to her. Her hand shook as he told her about the murders. She took a deep draught, wiping a drop from her lip as it spilled on her white skirt, concerns about clean clothes forgotten.

  “You couldn’t tell me that before you scared the shit out of me? Here, light this for me. I’m shaking like a fucking palm tree.” She handed him a pack of cigarettes. He pulled one out and put it in his mouth to light it. He handed it back to her. It quivered in her fingers.

  “I needed to know what really happened in those woods. You had to be truly frightened for this to work. I needed you to scream as loudly for help as you would in real life. I’m sure now that he uses a weapon. But I’m starting to think that he kills his victims in broad daylight. It’s too hard to control women like you at night. You’ve proved what I’ve always known. Women are strong. They argue. They fight back.”

  “Thanks for the fucking compliment,” she said, smiling a little. She wiped her eyes. “But how could he do that? We all work nights.”

  Ramirez pulled on his bottle. “What arrangements would you make to see a client in the daytime?”

  “No one hustles during the day, trust me. We’re all too tired.”

  “Tell me about your client
. The woman who gave you the nylons.”

  “What’s to tell?” said Antifona. “She was going to be in Havana for a few days. She wanted some companionship.”

  “What can you remember about her? Anything distinctive?”

  “She had a nice back. Well-defined. She said she had to be strong, that they trained them hard. That’s all I remember.”

  “Did she say what that was?”

  “No. I didn’t ask.”

  “How did you meet her? Online?”

  She thought for a moment. “She must have got my number from someone. I have a cell phone. You’re not going to arrest me for that, are you?”

  Ramirez shook his head. “Did she tell you her name?”

  “We didn’t talk much, Señor, believe me. I told her I had a foreign boyfriend. She said she didn’t care. She said she swings both ways and then she laughed. Besides, I’m not even sure if I have a boyfriend anymore. He was supposed to be here this week, but he never showed up.”

  “What’s his name?”

  “What difference does it make? He’s long gone.”

  Ramirez didn’t know how to tell her that her boyfriend was probably lying in Apiro’s morgue. Besides, if he was right, she would never be able to identify the body anyway; it was no longer recognizable.

  “Antifona, you need to be more careful. There could be another government crackdown soon. In fact, I’d count on it.”

  “It’s la lucha,” she said defiantly. Survival. “They can’t stop people from having sex.”

  “No,” Ramirez conceded, “but they can stop you from charging money for it. They can put you in a rehabilitation camp.”

  Antifona shuddered. “I was in one of those camps. It was awful. I didn’t like it.”

  “It could have been worse. I could have killed you tonight and no one would have heard a thing.” He told her about the histology card Apiro had found in the victim’s purse. The one bearing her name.

  “My card? But I gave it to my sister. She was looking for work. She needed a permanent address.”