The Beggar's Opera

by Peggy Blair

  “Is that where you learned to speak such good English?” Jones asked.

  “Thank you. Of course, like all Cubans, I learned my English at school. And then, I had a very good tutor for a year. A doctor. He enjoyed literature and used to read to me. I hope someday to get a university degree. I only do this because I need the money. And because sometimes, I mean someday, I hope to meet a nice man who will accept me for who I am.”

  They turned right on San Miguel and left onto Campanario. Maria pointed across the street to a boarded-up three-storey apartment building.

  “There it is.” Maria started to walk towards it.

  “Maria, we should wait for the police,” said Jones, and grabbed her arm. “We don’t have any weapons if there’s anyone in there.” “Speak for yourself,” Maria said, and pulled off her stilettos.

  FIFTY - FIVE

  The building was pitch black inside. Celia Jones took a moment to let her eyes adjust to the darkness. “What floor is it on?” she whispered, gripping a rock she had picked up from the crumbling walls.

  “Third,” Maria Vasquez whispered back. She stood so closely behind that Jones could feel her breath on the back of her neck.

  Jones hoped her police martial-arts training would come back to her if she needed it. She was rusty, but in pretty good shape from years of salsa dancing.

  They edged their way up the creaking wooden staircase. Some streaks of light peeked from the boards nailed over what had once been windows.

  The building was completely abandoned. Most of the apartment doors had been removed, probably for reuse elsewhere. There were no lights; all the fixtures were broken. There was no electricity. “Don’t put any weight on the railing,” Jones whispered. “It’s loose.”

  They finally reached the third floor. Maria pointed to a room at the end of the hallway, to the right. Jones followed her to the end of the hall, stepping as lightly as she could. The floor groaned beneath her feet. Maria was still barefoot, clutching her shoes. Jones could hear her rapid breaths. Her own heart pounded in her ears.

  They stopped, waited to see if they’d been heard, if there was anyone else in the building, but it was quiet. Not even the sound of birds scrabbling on the ledges.

  Jones motioned to Maria and they took the last couple of steps to the apartment. It was one of the few in the building that still had a door, left slightly ajar. Jones pushed it open just a little more.

  The boards over the windows inside had been removed so the room had light. She swung the wooden door as slowly as she could. It creaked.

  There was a soiled mattress on the floor and marks in the dust. Empty plastic water bottles. A child’s yellow shirt, discarded. But there was no one there.

  She pushed the door all the way open and took a few steps inside. Dust motes swirled through the broken window as the sun scattered its dying rays.

  “This is it,” Jones said. “I’m sure of it. Be very careful not to touch anything. Arturo was probably killed here.”

  “What do we do now?” Maria asked.

  “We call Inspector Ramirez, and then we wait until he gets here. In case Nasim comes back.”

  Jones took another step forward, careful to avoid the marks on the floor, and looked more closely at the small yellow shirt. There were blood spots on the mattress and a pair of small blue running shoes beside it, no laces.

  “Those are Arturo’s shoes,” said Maria. “But he was not wearing them when I saw him on Christmas Eve. What a terrible place this is. What an awful place to die.”

  Jones heard the door open below and footsteps on the stairs. “Quiet,” she whispered. When she poked her head out the door, she saw the top of a straw hat.

  “It’s Nasim,” she shouted, and she ran down the hall to the wobbly staircase.

  Nasim turned and fled down the stairs. He missed several steps. He landed hard on his feet, then ran out the front door and up the cracked asphalt of Campanario, pumping his legs hard, headed towards the Malecón. The straw hat flew off, rolled crazily down the sidewalk.

  He was quick, but Jones managed to catch up to him. She jumped on his back and they both went down. Nasim fell facefirst, throwing his arms out in front to break his fall, and Jones landed hard on top. Maria was right behind them, swinging one shoe around in the air like a club.

  The two of them managed to pull Nasim’s arms out from under him and yank them back behind him. Jones put all her weight on Nasim’s back to keep him down, but he was struggling hard to break free. “We need to tie him up somehow.”

  Maria pulled a scarf out of her bag. “Here. Use this.”

  Somehow they managed to tie his hands together. But when they turned him over, it wasn’t Nasim that Jones had tackled. It was Miguel Artez.

  FIFTY - SIX

  What the hell? “What are you doing here? Why did you run away?” Celia Jones demanded.

  She propped the hotel doorman up against the wall of a building. Miguel Artez sat, with his hands tied behind him, on the dirt and weeds. He began to laugh.

  “You tell me, you bastard,” said Maria Vasquez. She held the stiletto heel of her shoe like a knife to his throat. “You tell me what happened to Arturo.”

  But Artez didn’t answer. As Jones looked at him, she wasn’t as surprised as she might have been. She had never been as sure of him as Mike was; he was a little too helpful, a little too eager to insert himself into any problem that presented itself.

  “The police are on their way,” Jones said. “They’ll make you talk.”

  “The police?” Artez said, quietly laughing again. “You have no idea what you are involved in, Señora.”

  “Oh, yes I do. The police are going to do a lot to you for raping and killing that little boy.”

  “What are you talking about?” The doorman sat up straight, the smile wiped from his face. “I know nothing about a boy being killed.”

  “Arturo Montenegro,” Maria said, and she bent over and slapped his face, hard. “You know exactly who she is talking about. Just eight years old.”

  “Ouch,” Artez winced, his cheek reddening. “There’s no need to hit me. I don’t know what you are talking about, trust me.”

  “You do know what happened to him, you cockroach,” Maria said, and she slapped him hard again. “You and Nasim killed Arturo and you tried to frame Señor Ellis. You told the police I was not with him on Christmas Eve when you knew I was. You bastard. You lied and Señor Ellis ended up in jail. He could have been killed.”

  A small trickle of blood ran from the doorman’s nose. “Stop hitting me,” he begged. “I didn’t kill anyone. I only put the pictures on the internet. I uploaded them for Nasim so that he could share them with others. Men who like such things.”

  “Liar,” Maria spat. She was going to slap him again, but Jones stopped her.

  “Say that again? You did what?”

  “Photographs. Nasim took photographs of the boys. I have access to the internet. It is rare to have that access here; you know that, Señora. I post photographs for clients sometimes. That is all I have ever done. A small business of sorts.” He gave Jones a pleading look, shrugging his shoulders. “I am an entrepreneur, that is all.”

  “You mean a bisnero,” said Maria. “A hustler.”

  “Why are you here now?” asked Jones.

  “Nasim emailed me this afternoon. He told me to meet him here to get more photographs from him.”

  “Don’t play games,” said Maria. “Admit it, you raped Arturo. You were the Habanero that Arturo told me about. You were in the room the day those photographs were taken. Filthy pictures.” She clenched her hand into a fist.

  “No, I was not.” Artez looked up at her, pleading, then Jones. “I swear. This is the first time I have been here. Usually Nasim brings me a memory card and we meet at his hotel. I know nothing about Señor Ellis being framed. I never knew he was charged with anything, or that he might be. No one said anything to me. All I did was process Nasim’s photographs, I swear.”

&
nbsp; “Wrong answer,” Maria said. And this time she hit Artez with her fist. Jones heard the cartilage snap in his nose.

  “Please, Señora, do not let her hit me again,” Artez pleaded. “I told you the truth.”

  Maria had her hand clenched to punch him a second time, but Jones stopped her. “He couldn’t have raped Arturo on Christmas Eve, Maria. He was working the front door of the hotel all night. It had to be Nasim.”

  Maria dropped her fist, but her fingers were still curled tightly together. “Too bad about your nose,” she said. “But we have very good plastic surgeons here. Besides, it will add character to your face.”

  They heard the sound of an engine. All three turned their heads as a police car drove slowly along Campanario.

  FIFTY - SEVEN

  Detective Rodriguez Sanchez parked the patrol car and got out. He looked at them quizzically, and then at the blood streaming from Miguel Artez’s nose.

  “What is going on here?”

  “She hit me,” said Artez, tipping his head back to stop the bleeding. “Maria. She was going to hit me again.”

  “You be quiet,” Sanchez said firmly. “I will take a statement from you later. I want to hear what happened from them before I talk to you. For the second time, what is going on here?”

  Celia Jones answered. “You should be looking for a British tourist named Nasim. That’s his first name. He raped and killed Arturo Montenegro. Miguel was supposed to meet him here today. Miguel claims he was just the webmaster for some pornographic photos of Arturo and some other children that Nasim took. But Nasim had someone with him during those assaults. A Cuban man. It had to be Miguel. I think he helped Nasim get rid of the body. His cousin has a car. A woman named Juanita.”

  “Not me,” Artez moaned. “I swear. I just uploaded his photographs.”

  “You,” Sanchez said, “be quiet.”

  He turned back to Jones. “Ramirez was right about you. He was sure you would lead us to Señor Ellis’s accomplice.”

  “Señor Ellis had nothing to do with this,” said Maria. “It was Nasim who killed Arturo. I was with Señor Ellis that night. He is completely innocent. And I would like my scarf back, please. It’s one of my favourites.”

  Sanchez pulled a pair of handcuffs from his back pocket and untied the scarf around Miguel Artez’s hands. He handcuffed Artez properly and handed the scarf back to Maria. Then he pulled Artez up hard by the metal cuffs and walked him over to the police car. He pushed him roughly into the back seat and slammed the door.

  Maria rubbed her knuckles. They were already swelling.

  “I am glad I did not have to use these.” She picked up her stilettos and looked at them fondly, then slipped them on. She grinned at Jones. “These shoes were expensive. Hard to find here. But I’m like a blind squirrel; I always find a nut.”

  “Everything’s upstairs, in an apartment on the third floor,” Jones told Sanchez, pointing to the building. “I’m sure Forensics will have a field day with all the evidence they find in that room. We thought we’d better head over here in case he planned to come back to clean it up.”

  “It all ties together,” Sanchez acknowledged. “I will call this in and get Dr. Apiro and our laboratory technicians over here right away. Meanwhile, you’re right: this Nasim character could show up at any moment. He may be dangerous. It is better if you’re not here. We can get written statements from you later.” He took out his notebook and wrote down Maria’s name. “Your address?” he asked.

  “It varies,” she said.

  He raised his eyebrows but didn’t inquire further. “Señor Ellis will be released within a few hours, Señora. Trust me, we will have Nasim in custody in no time. Even if he does not arrive for his meeting with that scum.” He directed his eyes to Artez in the back of his car. “We have eyes and ears all over Havana, do not worry. All over Cuba, for that matter. Thank you again for your help. If I do not see you before you leave, Señora Jones,” he added, as he got back into his police car, “have a safe trip home.”

  The two women walked back towards the Parque Ciudad Hotel. Jones was tired and hungry, but elated. She had closed the case for the Cuban police and she had firmly established Mike’s innocence. She was already imagining how happy Miles O’Malley would be to hear the news.

  Without Miguel Artez overseeing the front door, Maria couldn’t come into the hotel, so Jones offered to take her to the Ambos Lados for dinner later that evening. It was supposed to be yet another of Hemingway’s favourite restaurants, with a wonderful view of the city from its rooftop terrace.

  Maria declined, explaining she wasn’t allowed to eat there with a foreigner. She didn’t seem that upset.

  Jones asked if she’d like to join her somewhere else for a bite to eat, but Maria said there was someone she wanted to find, an old friend she hadn’t seen in years.

  She gave Jones a quick hug. And then she was gone.

  FIFTY - EIGHT

  Hector Apiro was quite surprised to be called by reception. He was in the morgue, in the midst of a procedure on one of his cadavers. It was a time, as always, when he had asked not to be disturbed so he could sculpt in deepest silence. Annoyed, he hopped from his stepladder and answered the phone.

  “There is a young woman at the front desk asking for you,” the receptionist said. “She says it is personal. Shall I tell her to go away?”

  There was a tone of disapproval in Consuela Gomez’s voice that intrigued Apiro. It wasn’t often that a woman came calling for him, particularly one that Consuela disapproved of so overtly. “Of course not,” he said. “I shall be right down.”

  Apiro was even more surprised when he saw who it was. He recognized her immediately.

  “My goodness,” the surgeon said, delighted, “it has been a long time.” He embraced the tall woman with his short arms, which surprised Gomez, who had never seen him show physical affection, even so awkwardly. “Come, I’ll make some coffee.”

  Gomez frowned as she watched them walk to the elevator. Jineteras were not allowed in the building. Apiro called back to her. “Everything’s fine,” he assured her. “She’s an old friend.”

  The elevator door creaked open. Apiro admired the woman’s looks as the door closed behind them. The elevator buzzed at the thirteenth floor and the door opened.

  “You see,” Apiro said. “I am not afraid of bad luck. Most buildings pretend their thirteenth floor is their fourteenth floor, as if an entire floor has disappeared. And people believe the illusion.” He laughed his staccato laugh, amused at the notion that so much of life was illusion, that so much of his work had been to make the thirteenth floor, at least in other people’s lives, disappear.

  “What name are you going by these days?” he asked. “Still Maria Vasquez?”

  “Yes,” she nodded.

  “Ah, Maria. The Virgin. I always thought it was a good choice.”

  “I think you will be disappointed to know what I have become.

  It is hardly the occupation you would have wished for me.”

  “As I remember, you used to say that when you grew up, you wanted to be a foreigner,” Apiro chuckled. “Here, let me see your face.”

  She leaned over, towering over his four-foot figure, and he traced his fingers gently over her cheekbones. “Extraordinary,” he said. “Beautiful.”

  “Gracias. Thanks to you.”

  “Not at all,” he said. “I simply enhanced what was inside.”

  Maria followed him. Her high heels clacked down the somewhat dingy corridor until they reached his office. It was small, with a large window that overlooked the ocean.

  There were books piled on books. There was a child-height swivel chair that might have been covered in fabric once, the upholstery worn through to the batting beneath. A stool was buried under papers. He pulled it out for her and reached underneath the books for a coffee mug as well.

  “Here, sit, please. Let me make you some coffee. It’s not too late at night for you?”

  She shook
her head.

  Apiro located a glass coffee pot. He excused himself to get some water, leaving her to look around his office. He came back with an electric kettle, which he plugged in. When it whistled, he filled his glass pot with fresh grounds and water and let the coffee steep. He pushed down on the metal perforated top, so that the coffee grounds stayed at the bottom.

  “They call it a French press,” he explained. “Who would have guessed the French would know anything about making coffee?” He poured them each a mug of the rich brew. “Real beans,” he said. “From the black market.”

  Maria sat quietly for a moment as she sipped. “Are you angry with me?” she asked. “That I left without saying goodbye?”

  “Of course not. I never expected you to stay,” he lied.

  “I never even thanked you for paying for my surgery.”

  “You knew?” At the time, he’d considered it as good an investment of his small savings as any other. As for the rest of the medical supplies he’d needed, he had begged, borrowed, and even stolen some of them.

  “Yes, of course,” she said, tears welling in her eyes. “It is still the kindest thing anyone has ever done for me.”

  He handed her a handkerchief from his pocket. She wiped her eyes with it, then folded it neatly and gave it back. “I missed you, Hector. I’m happy to see you looking so well.”

  “You missed me?” he said, surprised. “Really?”

  “Of course,” she said. She looked at his walls. “I assumed you would be married by now. But I see no photographs of a family, only your degrees and certificates. You’re not married?”

  “Me? Of course not,” Apiro scoffed. “I mean, seriously, what woman would want me?” He looked at his short legs as if the answer was self-evident.

  She reached out and touched his arm lightly. “Any intelligent woman would be lucky to have you. I think women are more thoughtful than you give us credit for.”