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.
“B
ack 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.
Five minutes later Martínez pulled the car to a stop in front of a small blue cinderblock house, with a matching high wall that enclosed a small courtyard.
The major let out a long breath. “We are here,” he said as he climbed out and walked to the rear of the car. Devlin heard him utter a curse as he viewed the damage to his left rear fender.
“We are here,” Pitts mimicked. His eyes roamed the darkened street, taking in a small group of black youths gathered a short distance down the street. “We’re in fucking Harlem and Señor Major’s got the only heat, which, if you ask me, he probably forgot to load.”
“Shut up, Ollie,” Devlin snapped. “In case you didn’t notice, Señor Major kept us from being roadkill back there. So cut him some slack.”
Pitts pushed open his door and heaved his bulk onto the sidewalk. “I hope that’s the only thing that gets cut around here.” He walked to the rear of the car. “Hey, Major, nice neighborhood. You got any baseball bats in the trunk.”
Martínez ignored him. He was still staring at the crumpled rear fender. Even with the lack of light, Pitts could see his face was glowing with rage.
“I’m sorry about your car,” Devlin said as he and Adrianna joined him. “It seems the colonel wants our visit postponed a little longer than he said.”
Martínez nodded. “So it would seem.” He looked up at Pitts, his eyes still angry. “And you do not have to fear our Negroes, Detective. Here in Cuba, they have no need to attack an oppressor. Here we all share misery together.”
Martínez took a bottle of rum from the Chevy’s oversized glove box and led them to a solid iron gate set in the high blue wall. He pulled a chain that rang a small bell inside. Moments later the gate was opened by a thirtyish brown-skinned man, dressed only in a pair of shorts and rubber shower sandals. He greeted Martínez in rapid Spanish, then led them into the small courtyard.
“This is Plante Firme’s son,” Martínez explained. “He asks that we be seated while he gets his father.” The major turned to Devlin and Pitts. “The palero speaks only Spanish and Bantu. If you will permit me, I will translate for you. Señorita Adrianna, of course, will be able to converse with the palero in Spanish.”
The courtyard was small and sparsely furnished. There were four kitchen chairs arranged in a line so they faced a larger, solitary chair that sat with its back to the house. A small pen stood off in one corner, and they could see a half-grown pig snuffling about in the dirt. Martínez pointed to two cast-iron pots off to one side, one slightly larger than the other.
“These are ngangas being prepared for believers,” he said. “Please do not touch them.”
“They got the bones of some stiff in them?” Pitts asked.
Martínez nodded. “Among other things.”
They seated themselves in the four chairs. Devlin noticed bunches of feathers hanging from an arbor, along with bundles of sticks. The skull of what he thought was a dog sat on a small table off to his right, and, inexplicably, there were posters of American cowboys hanging on the exterior wall of the house.
A large black man came around a corner of the house and entered the courtyard. He stopped at the pen that housed the pig, picked up a bucket, and threw feed to the grunting animal. Finished, he walked slowly—majestically, Devlin thought—to where they were seated. He was naked to the waist, ballooning pants hanging from surprisingly narrow hips. From the waist up he was immense, with a wide chest, thick arms, and a protruding belly; well over six feet and easily two hundred and forty pounds. He was in his late sixties, or early seventies, but still gave off a sense of physical power. The only hair on his head was a closely cropped gray beard. He wore a necklace of green beads around his neck, and a length of rope surrounded his waist, from which hung a woven straw pouch.
Martínez leaned into Devlin and nodded toward the pouch. “His macuto,” he whispered. “Inside is his mpaca, the horn which contains all the elements of his nganga.”
“Including …?” Devlin whispered.
“Yes. Inside are small parts of the dead man.”
They all stood as Plante Firme stopped in front of them. His eyes were curious, but not in any way threatening. He extended a massive hand to each of them. He was the only man Devlin had ever met with hands even larger than those of Ollie Pitts.
“Npele nganga vamo cota. Npelo nganga ndele que cota.”
“He welcomes us to speak with and to consult his nganga,” Martínez said.
With that, Plante Firme turned and walked to the large chair opposite. He sat, placing his massive hands on his knees. Equally large feet, with gnarled, twisted toes protruded from well-worn shower sandals. Everything about the man looked impoverished. Everything except his demeanor, Devlin thought. There was an aura of power about the man, and it was reflected in his son’s eyes as he took a subservient position behind the palero‘s thronelike chair.
Plante Firme uttered a stream of Spanish in a low, soft, rumbling voice.
“He says he has consulted his nganga before we arrive,” Martínez said. “So he can know about us.”
Plante Firme’s eyes fixed on Adrianna. He shook his head as he spoke again. “No es amarillo. No es Oshun. Yemaya. Madre de la vida. Madre de todos los orishas. Es la dueña de las aguas y representa el mar, fuente fundamental de la vida. Le gusta casar, chapear y manejar el machete. Es indomable y astuta. Sus castigos son duros y su cólera es temible pero justiciera. Sus colores son azul y blanco.”
Adrianna turned to Devlin. “He says I’m wearing the wrong color. That I am not a daughter of Oshun. He says I must wear blue and white for Yemaya. He explained why, and who Yemaya is.”
Plante Firme turned to Devlin, and again his voice rumbled forth. “Oggun. Sí, Oggun.” He continued rapidly, in what to Devlin became a jumble of words.
Martínez leaned in again. “He says you are a son of Oggun, which pleases him, because he is also Oggun’s son, and has dedicated his nganga to him. But he also says you are in conflict. Oggun is a warrior who fears nothing. He says you fear your own power, and wish to avoid violence. This, he says, is because you have been forced to kill, and this has caused peace to flee your heart. He says this is wrong for you, that you lose Oggun’s power by believing this way.” Martínez hesitated as Plante Firme spoke again, then quickly translated. “He also says you have a child who is very self-willed. That you must care for this child around water, which is a danger for her. He says Adrianna, a daughter of Yemaya, can help you in this.”
Devlin sat stunned as Plante Firme turned to Pitts. The palero‘s face hardened.
“Chango.” The word came from his mouth in a low growl. He shook his h
ead and turned quickly away.
Martínez fought back a smile as he turned to Pitts. “I am afraid you will receive no help here,” he said. “The nganga, which is dedicated to Oggun, has identified you as a true son of Chango, the great enemy of Oggun. The nganga would not speak of you.”
“I’m fucking crushed,” Pitts said.
Devlin stared at the voodoo priest. He turned to Martínez. “How did he know those things about me? You have a dossier on me, Martínez?”
Martínez nodded. “I know much about you, my friend. It is part of my job. But I assure you I have not shared my knowledge. This is the first time I have met with Plante Firme. But, as I have told you, he is a great palero. Perhaps the greatest in all Cuba.”
Adrianna had ignored them, and was now speaking to Plante Firme in rapid Spanish. Martínez leaned in close again, his voice just above a whisper.
“The señorita is telling the palero about her aunt, and her need to find the Red Angel’s body so it can be buried and give peace to her family.”
Devlin heard Adrianna say the word “Abakua,” and saw Plante Firme’s body stiffen. The old witch doctor’s eyes became hard and he leaned farther forward as if preparing to leap from his thronelike chair. He began to speak, and Martínez translated again.
“Plante Firme says we must go to the cemetery where the Red Angel was to be buried, and look for earth taken from the four corners where her body was to rest. He says if Palo Monte is involved, it is the work of a palero he knows well, a man of great evil who has joined with the Abakua. He says if this is true, we must go to this man, for only through him will we find the bones of the dead one who was once María Méndez.”
Devlin listened to the rumble of Plante Firme’s voice. Standing beside him, the man’s son seemed to shiver uncontrollably. “What’s he saying now?” Devlin asked.
“He is warning us about the danger ahead,” Martínez said. “He says we must be cautious if parts of María Mendez’s body have already been placed in a nganga. We must not just try to take them back. He says we must now consult his nganga to see if we should abandon our efforts, or if seeking her body is the right path to follow.”
Red Angel Page 9
