Plante Firme rose from his chair and started back toward the house. Martínez beckoned the others to follow. As they passed the pigsty, the animal began to snort and squeal. The palero stopped and snapped out a string of Spanish epithets, then reached down and removed one of his shower sandals and gave the pig several slaps on its snout.
Out of the corner of his eye, Devlin saw Ollie Pitts take an angry step forward, and he reached out and grabbed his arm. As brutal as Pitts could be to fellow humans, he had an inexplicable affection for dumb animals, to the point of keeping five stray cats in his three-room Manhattan apartment. Devlin’s second in command, Sharon Levy, claimed Pitts liked animals because they bit people.
“Leave it,” Devlin whispered. “We need the man’s help. And remember, this guy makes a living laying curses on people.”
Pitts started to say something, then stopped himself, and Devlin wondered if it was the threat of a voodoo curse that silenced him. He momentarily considered asking Plante Firme for some mojo that would keep Pitts under control for the remainder of his cop career.
They followed the palero into a small room. A cast-iron pot stood near its center, this one at least three feet in diameter, and rising from it was an aggregation of items so vast that the entire mass stood over six feet high.
“This is said to be the most powerful nganga in all Cuba,” Martínez whispered as they followed the palero‘s instructions and sat on four small stools placed before it.
Devlin couldn’t quite grasp what he was looking at. An assortment of small bones had been hung around the rim of the pot. They could be animal, or human—there was no way to be certain. Rising from within the pot and its necklace of bones was a collection of objects so eclectic it seemed overwhelming. Spears, swords, and axes mixed together with chains of various lengths and thicknesses, military medals, an old revolver, several religious crosses and medallions. There were numerous lengths of wood, and from deep within, Devlin could see the skull of what appeared to be a goat, horns still attached. Hanging beneath the skull, just barely visible, were the skeletal remains of what could only be human fingers, each joint held together by small wires. Sitting on top of the entire mass was a cloth, black-faced doll, dressed in a brightly patterned shirt and wearing a straw hat. An unlit candle in a long metal holder stood before the nganga, its base surrounded by small statues and vases, an ornate, cast-iron bell, and a large wooden bowl filled with water.
Hanging on a wall next to the nganga was a portrait depicting in profile a white-haired black man dressed in a white shirt. Martínez leaned in close to Devlin and nodded toward the picture.
“It is a picture of Plante Firme’s teacher,” he whispered. “Before Plante Firme he was the greatest palero ever to have lived, a holder of great magical power. It is said that his bones are the dead one in Plante Firme’s nganga, and that when he dies, Plante Firme has decreed that his own bones will join those of his teacher to create the most powerful nganga that has ever existed.”
Using a long taper, Plante Firme ignited the candle, then took up a seven-foot stick, forked at the top into five branches, each at least a foot long. He placed a straw hat, festooned with green feathers, on his bald head, so he now resembled the cloth doll atop the nganga. Slowly, he lowered his bulky body onto a wide stool, wooden staff in hand, like some primitive potentate.
Martínez handed Adrianna the bottle of rum he had taken from his car. “This is an offering to Oggun, the god of the nganga,” he whispered.
Adrianna seemed momentarily confused, then bent forward and placed the bottle before the candle.
Plante Firme pointed to the cast-iron bell.
“You must ring the bell to awaken Oggun,” Martínez whispered.
Adrianna did so, the loud clanging sound almost deafening in the small room.
Plante Firme’s voice rumbled, low and sonorous, in a mixture of Spanish and Bantu.
“Vamo a hacer un registro con los obis. Y creo que le oi a Planta Firme también decir parte do esto a continuacíon.”
“He is informing us that he wishes to make a consulta with the coconuts,” Martínez explained. “But first he must pray to the god Eleggua, because nothing can happen unless you first ask Eleggua, who opens and closes all roads.”
The palero ignited a second, smaller candle, set on a white saucer before a statue of the god Eleggua, and his voice rumbled forth again.
“Omi tutu Eleggua.” He dipped a hand into the bowl of water and sprinkled the statue.
“He gives fresh water to Eleggua,” Martínez whispered.
“Ana tutu. Tutu Alaroye.”
“In his moyurbaciones, his prayers, he asks for fresh relations with the dead one, if Eleggua will remove all disagreements.”
“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.”
6
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 p
ast 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.”
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