Red Angel

by William Heffernan

  When he hit the ground, he turned immediately toward the child. Ignoring the wound in his own shoulder, he ripped the mpaca from his neck and pressed it against his grandson’s chest. The boy’s body was still convulsing, then it seemed to stiffen and go suddenly limp, and the palero knew with certainty that nothing in his, or anyone’s, power would save his grandson. Slowly, his hand closed on the mpaca, then he threw back his head and let out a bellowing, anguished roar.

  Across the street, the car from which the shot had been fired sped away. Neighbors would report later that the faces of the two men inside were pale with fear.

  When the call came in, Devlin and Martínez were seated in the front seat of the rental car, just outside the entrance of the Capri Hotel’s parking garage. Martínez barked an order into the handheld radio, then stared out the rear window. Devlin turned with him and saw two men jump from a car fifty yards back.

  “What’s going on?”

  “There has been a shooting at Plante Firme’s house. The palero was wounded, and his grandson was killed.”

  “I didn’t know you had men behind us,” Devlin said.

  Martínez stared at him. His eyes were like two black coals. “I always have men behind us,” he said.

  Earlier, before Martínez arrived that morning, Devlin had spoken to his organized-crime contact in New York. He now knew who DeForio was. What he didn’t know was whether Martínez knew it as well. The backup in the car behind them made him think that Martínez did. If so, they were both playing the same cat-and-mouse game, and Devlin wanted to know why Martínez was playing his.

  “Arc you going to the crime scene?” Devlin asked.

  “Yes. One of my men will stay with you.”

  “You think this shooting is connected to us?”

  “I am certain of it.”

  “Then I’ll go with you,” Devlin said. “Have your men follow DeForio and we can catch up with them later.” He saw the uncertainty in Martínez’s eyes. “I’m a good homicide cop, Major. Maybe I can help.”

  A large crowd had gathered outside the palero‘s home, well over one hundred, Devlin estimated. They were not the usual collection he had seen so many times in New York, people drawn by the morbid need to view the destruction of another human, as if being there somehow reaffirmed their own escape from mayhem. Here, the faces—almost entirely black—were filled with grief. Men and women chanted prayers he did not understand. Even the children were subdued.

  “Are they praying for the palero?” he asked.

  “And for his grandson,” Martínez said. “The boy was destined to replace his grandfather. He had been chosen by the orisha in Plante Firme’s nganga. This made him a holy child, not unlike someone the Catholics might consider a saint.”

  Devlin shook his head. “I hate to tell you this, but you’ve got to move those people out of there. Your men have to search the perimeter of the house for evidence.”

  “I know. My men should have done this, but I think they fear offending the palero. A great vengeance will follow this killing.”

  “You mean from these people, his followers?”

  Martínez shook his head. “No. From Plante Firme. All his powers will be used against the persons responsible. And I assure you, my friend, that is something to be feared.”

  The people were moved back, and the search conducted. The shotgun-shell casing was found opposite the gate. It had been stepped on by people in the crowd, but Devlin felt certain its plastic coating would still yield at least a partial fingerprint from the person who had loaded the weapon.

  Neighbors were questioned and reported seeing two men speed away. They had not been dressed in white, Devlin noted, not the sect of Abakua Cabrera had used against them.

  “Cabrera would not trust this to the Abakua,” Martínez explained. “They would fear Plante Firme. As you saw, even Baba Briyumbe feared this palero.”

  “And Cabrera’s men wouldn’t?” Devlin asked.

  “Oh yes. They would fear him,” Martínez said. “That is why they shot him from afar, and why they ran when they saw they had not killed him.”

  “But they still did it.”

  “Reluctantly, my friend. And only because they also fear Cabrera.” He tapped the side of his nose. “They will still be running, afraid now that Plante Firme will find them, or that Cabrera will. When we find out who among Cabrera’s men is missing, then we will know who the assassins were.”

  “And then you can pick them up.”

  “Perhaps,” Martínez said. “If it is necessary. If not, I will simply tell Plante Firme who they are. His punishment will be more severe than any Cuba could give them.”

  “What would Cuba’s punishment be?”

  “Death,” Martínez said. “But a much kinder death than the one Plante Firme will devise.”

  When they entered the courtyard they found the boy’s body covered by a blood-soaked sheet. Devlin pulled it back and stared at the child’s butchered face. He had seen many bodies during his years as a cop, many far worse than this, and he had become immune to most. But the body of a child still had impact. There was something obscene about it, something akin to the destruction of hope.

  Plante Firme was in his sacred room, seated before his nganga, his wounded shoulder swathed in heavy bandages. He had refused offers of hospital treatment, and his wounds had been tended to here. There were smaller wounds on his face, where stray shotgun pellets had grazed his cheek. Devlin knew from experience that he would be feeling intense, steady pain, but he showed none of it. Instead he cast the coconuts and chanted in a low, rumbling baritone.

  As they stepped into the room, the palero‘s eyes shot up, filled with anger at the interruption. When he saw Martínez his eyes softened, and the two men began to speak to each other. After a few minutes Devlin heard Cabrera’s name mentioned, and saw Plante Firme’s eyes harden with hate.

  The palero began to chant in a mix of Spanish and Bantu. Again, Devlin heard Cabrera’s name as Plante Firme cast the coconuts. They rolled to a stop, showing two concave and two convex sides pointing up.

  Plante Firme stared at them, his fists clenched in his lap, as he hissed the word “Eyife.”

  When they left the room, Devlin took Martínez by the arm, stopping him. “Sounds like you dropped a dime on the colonel in there.”

  Martínez was momentarily confused by the phrase, then seemed to grasp it. He nodded. “Yes, a dime has very much been dropped.”

  “And?”

  Martínez started walking again, moving toward the gate and the street beyond. “The palero consulted the nganga. He asked if it was Cabrera who ordered the murder of his grandson. The answer was eyife, a conclusive yes.”

  “So what happens now?”

  Martínez stepped through the gate and into the street. “I think the colonel’s life is about to take a very unfortunate turn.”

  Martínez’s men had followed DeForio to the Calle de los Oficios, a street in Old Havana that had once housed its most prosperous merchants. There, he had entered the Casa de los Arabes, a three-story building of Moorish design with massive wooden doors that were several centuries old.

  When Devlin and Martínez arrived, they found Ollie Pitts stuffed into a narrow doorway halfway down the block.

  “Cabrera showed up fifteen minutes ago,” he said. “I gather DeForio’s already inside.”

  “Did Cabrera go anywhere else first?” Devlin asked.

  Pitts shook his head. “Just his office at the Villa Marista. He stayed there all morning, then left around one and came straight here.” He inclined his head toward the other end of the street. “His car and driver are in San Francisco Plaza, over by the docks, near some big church.”

  “The Convent of San Francisco,” Martínez said. “For years it was Havana’s central post office. Now Fidel has allowed it to become a church again. But not for religion. The church and the convent have become a museum for tourists.” He smiled at Pitts. “Perhaps it was sentimentality on Fidel’s
part. As a boy he studied under the Jesuits.”

  “Hey, that’s great,” Pitts said. “Interesting as fucking hell.” He rolled his eyes. The major’s tour-guide act was becoming a pain in the ass. “Anyway, I saw the driver buy a ticket for the car ferry. Now, maybe he’s doin’ this for himself, but it seemed to happen right after Cabrera snapped some orders at him, so the detective in me suspects they might be taking a little boat ride.”

  “Did you get a ticket?” Devlin asked.

  “Of course,” Pitts said.

  Devlin turned to Martínez. “Okay, this is the way I’d like to play this.” He pointed at Pitts. “We’ll let Ollie stick with Cabrera and keep your men on DeForio. You and I will head to wherever this ferry goes and try and get ahead of them. If they all get on the ferry together, your men can radio us and we’ll stay put. If not, if DeForio heads somewhere else when he leaves here, they can radio us and we’ll catch up with them. Sound good?”

  Martínez nodded. “It will keep the only people Cabrera might recognize out of sight. It is best when the rabbit cannot see the hunter.”

  “Where does the ferry go?” Devlin asked.

  “One goes to Casablanca, the other to Regla.” He glanced at Pitts. “Your ticket will be good for both places, but it is unlikely they will go to Casablanca, unless they seek another expensive meal at the Battery of the Twelve Apostles.” He turned back to Devlin. “Regla, however, and the nearby town of Guanabacoa are strongholds of the Abakua.”

  16

  The Iglesia de la Virgen de Regla faced Havana harbor and offered a clear view of the ferry landing only a few hundred yards away. Standing beside it, an ancient ceiba tree seemed to dwarf the small church in its wide-spreading limbs.

  Martínez explained that the presence of the tree, considered sacred in the Afro-Cuban religions, was not a coincidence.

  “All Catholicism in Cuba is tied to the orishas, the Afro-Cuban gods,” he said as they entered the church and started down the center aisle.

  “Many years ago, when slavery still existed on our island, both Palo Monte and Santería were banned, and their practitioners greatly persecuted. Because of this, believers began using the Catholic Church to hide their religions. They did this by identifying their gods with various Catholic saints.”

  Martínez pointed to the statues of saints that lined the walls of the church interior. “Chango became Santa Barbara because of her traditional red robes, which is also Chango’s color. Oshun, always dressed in gold and white, became the Virgin of Caridad. Eleggua came to be represented by Saint Martin, Oggun by John the Baptist, and so on.”

  He stopped in front of the altar and pointed to the statue of a black Virgin dressed in blue and white, the traditional colors of Mary, the mother of Christ. “And. of course, Yemaya, the goddess of the sea and the protector of sailors, the great mother of all the people.”

  They started back up the aisle. Worshipers, mostly black, knelt before the plaster replicas of various saints. A second statue of the black Virgin stood near the main entrance, and attracted the largest number of worshipers. Bouquets of flowers had been left at the statue’s feet, along with an assortment of offerings and pleas for help—photographs of loved ones, a scrap of cloth with feathers sewn to it, a bowl of fruit, another of water, a small glass holding a dark liquid that appeared to be rum.

  “At first the Catholic Church resisted this syncretism with the African religions.” Martínez stopped and waved his hand in a wide circle. “But the people kept flooding into their churches, and the church saw it was more practical to ignore it. Now it has grown so common some priests actually encourage it. I have even heard priests give sermons in predominantly Negro churches in which the names of the African gods were invoked.”

  “I didn’t know you were a churchgoing man,” Devlin said.

  Martínez offered a faint smile. “There was a time when the government feared that these priests might try to use these African religions against the revolution. So the police paid very close attention to what was being said. Those fears proved unjustified, but in those days, because of this fear, Sunday became a day when many of us went to mass.” He raised a finger. “But we did not put our pesos in the collection basket.”

  Devlin laughed. “I’m sure you didn’t. Marx would have spun in his grave.”

  They left the church and headed for the expansive shade of the ceiba tree. From there they could see a car ferry headed toward the landing.

  “They will not be on this ferry,” Martínez said. “My men will radio us when they board.”

  “I just hope they come, and we don’t find ourselves chasing back to Havana, playing catch-up.”

  Martínez stared out into the harbor. “They will come,” he said. “This is where the Abakua palero will perform the ritual of the changing of heads.”

  “You seem very certain.”

  “I am, my friend. I can feel it.”

  DeForio and Cabrera stood on the dock, waiting to board the ferry. Cabrera’s car idled beside them in a long line inching toward the loading bay. DeForio’s Spanish was more than adequate, but at Cabrera’s insistence they spoke only in English, a language the driver did not understand. Cabrera had risen in a system where listeners were everywhere. It was a system he knew better than most, and he saw no reason to take chances.

  “So, you have no idea where this niece and these two New York cops are,” DeForio said.

  Cabrera glanced out at the water. The car pulled ahead three feet, then stopped again. Still, he lowered his voice. “They will be found. And, when they are, the men searching for them have orders to take them into custody.”

  “What happens then?” DeForio asked.

  “That depends on how they react to the body we have found for them.” Cabrera glanced at the American. He was lying to him, but that could not be helped. One way or another, the Americans would disappear. He had a secondary understanding with the old man—what Rossi had called a side deal—and it was far too profitable to ignore. “Hopefully, they will accept our findings. If not, I will see to it that they leave the country. It is only important that the government accept the body as that of our Red Angel.” He gave DeForio what he hoped was a confident smile. “And that has already been arranged.”

  “Well, you better find them before they stumble across the real body,” DeForio warned.

  “It is impossible,” Cabrera said. “Only parts of the body remain, and they are in a nganga under the control of the Abakua. Even if these people somehow overcame the Abakua, which is most unlikely, certain tests would have to be performed on the remains.” He shook his head and smiled. “I assure you, if they find the nganga, no one will survive long enough to order those tests.”

  “It would be better if they just accepted the phony body, buried it, and went home. It would be cleaner.”

  Cabrera nodded his agreement. DeForio was right. It would be much cleaner. But unfortunately, such a scenario was impossible. The old man had made that very clear. No matter the outcome, the Americans were going to disappear—permanently. He smiled at DeForio.

  “I am certain that they will,” Cabrera said. “Then, I assure you, I will personally put them on the plane.”

  Cabrera’s driver called to him through the open car window, and the colonel excused himself. DeForio watched as he spoke on the car’s radio. When he returned, DeForio thought the colonel looked agitated, even a bit nervous.

  “Another problem?” he asked.

  “Plante Firme survived our attack.” His voice was a low hiss. “His grandson was killed.”

  “What about your men?”

  Cabrera drew a breath. “They escaped.” He let the subject die there. He had no intention of telling DeForio that his men were missing, presumably running in fear—from both the palero and himself.

  “What does this do to your plan? The rest of this phony body was supposed to be found at this guy’s house?” DeForio’s eyes had hardened. It was clear these repeated reversals were erodin
g his confidence.

  Cabrera waved away DeForio’s concern. He needed to make the problem seem less significant. “The man is only a Negro witch doctor, a superstitious old fool. We will do as we wish with him, and no one will take seriously anything he says, or does.” Cabrera felt a tingle of fear as he spoke the words. He attributed it to the superstitions of his own youth and pushed it aside. There was too much at stake to allow old, childhood fears to intrude on what had to be done.

  He gave DeForio a false smile. “This old palero knows what can be done to him now. It would not surprise me if he disappeared into the countryside. There, he can shake his rattle and issue curses on those who killed his grandson.”

  DeForio found logic in Cabrera’s words. “Jesus, what the hell does Rossi see in all this shit? No wonder those old-timers got thrown out of here fifty years ago. They were all probably listening to these goddamn witch doctors.” He shook his head. “Fucking old Sicilians. Thank God Rossi’s one of the last of them.” He looked at Cabrera and smiled. “Can you imagine, a man like that, one of the heads of the five families, believing in this shit?”

  Cabrera returned the smile, fighting to ignore the fear that gnawed at him. Yes, he could believe it, he thought. He could believe it all too well, no matter how much he told himself he did not.

  “Señor Rossi is an old man,” he said. “We must be indulgent.”

  The crowd pressed in, surrounding the dancers. Bodies swayed and heads bobbed as the beat of the drums provided a steady, undulating rhythm. From the rear of the crowd, Devlin could see only two of the dancers. Both were men, standing on high stilts, both dressed in costumes of bright yellow and red, colors worn to honor Chango, a much-favored orisha among the Abakua.

  They had followed DeForio and Cabrera from the ferry, and now found themselves in the subcity of Guanabacoa, a small, independent municipality that still fell under the overall jurisdiction of Havana. But only technically, Martínez had explained. Guanabacoa was truly controlled by the Abakua. It was their stronghold, and few in the government sought to challenge it.