The sound of footsteps was outside the door again. Was she coming back? Or was it the sound of his own drumming?
Humberto Zapata lived in dreams and slept with nightmares. Everywhere Zapata went dreams followed.
It is one thing for a man to be trapped by his past, but another to be caught in a net of dreams. To be trapped in the past means a man can’t move forward. To be ensnared by dreams means that a man lives a suspended life, as if in a bubble. Zapata was in that bubble with his hands and face pressed to the transparent membrane that held him prisoner as fate took him, tumbling the bubble up and over like a giant beach ball in a hurricane, spinning out of control. He compensated for this by walking slower than other men, taking on an air of exaggerated gravity, always flat-footed, sure in his actions. Deliberateness was his game, the sober face he showed to the world; always the stalwart citizen, keeping the peace by keeping the secrets. But inside his personal bubble Zapata was in turmoil, trying to keep from puking because all his dreams were the same, always of her, his sweet pet, his sleek Panther.
His nightmare? That in the end he would lose her.
Zapata walked down a long hallway. The old tiles on the floor were worn and cracked. He stopped before the door at the end of the hallway and knocked with a hard-knuckled rap. No answer. He tried the door. It was unlocked.
Bongo was behind his desk as the office door opened. In one hand he held a revolver.
Zapata stepped into the room and stood motionless. In the dim light his linen suit and straw Panama hat were the color of dirty honey. His sunglasses were so black that his eyes were hidden, and below his sharp nose was the straight line of a mustache dyed black, like a bold exclamation mark lying on its side. He spoke in his usual mock whisper, like an executioner offering a man facing a firing squad a last cigarette. “And how is my favorite gunslinging insurance hustler?”
“What took you so long?” Bongo aimed the revolver higher.
“Tut-tut, you knew I’d be coming.”
“Where are your two bodyguards?”
“Outside. So you can put your popgun away.”
“I figured you’d be getting around to me.”
“My dear, a horrendous crime has been committed. A girl was killed.”
“I noticed you left before the bomb exploded.”
“I was called away on other matters.”
“I’ve already made a report of what I saw to the police.”
“I’ve read it.”
“Of course.”
“I’m more than the police. I’m … special.”
“Secret, you mean. Secret intelligence.”
“Oh, I don’t think intelligence is ever secret. Take yourself, for example, everyone can see you’re intelligent. It’s no secret.”
“Since I’m so intelligent, I should tell you something I didn’t tell the police last night?”
“That would not only make you intelligent, that would make you wise.”
“Here’s what will make me wise. Where is my sister?”
“She’s safe.”
“Many of the dancers onstage were hurt when the bomb exploded. Was my sister hurt?”
“She was behind the first row of dancers. Those in the front were badly cut by shards of glass.”
“Yes, there was a lot of blood.”
“Blood spattered everywhere. You saw it. I wasn’t there.”
“Where were you?”
“I can’t divulge secrets.”
“You left before the explosion. What secret intelligence did you have about what was going to happen?”
“I’m here to ask the questions.”
“I want answers. Where is my sister? I went to her house last night. She wasn’t there. I made the rounds of all the hospitals; there was no record of her. I slept in my car outside her place. She never showed.”
“I’ve told you what you need to know. When there is more, you will be informed.”
“Was she cut up?”
“I want you to answer my questions.”
“I will. Answer mine first.”
“Superficial wounds.”
“Her face?”
“Not a scratch.”
Bongo exhaled a sigh of relief. “Thank God.”
“Do you know who might have planted that bomb?”
“No. Who would do such a thing? Killing and maiming.”
“Nothing is fair.”
“What happened last night wasn’t unfair, it was politics.”
“Then you do know who did it?”
“Hell, no!” Bongo banged his fist on the desk.
Zapata was silent, then continued in his emphatic whisper, “Over one hundred bombs have gone off in Havana just in the past week.”
“Some say the government is behind the bombings, that it’s a counterrevolutionary move.”
“Don’t be naive,” Zapata said curtly. “Those who are doing the bombing are not naive.”
“You’re right. And those who set themselves up as judge and executioner, nightly assassinating so-called terrorists, are not naive; they’re monsters. As you said, nothing is fair.”
“Unfortunately so. Tell me, how well did you know the girl who died?”
“Well enough. Mercedes was a sweet girl, a university student. I should say, she was a student, until your people closed the university down.”
“I know she was a student.”
Bongo shot Zapata a look of disdain. “You have a dossier on every student in the country.”
“We have information. And her three friends? The ones who were seated at a table near hers. What were their names?”
“I don’t know. I never really paid that much attention. It was Mercedes I was interested in.”
“Did you know her friends were university students too?”
“If you knew that, why ask me?”
“They’ve all disappeared.”
“Like my sister.”
“That’s a different matter.”
“Not to me.”
In the enclosed room the humidity was intense. Zapata took a handkerchief from his pocket, removed his Panama hat, and wiped sweat from his forehead. “There were bombers all over Havana on New Year’s Eve, targeting politicians, soldiers, police, government buildings. Fortunately none of them was very successful, except at the Tropicana.”
“None of that was in this morning’s newspaper.”
“My dear Bongo, we don’t want to wake the babies.”
“What makes you think they’re sleeping? When the public is being bombed nobody sleeps.”
“It’s a terrible thing. Innocent people. Your girl was innocent. I want you to help me stop these murderers. I want you to think hard about every move you made last night at the club; what everyone said to you, what everyone did, how they acted. Was there anything … anything at all the least bit suspicious?”
Bongo didn’t want to help. He had wanted to kill Zapata for years, but he couldn’t because of his sister. But he also hated those who set off bombs, those who were as vicious as Zapata and his kind. Bongo had to help one enemy in order to stop the other, those who blew up innocents. He said under his breath, “Tropical truth, tropical lies.”
“What?”
“I was just thinking.”
“Take your time.”
Bongo didn’t want to name names. Damn, he didn’t want to, but someone was responsible for killing lovely Mercedes. “There were people last night who were acting strangely.”
“In what way?”
“Not really so strange.”
“Tell me. Remember, your sister could have been blown to bits.”
Bongo repeated the words in a hushed voice, “Blown to bits.”
“Yes. Our Panther dead.”
“Dead.” Bongo could hardly say the word.
“Speak up, man. I’ve got to investigate every scrap of evidence. Whoever it is, on the far right or the far left, it makes no difference.”
Bongo went back in his mind to the whit
e spider dangling from the branches of the banyan tree above his table at the Tropicana. He saw Mercedes’ expression change from gaiety to fear as she watched the insect drop lower on its silver thread until it hung directly above her. She asked him not to kill it. He saw the spider land on the table. He saw a fist slam down.
“There was a spider and a woman who killed it.”
“Good, you’re thinking now. Why is the woman important?”
“She said, ‘I know you. You should leave here right now.’ ”
“She knew the bomb was going to go off and she was warning you to get out?”
“Maybe.”
“Did she say anything else?”
“She said, ‘You might look white, but you’re as black inside as I am.’ ”
“She certainly did know you, then.”
“Apparently. But I’d never laid eyes on her before. Odd that they didn’t stop her from entering the club because of the color of her skin. Someone must have slipped her in.”
“What happened next?”
“She disappeared.”
“Can you describe her? Her clothes, her age?”
“She was wearing, hell, what was she wearing? A traditional white Santera dress and a white bandanna wrapped around her head. She looked poor, about thirty, maybe younger.”
“How dark was she? Brown butter?”
“No, darker.”
“Coffee?”
“Tar.”
“That’s very black. It’s rare to see one that black; in the country, yes, in the city not so much.”
“I remember thinking she was pretty, but spooked out.”
“How so?”
“When she killed the spider on the table she said, ‘White spiders are bad luck, especially tonight.’ Scared the hell out of Mercedes.”
“What else do you remember that seemed unusual or suspicious?”
“You. You said, ‘If I were you I would walk out of here right now and never come back.’ And you knew that Mr. Wu was waiting for me outside the Tropicana.”
“Did anyone else tell you to leave?”
“Fido.”
“What about the Judge at the rope?”
“The Judge said I should stay.”
“Any others who told you to leave?”
“Well, Mr. Wu told me not to go back in, to go home and be happy.”
“That’s all?”
Bongo thought for a moment. “Sailor Girl.”
“That trashy American who likes rough trade and queers?”
“She happens to be very rich trash.”
“That’s the worst kind.”
“She walks on the wild side, it’s her choice.”
“What did she say?”
“Sailor Girl wanted me to go to Sans Souci with her and two Cuban sailors she had picked up. She couldn’t get the sailors into the Tropicana because their skin was too coffee.”
“Can you think of anything else out of the ordinary?”
There was one more thing, maybe the most illuminating jigsaw puzzle piece of all. Just moments before the bomb exploded, the Armstrongs had sped away from the nightclub in their Cadillac with Hurricane Hurler in the backseat. But, as much as Bongo wanted the person found who killed Mercedes, he still couldn’t trust Zapata with this information.
“Let’s have it,” Zapata urged. “There’s more.”
“I’m cleaned out.”
The real reason Bongo had taken the money from Mrs. Armstrong to spy on her husband was that it would give him a chance to spy on them both. He needed time and a cover to find out if there was any connection between those two social birds of prey and the bombing. If there was, he would right that injustice, and soon.
Zapata stiffened and demanded, “Come with me.”
“Where to? The Pineapple Field, or your personal house of tortures, the Blue Mansion?”
“Two good choices, but I’m saving them for a special occasion. Right now we’re going to the morgue, so you won’t need your popgun.”
“Why the morgue?”
“No more questions.”
Bongo and Zapata stepped out into the bright sunlight. Narrow Obispo Street was crowded with shoppers cruising the stores. In the shadows of some doorways loitered people dressed in ragged clothes, watching good fortune pass them by. The street had once been the most elegant in Havana, with everything refined that money could buy. But Obispo was Old Havana. Time had moved on. Districts like Vedado and Miramar now dominantly prevailed with their grand boulevards and glass-fronted, air-conditioned showrooms. Obispo still had a touch of class, but it was fading fast.
The swank Floridita restaurant was at one end of Obispo. Behind the Floridita towered the enormous edifice of the national Capitolio. The bottom half of the Capitolio was obscured by other buildings, its disembodied white dome appeared to float, like a giant flying saucer attempting a landing in downtown Havana.
At the other end of Obispo was the Ambos Mundos Hotel. Its twenty-foot-tall windows were open to catch the breeze. Inside at the bar people sipped iced drinks beneath the heat-beating swoosh of overhead fans. Parked in front of the hotel was Zapata’s black Plymouth, its chrome grille and bumpers glinting in the sun.
Leaning against the Plymouth’s long hood were Zapata’s two ever-present subordinates, Pedro and Paulo. It didn’t make any difference which one was Pedro and which one was Paulo, because whenever Zapata issued an order in his mock whisper both men snapped to attention; then each performed the same ritual, first patting the front of his trousers, just to reassure himself that he still had balls, then patting the bulge under his jacket, to reassure himself that he still had his gun.
“Pedro,” Zapata ordered, “to the morgue.”
Both men straightened to attention, patting their balls, patting their guns. Pedro saluted and jumped into the car behind the steering wheel. Paulo saluted, opened the back door for Zapata, then jumped into the front on the passenger side. Pedro and Paulo adjusted their neckties as if they were snapping on airplane seat belts to prepare for a bumpy ride.
Bongo slipped into the back of the car next to Zapata. He looked through the window into the Ambos Mundos Hotel. A sleek young white woman swung around on her stool at the bar and gazed at Bongo. Her glossy red lips sucked on a blue straw that poked out of the green mint leaves floating on top of her icy mojito. Bongo knew where female tourists like her came from by the way they dressed. If they were from the States he could even tell which city they were from by their accents.
“Pedro,” Zapata’s mock whisper inquired, “why aren’t we moving?”
Pedro ran a hand across his sweaty forehead and looked over to Paulo for backup.
Paulo squirmed. “Captain Zapata, we had a radio message while you were gone. It was urgent.”
“Why didn’t you come and get me?”
“Because our orders were to stay here until you returned.”
Zapata looked at Paulo like he was a slow greyhound that had just lost its ninth dog race. “That didn’t mean that urgent messages shouldn’t be delivered.”
“Sorry, Captain.” Paulo wiped sweat from his forehead the same way Pedro had.
“Well, then?” Zapata glared. “What was the message?”
“Another dead body, Captain.”
“That’s not my concern.”
“Excuse me, Captain, headquarters says it is. They say this one is not the usual fruit for the Pineapple Field. They want you to check it out.”
“You have the address?”
“Yes, sir, just like you instructed us. It’s written down.”
“Let me see it.”
Paulo reached into his pocket, fished out a piece of paper, and handed it over.
“I can’t read this. I told you, let Pedro do the driving and the writing. You do the other stuff.” Zapata handed the paper back to Paulo.
Paulo squinted at the handwriting on the paper, confused, then understanding dawned. “I know where it is. Should we go?”
“Of co
urse. It’s urgent.”
Pedro started the engine and the Plymouth shuddered to life with a muffled roar.
As the car pulled away, Zapata glanced through the window to see what Bongo had been looking at inside the hotel bar. He saw the woman on the barstool. She had cropped blond hair. She looked like that movie star, what was her name, Grace Kelly? Could be. They were all coming to Havana now, blondes, redheads, brunettes, wearing tight skimpy pants called Capris, or toreador pants, or some stupid thing. When these women sat on barstools the pale skin of their naked midriffs was exposed. The waists of the pants fit low around the swell of their hips and pulled up tight in the crack of their asses to show off the split of two plump papayas. They were a dime a dozen, these good-time girls, flying in all day long, sailing in on cruise ships and private yachts. Zapata had no need for foreigners.
The Plymouth pulled away from the hotel, snaked through the narrow bustling streets of Old Havana and onto broad Ejido Avenue, passing the Central Railroad Station and turning right in front of the shipping docks, speeding by passenger and cargo ships, past industrial yards and factories, then continuing through towns that had long since been swallowed up by the city’s sprawl. Eventually the pavement ended and the Plymouth wheeled along dirt streets lined with shacks built of rusted tin and salvaged lumber. No electricity or sewers existed here. Tattered clothing was drying on ropes in the dust. Silent children stood outside the shacks, their bellies ballooned from malnutrition, as if they had been eating air. This was not the glamorous playground of the rich. This was not a Technicolor travelogue shown around the world to lure tourists to carefree Cuba, the Pearl of the Antilles.
As the Plymouth whizzed by, Bongo knew that the squalor he saw out the window was reality for the majority of Havana’s population. He himself had lived this reality. He understood those who tried to crawl out of it by any means possible, to claw their way to a wage one inch over the poverty line. This was the tropical truth for most of those whose skins were black—African black, slave black, bondage black, sugarcane-cutting brute animal black, disposable black. Bongo knew the scent of rank, sweaty desperation. He knew the smell of fear and defeat. It wasn’t just the stench of shit that got to you, though it seemed to rise up from the ground whether the wind was blowing in your direction or not, but the shoeless feet, the despairing hearts, the hopeless, scabbed faces.
King Bongo Page 7
