William Heffernan - Red Angel

Cipriani rubbed his face, feeling again its cadaverlike transformation. We , he thought. It’s always we when things don’t work out. “I still don’t know why you chose the Red Angel.” He waved a hand in the air. “Oh, I know we needed her dead anyway, that it was necessary to keep her from putting the screws to our overall plan. But then to give that crazy old man what he thought he needed? Just so he’d finally give his support?” He shook his head. “That, my friend was a mistake. You should have thought about the effect, the disgrace it might bring on Fidel and his cronies. Christ, we’d already gotten Fidel to accept what we wanted.” He shook his head. “If you recall. I told you this Palo Monte-Red Angel nonsense was dangerous. There were other ways to keep the old man happy. Christ, we could have found any doctor. The old man never would have known the difference.”

Cabrera jumped up from the bed, furious. “He wanted her. ”

Cipriani drew a breath, buying time. He kept his voice soft, free of accusation. “Yes, he did. And now, from what you tell me, there are people who want him dead.”

Cabrera spun away and stared at the cell door. “That is not the reason. They wanted him dead before this happened. Because he at first opposed the plan.”

“Yes, but only because they thought he wanted a bigger share. But that was a matter that could be negotiated. Resolved.” Cipriani raised his hands. “Since he’s coming here, maybe it already has been resolved.” He shook his head. “But now, because of the Red Angel, there may be no share for anyone. This, they will not forgive. And they will blame him. Perhaps even you.”

Cabrera spun back, eyes glaring. “Is that all you have to offer? I could get more from some crazy palero , rolling coconut shells on the floor to divine my future.”

“What do you want me to tell you? Finding the body now is impossible, unless you want to produce a corpse with its head and hands and feet missing.”

“That may be my only choice.”

“Then you will have to have arrests. Arrests that could lead back to you.”

“Not if the people responsible are dead.”

Cipriani shrugged. “That’s always a solution.” He tapped a finger against his lips. “And for more than just your fellow conspirators.”

“What are you talking about?”

Cipriani stroked his chin, as if ready to impart a unique wisdom. “Tell me something first. Does Mickey D know about any of this?”

“He knows about the ritual that will be performed,” Cabrera said.

“But not about these problems?”

Cabrera shook his head. “No, he knows nothing. He is due to arrive here in a few days. I am hoping to have it resolved by then.”

Cipriani nodded. “I think that’s wise. In fact, I think it’s imperative that it is resolved by then. Unless you want to see this whole deal blow up in your face.”

Cabrera stared at him. “And what do you suggest?”

“I think you need another accident. I’m talking about Maria Mendez’s niece. And her detective lover. And Martinez.” He gave Cabrera a regretful smile. “There are billions of dollars at stake, my friend. You’ve already gotten rid of two people who threatened our little deal-that Pineiro guy, and the Red Angel. So, do what you did the other times our plan was threatened. Arrange another automobile accident.”

Cabrera’s jawline hardened. “I have considered this, and already I have people in place.” He let out a long breath. “But, of course, you are right. There is no choice now. It is something that must be done quickly.”

Before they left the hotel, Devlin got a list of available flights from Cubana Airlines, then placed a call to New York. Ollie Pitts mumbled something about grave-robbing communists when Devlin explained the problem. He grunted when Devlin told him what he wanted. Then he cackled when Devlin said he would personally cover the cost of the flight, the hotel, and all the detective’s meals and expenses. When Pitts started to negotiate beer money as an expense, Devlin gave him two choices. He could arrive in Havana later that night via a connecting flight from the Bahamas, or he could spend the rest of his career wondering what “new shit assignment” HIS BOSS would have for him each and every day.

That done, Devlin changed Martinez’s plan. Putting together their collection of misfits could wait, he said. The first stop he wanted to make was the funeral home that had managed to lose Maria Mendez’s body.

As the ancient Chevrolet made its way toward the Vedado section of Havana, Devlin lowered his window to gain some relief from the lack of air-conditioning. Music blared from open louvered doors and windows, and somewhere in the distance he heard a cock crowing. It was his first look at the morning madness of Cuban traffic. Bicycles and aging motorcycles dominated the streets, all with at least two riders. Many of the motorcycles were equipped with sidecars and carried two or three more-all of it, Martinez explained, a tribute to the fuel shortages that plagued the island. As they turned a corner, Martinez pointed out two enormous buses, the likes of which Devlin had never seen, each one disgorging its passengers into plumes of diesel smoke. The buses were tractor-trailer trucks converted to transport people. They had arrived on the island in exchange for Cuban sugar and citrus, part of a deal with the now defunct Soviet empire. The trailer section, which Martinez described as “a tribute to Cuban insanity,” had then been converted by Cuban engineers, fitted with cheap plastic seats and a row of narrow windows that seldom worked. The engineers also created a large dip in the center to accommodate a second door, and it made the entire vehicle appear to have two enormous humps. “The people call the buses ‘camels,’” Martinez said. “They also call them many other things when the windows fail to work. Especially on steamy July days, like the one we are now enduring.”

Devlin stared out the window. The surrounding buildings looked battered and beaten, the absence of paint and repair leaving exterior walls pitted like decayed teeth. Sections of sidewalk had crumbled away, and holes in the roadway had been haphazardly filled with sand and stone.

In many ways, Havana had the look of a city that had endured a recent war. Except for the inhabitants. He had never seen people in a large city seem more relaxed or at ease with each other. Pedestrians wandered into the streets, unconcerned about oncoming traffic. And drivers simply stopped and waited for them to pass. There were no blaring horns, no shouted curses, threatening mayhem. It was as though everyone had the right to move about as they pleased, as if every inch of territory was shared equally. And, God, they were beautiful people, Devlin thought-almost uniformly beautiful, in every shade of white and tan and brown and black. Adrianna came by it naturally, he told himself. It was in her genes.

The funeral home was located on Calzada and K streets, and the sign out front identified it simply as FUNERARIA CALZADA Y K.

“Why was the body sent here?” Devlin asked as he stepped from the car onto another crumbling sidewalk.

They were standing on the edge of a small park, two blocks away from the U.S. Interests Section office. In the distance Devlin could see a long line of people, all waiting for a chance at a U.S. visa.

Martinez waved his arm, taking in the exterior of the funeral home. It was a shabby, three-story poured-concrete structure, dotted with small casement windows and fake marble trim. “This is considered the finest funeral home in Havana,” he said. “It is where the bodies of all high government officials are taken.”