William Heffernan - Red Angel

Martinez 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.”

Martinez 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.”

Martinez 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 Martinez in rapid Spanish, then led them into the small courtyard.

“This is Plante Firme’s son,” Martinez 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. Senorita 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. Martinez 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.

Martinez 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.

Martinez 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 ,” Martinez 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,” Martinez 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 duena 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 colera 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. Si, Oggun.” He continued rapidly, in what to Devlin became a jumble of words.

Martinez 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.” Martinez 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 head and turned quickly away.

Martinez 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 Martinez. “How did he know those things about me? You have a dossier on me, Martinez?”

Martinez 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. Martinez leaned in close again, his voice just above a whisper.

“The senorita 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 Martinez 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 Maria Mendez.”

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.