William Heffernan - Red Angel

Martinez 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 Martinez 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,” Martinez 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. Martinez 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 Maria 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,” Martinez 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,” Martinez said.

Devlin was momentarily confused, his mind filled with visions of earth from a grave and bright red feathers.

“Money,” Martinez 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 Martinez for some indication it was enough. Martinez 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,” Martinez 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 Martinez. “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.”

Martinez 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,” Martinez 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 Martinez. “You still got your peashooter?”

“ Si , I have my peashooter,” Martinez 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 Martinez.

The major shook his head. “Are they alive?”

Pitts gave him a shrug. “Yeah, but they ain’t gonna feel too good tomorrow.”

Martinez nodded, and Devlin thought he detected a note of approval. “I would like to see them,” the major said.

Martinez 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 Martinez. “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 Martinez, 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.”