William Heffernan - Red Angel

“How long?” Devlin asked. He wasn’t sure he bought the story. The NYPD had similar problems locating old cases and department records. But it struck him as another convenient excuse that allowed Martinez to keep his cards close to his vest.

“Tomorrow, perhaps. Certainly by the following day. Then we will go to this cottage and see what the Red Angel has hidden away.”

John the Boss shuffled across the tiled floor and slowly eased himself into the battered old sofa. The house they had given him was a shithole, he told himself. In the old days, when Meyer Lansky ran the country, they had lived like kings. Now everything was crap, and he was even forced to hide in a rat’s nest surrounded by goddamn niggers.

He reached out and picked up the oxygen mask that rested on the arm of the sofa. He took three long breaths, then looked up at the young woman who stood nervously before him. She had been provided by Cabrera as a translator, and he knew Mattie had been fucking her late at night.

When he thought you were asleep, Rossi told himself. Except now you don’t sleep so good anymore.

Rossi studied the young woman. She was young. Maybe twenty. No more than that. She was wearing a thin dress with nothing on underneath, showing off the shape of her tits. He wondered if she was wearing pants, but he couldn’t tell. She had long legs, nice legs, the kind he had liked years ago.

But those days were past. Now he was too old, and too sick. Maybe when this change of heads was done. Maybe then. He really didn’t care. He wanted to live, that was all. The doctor had given him a year, maybe two if he was careful. Careful. His mind snorted at the idea. Who the hell wasn’t careful in his business? You were careful some sonovabitch traitor didn’t stick a knife in your neck didn’t come up behind you and put your brains on the street. How could you be careful when your own heart turned out to be the traitor, or some cancer started eating your guts.

No, a young woman wasn’t what he wanted. He just wanted to live. And he wanted one other thing. He wanted that bastard Devlin dead.

Rossi waved his hand in a circle, getting the young woman’s attention. “A man is coming, an Abakua. He’s in the next room now, and when he comes in here I want you to translate for me.” He watched the young woman nod her understanding. “You tell him exactly what I say. And then you tell me what he says, understand?”

“ Si , I understand, senor.”

She’s got a high, girlish voice, Rossi thought, a pretty voice, like a real young kid. Christ, the people you gotta depend on in this fucked-up country.

He raised his hand to Mattie, who was standing by the door. “Get him in here. Let’s get this thing over with.”

Mattie hesitated. “You sure you don’t want to leave this with Cabrera? He said-”

Rossi cut him off. “Fuck Cabrera. He tells me he’s gonna take care of this, but nothing happens. Maybe he’s listening to this prick DeForio. Maybe he’s double-crossing me. I want it done. And I want it done now.”

Mattie raised his hands, as if warding off the verbal assault. “Okay. I just thought-”

“Don’t think. Just do what I say,” Rossi snapped, cutting him off again. “I want that sonovabitch cop dead. And I want him dead before this change-of-heads thing happens.”

The Abakua was in his early forties. He was medium height, but heavily muscled, and his shirt was opened to mid-chest, revealing a pattern of ritual scars from his induction into the sect.

“You have news for me?” Rossi asked.

When the young woman had translated, the Abakua nodded, then shot back a reply in rapid Spanish.

“He says the ceremony will be tomorrow night in Cojimar,” the young woman said. “It is a village by the sea. He says the palero will send someone for you when everything, it is all ready.” She nodded rapidly, trying to confirm that Rossi had understood her translation.

“You tell him that’s good. You also tell him I have another job for him, and I’ll give him ten thousand U.S. dollars if he does it before this ceremony happens.”

Rossi listened to the translation and saw the Abakua’s eyes widen when the amount was mentioned. In a country where a sizable pension was fourteen dollars a month, he was being offered a fortune.

“He says he will be happy to do anything you want,” the young woman translated. There was a wildly hopeful look in her eyes, as if she were calculating some way to receive such a payment herself.

“All right,” Rossi said. “You tell him this is what I want him to do.”

When the Abakua had left, Rossi sent the young woman out of the room. Then he beckoned Mattie to him.

“This woman.” He raised his chin toward the door through which the young woman had exited. “I don’t want witnesses to this agreement we made. You take her on a little walk. Tell her you wanna take her to some cantina.” He raised a bony finger. “But she don’t come back, capisce ?”

Mattie let out an unhappy breath.

Rossi smirked at him. “Don’t worry. We’ll get you somebody else to fuck. Call Cabrera and tell him we need a new translator for this ceremony.” He gave Ippolito a cold smile. “You can tell him just what kind of translator you want.”

Mattie stared at his boss. After all these years he should have known better than to try to put one over on him. “What about the nigger?” he asked.

“When he does his job, we get rid of him, too.”

“What if he fucks it up?”

“Then we don’t have to worry about him.” He waved his arm, taking in everything-the room, the neighborhood, Cuba itself. “The kind of money I offered that Abakua bastard …” He paused to let the cold smile return. “The only way he’s gonna quit is if Devlin kills him.”

Devlin lay in bed, Adrianna nestled against his shoulder. They had just made love, slowly, tenderly, and he hoped it had helped drain away the fear she had felt throughout most of the day. He stroked her arm, thinking she was asleep, hoping to provide comfort to her dreams.

She ran her hand across his chest.

“I thought you had already dozed off,” he said.

He felt her cheek press harder against his shoulder. “Not yet. I was just thinking about everything that’s happened since we came here, and how sorry I am I dragged everyone into this.”

“You didn’t drag us in.”

It was Martinez. Devlin thought about that. It was the only thing that made sense. He knew he still didn’t have an indisputable fix on the time line. But he was getting a feel for it. He thought about Martinez’s call: Your aunt is dying, and you must come at once if you wish to see her. Then the Red Angel’s death, and the theft of her body. But when they arrived they had learned that she had actually died earlier, even before Martinez’s call. The major claimed he hadn’t known, that the hospital had failed to notify him. It was a lame tale, and it wouldn’t surprise him to learn the order of events were actually the reverse, that the major had played them just like Cabrera had-because he, too, wanted them in Cuba. But why? That was the big question, and only one thing made sense. Martinez had known Rossi was involved, and their presence would draw him out. It was all part of some elaborate game he was playing. But Devlin also knew he’d never prove it, probably never get close to the real answer. The Cuban cop hadn’t come clean on anything yet.

“If we hadn’t come … If I hadn’t been such a wimp … If I hadn’t jumped at the chance for you to come with me …”

Devlin pulled Adrianna closer. He didn’t want to tell her about his suspicions. She didn’t need the added burden of knowing her dead aunt was being used in some political game.