William Heffernan - Red Angel

Maria reached up and stroked his beard. “Thank you for coming, Fidel.”

Castro nodded. “You will truly consider my proposal?”

“I will truly consider it.”

Again with effort, Castro pulled himself up. He nodded to Adrianna, then glanced at Devlin and Pitts. “I have heard about you two,” he said. He raised a finger and shook it, then headed for the door.

“That’s it?” Pitts said as the door closed. He stared at Martinez. “No medals? No Lycra concession? That’s it?”

“Be thankful we’re not in jail,” Devlin said. He looked down at Adrianna. There was a broad grin spread across her face.

“Fidel Castro kissed my hand,” she said.

Giovanni “John the Boss” Rossi sat in the small cell he shared with Mattie Ippolito. The bottle of oxygen that had been at his side for months stood in the corner. The Cuban jailer had put it there, even after he had explained it wasn’t necessary. He had not used oxygen since the ritual, and felt no need for it now. Or ever, he told himself.

What he did need was Cabrera, or Sauri, or somebody who could get him the hell out of this stinking cell. Then he could find a way out of the country. But this clown Martinez had kept him isolated. Not even a stinking phone call, or a lawyer. Nothing.

Rossi glanced around the cell. It was in the basement of a police station that resembled a small castle, and it had been obvious since they arrived that Martinez ran the show. Even his attempts to lay some serious money on his jailers had been ignored. A thousand bucks just to deliver a message. And these clowns had looked at him like he was crazy.

Rossi shook a finger at Ippolito. Mattie was seated on the opposite bunk, only three feet away. “We gotta find a way outta this shithole,” he said.

Ippolito raised his hands an inch from his lap, then let them fall back. “The cop said ten days before we could contact anybody. I think he means it. I think he’s gonna break our chops as long as he can.”

“These fucking Cubans think I’m gonna sit here eating rice and beans for ten days, they’re crazy.” Rossi placed his hands on his knees and pushed himself up. “How much money you got?”

“A little over two grand,” Ippolito said.

“Okay. I got at least a grand in my pocket. At least the Cubans didn’t take our money away from us. So we’ll up the ante to these guards. Offer them two large, wave the cash under their noses. That still leaves us with a grand for traveling money.”

Ippolito reached into his pocket, then froze as the door to the cellblock opened. He withdrew his hand and leaned back against the wall as he watched Devlin and Pitts saunter in with the Cuban cop.

“Hey, Bathrobe. How’s it hangin’?” Pitts called. He grabbed hold of the bars and let his eyes roam the cell. “What a shithole. Hey, Martinez, if this is the way you treat Americans, I gotta tell you, I think it’s a fucking disgrace.”

Martinez feigned embarrassment. “But, Senor, these accommodations are among the best in Cuba. Our real prisons are truly horrible. But this …” He waved his hand at the cell. “This is luxury.”

Rossi sneered at the trio. “Hey, a comedy act. This joint even has entertainment. Martin and Lewis. Abbott and Costello.” He raised his chin, indicating Devlin. “Whassamatter, Inspector? You don’t know any jokes? You join in, you guys could be the Three fucking Stooges.”

“You’re the only joke I know, Bathrobe.” Devlin grinned at the old man. “How much bribe money did you lay on the guards today?” He shook his head. “Oh, yeah, the cell’s bugged. But you knew that, right, Bathrobe?”

“Fuck you,” Rossi snapped.

Devlin stepped up next to Pitts and placed his hands on the bars. “How you feeling, old man? How’s your health today?”

Rossi sneered at him. “I’m a hundred percent, Devlin. It’s like twenty years fell off me.” He used both hands to slap his chest. “I’m like a young bull again.”

Devlin glanced at Pitts. “Mind over matter?” he asked.

“Definitely,” Pitts said. “I think the old Bathrobe really believes in all that ooga-booga crap. I think those mumbo-jumbo witch doctors coulda put a fucking bag lady in that pot, and old Bathrobe woulda believed in the fucking cure.”

Rossi snorted, and Devlin turned to Martinez. “Show him the newspaper,” he said.

Martinez held up an English-language edition of Granma. One of the lead stories above the fold carried a photograph of Maria Mendez. The headline read RED ANGEL SURVIVES CRASH. COMPANION KILLED. Next to it was a second story, detailing a nationwide crackdown on prostitution.

Ippolito got off his bunk and snatched the paper from Martinez. He read the story about the Red Angel, then turned to Rossi. “It says this doctor wasn’t killed. It says a friend of hers was.” He looked back at the paper to make sure he got the words right. “It says she’ll be back at her job at the Ministry of Health by the end of the month.”

Rossi took the newspaper from Ippolito’s hands, looked at it, and snorted again. “I recognize the picture,” he said. “But even if the picture’s legit, the newspaper’s a phony.” He looked up at Ippolito. “It’s all bullshit. Devlin and his Cuban buddy are just tryin’ to turn the screws on me.” He glanced through the bars. “Go away, Devlin. Go fuck your little girlfriend. Go have a nice life while you still got time.” He slapped his old man’s chest again. “Like a bull, Devlin. Like a fucking bull.”

Devlin turned to Martinez. “He doesn’t believe us.” He turned to Pitts. “He thinks we’re bullshitting him, Ollie.”

“Hey, it’s show-and-tell time,” Pitts said. “Martinez, you gotta do your thing.”

Martinez nodded, offered up his Cuban shrug, then walked back to the door. “I will do my best,” he said.

Maria Mendez entered the cellblock with Adrianna at her side. She walked up to the bars and stared down at the old man seated on the bunk. She looked at the newspaper in his hands, then raised her face.

“Do you recognize me from my photograph, Senor?”

Rossi stared at her. His lower lip trembled, almost imperceptibly, and his breathing was suddenly labored. He fought it as long as he could, then his hands began to shake. He stared across the cell at Ippolito. “It’s a fake,” he gasped. “The broad’s … a fake.”

He could barely get the words out. Mattie hurried across the cell and dragged the bottle of oxygen to Rossi’s side.

Rossi grabbed the mask and placed it over his mouth. “She’s a … fake,” he said, his words barely audible through the mask.

Devlin took the Red Angel’s arm and turned her toward the door. Halfway there, he stopped and looked back at Rossi.

“Hey, Bathrobe. Sorry to rush off. But we gotta get Ollie to the airport. He’s got a flight back to New York.”

“Yeah,” Pitts said. “I gotta start spreadin’ the word about the old Bathrobe bein’ locked up in a Cuban jail.”

Devlin shook his head. “I guess the boys will figure you’re a goner, Bathrobe. Not right away, of course. A day or two might go by before they start dividing up your turf. Jesus, could be a helluva mess.”

Devlin started away again, then stopped once more. He looked back over his shoulder. “Hey, Bathrobe,” he called. “Have a nice life.” A smile spread across his face. “How did you put it a little while ago? Oh, yeah.” The smile widened. “While you still have time.”

Outside the cellblock they waited while Martinez locked the ancient steel door.

Maria Mendez, Cuba’s Red Angel, reached up and gave Devlin’s cheek an affectionate pat. She turned to Adrianna. “This man,” she said. “He reminds me of Martinez. He, too, is something of a scoundrel.”