William Heffernan - Red Angel

SANTIAGO DE CUBA

The priest stood in the center of the clearing, naked to the waist, his stomach protruding over white cotton trousers that billowed about his legs. His shaved head, a gleaming brown, rocked from side to side; eyes rolled back, mouth open, almost as if in pain. Bare feet began to stamp the ground, raising small puffs of dust. Then his eyes snapped forward, wide and glaring, fixed on the badly burned corpse that lay before him on the ground.

“BabaluAye erikunde. BabaluAye obiapa. Bindome.”

The sound of drums filled the clearing, low and sonorous, the resonant beat intensifying as the higher pitch of basket rattles and beating sticks joined the rhythm. Now the chanting voices came, repeating the priest’s words, over and over, the bodies of the worshipers moving in a circle about the corpse, swaying to the drums, heads rocking wildly as if unsupported by bone.

The priest’s hands shot into the air, his grizzled, aging face resolute, eyes intent on the body. The arms caught the light of torches that illuminated the circle and cast wavering shadows that made it appear he, too, was dancing. Drums and chanting ceased. Worshipers stood frozen in place, bodies tense with anticipation.

“BabaluAye nfumbe. BabaluAye nkise.”

Behind the priest the circle parted and the first of the gods appeared. The drums started again as Chango began to sway, bright red robes flashing with the movement, a gleaming ax swinging in a wide arc above his head. Next came the god Oggun, machete held high, body gyrating to the drums, green robes flowing as his torso spun and dipped. Now Ochun, dressed in yellow, goddess of love, her body long and supple, each motion sensuous, seductive. Then Yemaya, blue-robed goddess of the sea, conch shell held high, her movements large and powerful like the ocean’s ebb and flow. Next Oy, encased in flowing white, goddess of wind and lightning, face rigid, eyes wide and staring, ruler of the cemetery.

The gods spun about the corpse; each form caught in the beat of the drums. Brown and black faces glistened with sweat, then suddenly froze in place, all attention now drawn to the far end of the circle. The priest turned, raised his eyes to the distant moon.

“BabaluAye nfumbe.”

Again the worshipers parted, and the god all awaited entered the circle, body slithering across the ground, snakelike, arms and legs covered by festering sores. Slowly, laboriously, BabaluAye crawled toward the blackened corpse, his head twisted with pain and suffering. Again, the drums, the chanting. Bodies of worshipers swayed in the circle; voices rose to a frenzy. The one they had awaited-the god of death and sickness-was here. Tongue flicking, mouth distorted, BabaluAye moved on the corpse.

“Angel Roja. Angel Roja. Mendez nfumbe. Mendez nfumbe. Mendez, Mendez, Mendez.”

In the shadows, as the chanting voices rose, a figure dressed in the uniform of Cuba’s State Security Forces watched. A smile played at the corners of his mouth as Oggun passed his machete to the waiting priest. The circle fell to a hush as the priest raised the blade, paused, then sent the gleaming edge down toward the corpse. Sparks flew as the blade struck stone beneath the neck. The head rolled away. Again, drums and chanting filled the circle. Again, the gods renewed their dance.

NEW YORK CITY

Vinnie “Big Head” Tedesco stood on the sidewalk, one hand pulling at the tight crotch of his trousers. His eyes roamed the street, as if searching for someone or something he wanted to avoid. Both were nervous affectations, which if recognized, Vinnie would have preferred to hide. Even so, there was an underlying cockiness about the man. His black silk shirt was open to mid-chest, allowing sunlight to reflect the glimmer of a heavy gold chain, and he occupied the sidewalk as if it were his private domain, forcing passersby to move around him. He was a large man, not exceptionally tall, but put together like a block of cement. His hair was long and dark and thickly curled, and it made his already large head seem enormous, almost a caricature: thus his street name, Vinnie Big Head. He was thirty-six years old, an up-and-coming member in the Rossi crime family, and in less than two minutes he would be dead.

Ollie Pitts stared at the body, already outlined in chalk. He made a sucking sound as he tried to remove a bit of food from his teeth. Then he belched.

“How do you see it?” Paul Devlin asked.

Pitts gave an almost imperceptible shrug. “The one witness we got saw him about five minutes before it went down. Says our boy was standing here, takin’ up half the sidewalk like he was waitin’ for somebody.” A small grin flickered across his lips. “Of course it coulda been just bad luck for Vinnie. A couple of shooters from another family drivin’ around lookin’ for a target, and Vinnie just happens to be standing there scratching his ass.” Pitts paused and belched again. “But I don’t buy it. To me it smells more like a setup. Our boy here gets a call and somebody he knows says, Hey, Vinnie, meet us on the corner and we’ll go get some scungilli, or a blow job, or whatever Vinnie happens to be up for today. Then the car pulls up and Vinnie Big Head gets two in the chest before he knows what hit him.” He raised his chin, indicating the sunburst splatter of blood and bone and tissue that surrounded Vinnie’s head on the sidewalk. “Then the shooter gets out and pumps two in his head, just to make sure. Typical mob heart-and-head stuff.” He paused, dunking about that. “Looks like a heavy-caliber, though, not the twenty-two peashooters they usually use for this kind of thing.” Another shrug. “But Vinnie was a big guy with a nasty rep. Maybe they wanted to make sure the first ones knocked him down. They also didn’t have to worry about noise. Not in this fuckin’ neighborhood.”

Devlin studied the surrounding buildings. The body lay on Broome Street, just off Mulberry in Manhattan’s Little Italy. It was one of the city’s landmark districts, an area forged more than a century ago by a continuous flow of Italian immigrants and the Mafia goons who lived in their shadow. Today, only a few Italians remained. Over the last twenty years nearby Chinatown had gradually spread across Canal Street, taking over the once fabled neighborhood so noted for its reticence with police. But that attitude of silence had not changed with the ethnicity. Pitts was right. This was still a see-no-evil kind of place, and not a single neighborhood denizen could be found among the tourists who stood gaping at Vinnie Big Head’s blood-soaked body. Those who lived and worked here knew better than to stand around where they might be asked questions they did not want to answer.

Devlin smiled at the thought. The one “witness” they had found was a tourist, a man from Iowa who had been inside a nearby shop when the shooting took place. He had been a good citizen and had waited to tell police the little he knew, excited about a story he would now have for his friends back home. Had he known anything at all, he might have returned to those friends in a box.

“This is number five,” Devlin said. “All of them Rossi’s people. And, so far, no retaliation. I’m starting to think John the Boss is really sick this time.”

“It should only be cancer of the throat.” Pitts grinned at his boss. He knew Devlin shared the sentiment.

Giovanni “John the Boss” Rossi had plagued police for more than thirty years, the last twenty as head of a Mafia family whose criminal enterprises stretched from New York, to Miami, to Las Vegas. It was a fact disputed by his doctors, and one very suspect Catholic priest, all of whom swore that Rossi had developed Alzheimer’s disease more than a decade ago and was little more than a sick old man, barely capable of finding the bathroom in his Ocean Parkway home. In short, Rossi was an enigma who had kept police at bay by feigning mental enfeeblement, as he regularly went about the city, conducting mob business, dressed in pajamas, bathrobe, and slippers, his retinue of accompanying thugs acting more like keepers than the bodyguards they were. Police attempts to question him were often met with blank, drooling stares. The media, of course, loved the act, and had even dubbed him “the Bathrobe Don.”