Philip Kerr - If the Dead Rise Not

“Is that the one without the bloodstains?”

“Now you’re confusing me with Lieutenant Quevedo.”

“I’m glad you mentioned him, Captain.”

Sánchez shook his head. “Such a thing is not possible. No one with ears is ever glad to hear the name of Lieutenant Quevedo.”

“Where might I find him?”

“You do not find Lieutenant Quevedo. Not if you had any sense. He finds you.”

“Surely he can’t be that elusive. I saw him at the funeral, remember?”

“It’s his natural habitat.”

“A tall man. Buzz-cut hair, with a sort of clean-cut face, for a Cuban. What I mean is, there was something vaguely American about his face.”

“It’s as well we only see the faces of men and not their hearts, don’t you think?”

“Anyway, you said that I was working not just for Lansky, but also for Quevedo. And so-”

“Did I say that? Perhaps. How shall we describe someone like Meyer Lansky? The man is as slippery as chopped pineapple. But Quevedo is something else. We have a saying here in the militia: ‘God made us, and we wonder at it, but more especially in the case of Lieutenant Quevedo.’ Mentioning him to you as I did at the funeral, I intended only to make you aware of him as I would perhaps draw your attention to a venomous snake. So that you could avoid him.”

“Your warning is noted.”

“I’m relieved to hear it.”

“But I’d still like to speak to him.”

“About what, I wonder.” He shrugged and, ignoring the expensive humidor, lit a cigarette.

“That’s my business.”

“In point of fact, no, it’s not.” Sánchez smiled. “Certainly it is the business of Señor López. Perhaps in the circumstances it is also the business of Señora Eisner. But your business, Señor Hausner? No, I don’t think so.”

“Now it’s you who looks like chopped pineapple, Captain.”

“Perhaps that’s only to be expected. You see, I graduated from law school in September 1950. Two of my contemporaries at university were Fidel Castro Ruz and Alfredo López. Unlike Fidel, Alfredo and I were politically illiterate. In those days the university was closely tied to the government of Grau San Martín, and I was convinced that I might help to effect democratic change in our police force by becoming a policeman myself. Of course, Fidel thought differently. But after Batista’s coup in March 1952, I decided I was probably wasting my time and resolved to be less strenuous in my defense of the regime and its institutions. I would try to be a good policeman only and not an instrument of dictatorship. Does that make sense, señor ?”

“Strangely enough, it does. To me, anyway.”

“Of course, this isn’t as easy as it might sound.”

“I know that, too.”

“I have had to make compromises with myself on more than one occasion. I have even thought of leaving the militia. But it was Alfredo who persuaded me that perhaps I might do more good by remaining a policeman.”

I nodded.

“It was I,” he continued, “who informed Noreen Eisner that Alfredo had been arrested and by whom. She asked me what was to be done, and I told her I could think of nothing. But, as I’m sure you know, she is not a woman who gives up easily, and, aware that you and she were old friends, I suggested that she ask you to help her.”

“Me? Why on earth would you say that?”

“The suggestion was not entirely serious. I was exasperated with her, it’s true. I must confess I was also exasperated with you. Exasperated and, yes, a little jealous of you, too.”

“Jealous? Of me? Why on earth should you be jealous of me?”

Captain Sánchez shifted on his chair and smiled sheepishly.

“A number of reasons,” he said. “The way you solved this case. The faith that Meyer Lansky seems to have in your abilities. The nice apartment on Malecón. Your car. Your money. Let’s not forget that. Yes, I freely admit it, I was jealous of you. But I am not so very jealous that I would let you do this thing that you are thinking of. Because I must also freely admit that I like you, Hausner. And I couldn’t in all conscience allow you to put your head into the lion’s mouth.” He shook his head. “I told her I was not serious about this suggestion, but evidently she did not believe me and spoke to you herself.”

“Maybe I’ve put my head in a lion’s mouth before,” I said.

“Maybe. But this isn’t the same lion. All lions are different.”

“We’re friends, right?”

“Yes. I think so. But Fidel used to say you shouldn’t trust someone merely because he is a friend. It’s good advice. You should remember that.”

I nodded. “Oh, sure. And believe me, I know. Looking out for number one is usually what I do best. I’m an expert in survival. But from time to time I get this stupid urge to do a good turn for someone. Someone like your friend Alfredo López. It’s been a while since I did anything as selfless as something like that.”

“I see. At least I begin to think I do. You think that by helping him you’ll be helping her. Is that it?”

“Something like that. Perhaps.”

“And what do you think you can tell a man like Quevedo that might persuade him to release López?”

“That’s between me and him and what I rather quaintly used to call my conscience.”

Sánchez sighed. “I did not take you for a romantic. But that is what you are, I think.”

“You forgot the word ‘fool,’ didn’t you? But it’s more what the French call ‘existential’ than that. After all these years I still haven’t quite admitted my own insignificance. I still believe what I do makes a difference. Absurd, isn’t it?”

“I’ve known Alfredo López since 1945,” said Sánchez. “He’s a decent enough fellow. But I fail to see how Noreen Eisner prefers him to a man like you.”

“Maybe that’s what I want to prove to her.”

“Anything is possible, I suppose.”

“I don’t know. Maybe he is a better man than me.”

“No, just a younger one.”

THE SIM BUILDING in the center of Marianao looked like something out of Beau Geste -a white, two-story, comic-book fort wherein you might have discovered a company of dead legionnaires propped up along the blue castellated rooftop. It was a strange building to find in an area otherwise given over to schools and hospitals and comfortable-looking bungalows.

I parked a few streets away and walked along to the entrance, where a dog was lying on the grass shoulder. Dogs sleeping on the streets of Havana were neater and tidier about the way they did this than any dogs I had seen before, as if they were keen not to get in anyone’s way. Some were so neat and tidy about how they slept on the street that they looked dead. But you stroked any of them at your peril. Cuba was the very well-deserved home of the expression “Let sleeping dogs lie.” It was good advice for everyone and everything. If only I had taken it.

Inside the heavy wooden door, I gave my name to an equally sleepy-looking soldier and, having delivered my request to see Lieutenant Quevedo, I waited in front of another portrait of F.B., the one with him wearing the uniform with the lampshade epaulettes and a cat-that-had-all-the-cream smile. Knowing what I now knew about his share of casino money, I thought he probably had a lot to smile about.

When I had tired of being inspired by the self-satisfied face of the Cuban president, I went to a big window and stared out at a parade ground, where several armored cars were parked. Looking at them, I found it hard to see how Castro and his rebels had ever thought they stood a chance against the Cuban army.

Finally I was greeted by a tall man in a beige uniform, with gleaming leather, buttons, teeth, and sunglasses. He looked dressed up for a portrait of his own.