The old woman snorted. “As she always looks,” she snapped. “Like the Virgin of Caridad, very saintly and black as the night. Protector of all the whores and deviants.”
Martinez placed a hand on Devlin’s arm. “Ochun is one of our most popular
“Yes, yes.” Amelia echoed Martinez’s warning with a vigorous nod. “It is why Maria is safe from them.” She gave Martinez a contemptuous look, as if he was one of her sister’s enemies.
“Do you believe in these gods?” Devlin asked.
She gave Devlin a sly look. “You are my niece’s lover, eh? I saw your picture. My niece sent it to my sister and she showed it to me.” She nodded as if coming to a decision. “You are very handsome. But you are also from the police. I know about you.”
“Do you believe in these gods, Aunt Amelia?” Devlin asked again.
The old woman stared at him. “I am not your aunt. Do not try and fool me. And I believe in nothing.” She turned her glare on Martinez and elevated her chin defiantly. “And, especially, I do not believe in that communist fool Fidel. The Negroes believe in him, just as they believe in their gods.” She made a slicing gesture with one bony hand, as if wielding a knife. “Fidel cut off their tails and let them down from the trees, and now I have them living next door to me. And now their gods even enter my home with my sister.” She reached out and slammed the album shut, as if closing away her childhood. “It is all the communists’ doing. All of it.”
“I am afraid she will be of little help to us,” Martinez said. They were driving back toward the old city, headed to the apartment of Jose Tamayo, the mystery writer-cum-political cop whom Martinez wanted to enlist in their small army.
“You think she’s …” Devlin finished the sentence by tapping the side of his head.
Martinez shrugged. It was the major’s habitual response to any question. But it wasn’t just Martinez. Devlin had gotten it from bellmen and waiters, and just about everyone he had met. It seemed to be the Cuban national answer to any question.
“She is old,” Martinez said. “But I suspect she is also very clever. She also likes to say things that are not acceptable. Perhaps she feels it is safer to act”-he glanced regretfully at Adrianna-“shall we say, somewhat mentally infirm.”
“Do you think she believes in these … these
Martinez kept his eyes straight ahead. Devlin could see he was smiling. “Did you notice the bracelet she wore on her wrist. The one made of blue and white beads.”
“I noticed it,” Adrianna said.
“It is a symbol that marks her as a daughter of Yemaya, the goddess of the sea and the home and motherhood. Sailors worship her and seek her protection. She is also Ochun’s older sister, and the one who gave Ochun her powers. And Yemaya, herself, is very powerful, her dark side very capable of vengeance.”
Adrianna gave Martinez a sharp look. His words had seemed sly to her, almost condescending. “I don’t care what she believes, or doesn’t believe. I think she was frightened.” She held the major’s gaze, defying him to contradict her. “I want to go back and see her again. But next time I’ll go alone.”
“I’m not sure that’s-” Another sharp look from Adrianna killed Devlin’s objection in mid-sentence. “Maybe Ollie could go with you,” he said instead.
“God, no.”
“He could stay outside,” Devlin offered.
“He’d scare the entire neighborhood.” Adrianna shook her head, letting him know further discussion was useless. “I want to see her again, and I don’t want her to feel her home is being invaded. I want her to talk to me, and I don’t think that will happen unless I go alone.”
Before heading to their next stop, Martinez stopped at a public phone to check with his office. When he returned to the car, his face was masked by uncertainty.
“It seems Colonel Cabrera has postponed your appointment.”
“Until when?” Devlin asked.
“Tomorrow morning at ten.”
“Do you think that means he’s found something?” There was a hint of hope in Adrianna’s voice.
Martinez inclined his head slightly as if considering the possibility. “I think it is more likely he wants to await a report from his Abakua henchmen and see what we are up to. But we can be hopeful.”
“Maybe we should ask him why the Abakua are following us,” Adrianna suggested.
Martinez and Devlin exchanged a quick look.
“Perhaps it would be better to let the chicken sit on the nest undisturbed,” Martinez said. “But on our way to Jose Tamayo’s apartment, perhaps we also could give the chicken something to think about.”
“What would that be?” Devlin asked.
Martinez offered up his Cuban shrug. “Perhaps I can come up with something,” he said.
Jose Tamayo’s apartment was in a battered block of tenements off the Plaza de Armas, a small square dominated by a statue of Carlos Manuel de Cespedes, who led the fight to free Cuba from Spanish domination.
Martinez parked his ancient Chevrolet in front of what appeared to be a diminutive church that sat behind a spiked iron gate and an ancient tree with wide-spreading branches.
“Come,” he said. “Let me play tour guide for the benefit of the Abakua.”
Martinez stood before the gate. Fifty yards away, the two Abakua who were tailing them sat in their car on the other side of the plaza.
“Those clowns certainly stand out in a crowd,” Devlin said.
“Yes. They are not very good at surveillance, but they are persistent.” Martinez raised one hand toward the small church hidden behind the massive tree. “So, I will play tour guide for a few minutes. Then we will lose our Abakua friends before we go to Jose Tamayo’s home. And, who can say, you may even enjoy my instructions.”
Martinez waved his hand in a circle. “Here, under this sacred ceiba tree, on November sixteenth, 1511, was held the first mass to celebrate the founding of the city. The small church behind the tree, the Templete, was built later, in 1828, and it holds paintings commemorating that day.”
“It can’t be the same tree,” Adrianna said.
Martinez raised and lowered his bushy eyebrows. “It is unlikely. Some say succeeding trees were grown from shoots of the original. But, according to legend, it is the same tree. I suspect the tree has been replaced several times, possibly from these shoots, but many prefer to believe the original tree has endured.” He smiled. “Like Cuba itself.”
Martinez took each of their arms and started to walk toward the small park at the center of the plaza. “The ceiba tree is also very important in Palo Monte. The
The major led them into the small park, the surrounding sidewalks of which were filled with used-book stalls. “We will buy one of Tamayo’s books,” he said. “He will be very honored if you present it for him to sign.” He let out a small laugh. “Like the
“What kind of books does he write?” Adrianna asked.
“He is a great follower of your American writers Raymond Chandler and Dashiell Hammett. I do not know the work of these men, but it is said that Tamayo’s is very similar.”
“They were very good,” Adrianna said. “What we call ‘hard-boiled’ fiction.”
“Ah, yes,” Martinez said. “That is Tamayo. Very hard-boiled. But only in his writing.”
After buying a copy of one of Tamayo’s books, they made their way through the plaza and into a government building that housed offices for the Ministry of the Army. Once inside, they immediately moved to a side door that
