Red Angel

5

Ollie Pitts sat on the terrace that ran the entire length of the Inglaterra Hotel. It was ten-thirty in the evening. Devlin and Martinez had picked him up at Jose Marti Airport two hours before, and Pitts had simply dumped his bags in his room and retreated to the terrace to have the first of the many beers he planned to add to Devlin’s tab.

Martinez sat on the other side of the small tile-covered table, a cup of strong Cuban coffee before him. He had offered to keep Pitts company while Devlin returned to his room to give Adrianna whatever comfort he could before her meeting with the dead man, now only an hour and a half away.

Pitts had only rolled his eyes when told of their midnight seance with the Palo Monte witch doctor. Now those same cop’s eyes roamed the sidewalk, taking in the array of beautiful young prostitutes who strolled by, smiles flashing at the tourists who crowded the terrace. Pitts let out a small snort and brought his attention back to the sad-eyed major.

“So, listen, Martinez. We pull this thing off, and find this old broad’s body, I figure Fidel owes me a big one. Am I right?”

Martinez fought off a smile. “I am sure the Comandante will be very grateful.”

“Yeah, well, gratitude don’t quite cut it. You know what I mean?”

“What is it you would wish in payment for your services, Detective?”

Pitts smirked and again fixed his gaze on the young prostitutes parading along the sidewalk. “I want the Lycra concession for the whole island.” He let out a louder snort. “Hell, I’ll be a fucking millionaire overnight.” He shook his head and turned his gaze back on the major. “Where do these broads get their clothes, Martinez? You got a store down here called Whores ‘R’ Us?”

Martinez closed his eyes momentarily. “It is more simple than that, my friend. They see these clothes in American movies and on American television, and they think this is how they must look to be desirable.”

Pitts was now staring at a young woman with dark hair and garish makeup. She was no more than eighteen, and she was wearing a jersey-style top, tight about her neck but with a hole cut in its center large enough to allow half of each breast to protrude lasciviously. “I must be seeing the wrong fucking movies,” Pitts said.

The young woman seemed to sense mat Pitts was speaking about her. She stopped at the row of plants that created a barrier between the terrace and the street. Slowly, she withdrew a cigarette from her purse and indicated she wanted Pitts to light it.

“You are being offered one of the few capitalist delights of Cuba,” Martinez said. There was a hint of regret in his voice.

“I’ve been here for two hours. It’s about fucking time,” Pitts said.

Pitts pushed himself up from the table. He was dressed in a flamboyant Hawaiian shirt over khaki slacks, but his feet were still clad in the black iron-toed cop brogans he had worn since his first day as a patrolman. He clomped over to the woman, grinning at the sizable breasts protruding from her blouse.

“You need a light, sweetheart?” Pitts raised his eyes, then glanced quickly over her shoulder toward the street.

The young woman gave him a coy look, drawing his eyes back, then placed the cigarette between suggestively puckered lips. When Pitts had applied flame from an oversized Zippo lighter, she tilted her head back and sent a stream of smoke into the air. Then she thanked him and rattled off a stream of Spanish in a soft, suggestive voice.

“You speakee the English?” Pitts asked.

The woman shook her head and offered up another soft phrase. It required no translation.

“Sex?” Pitts asked.

“Si. Sex,” the woman said. She smiled at his sudden comprehension.

“Fuck?” Pitts asked.

“Si. Fuck,” the woman said. She was still smiling.

Pitts shook his head in mock regret. “I’m sorry, sweetheart, but I promised my old mom that I’d never ball a chick who didn’t speak English.” He grinned again and started back to the table.

“You are a cruel man,” Martinez said as Pitts reclaimed his chair.

“So I’m told,” Pitts said. “By the way, there are two assholes standing next to a car over by that little park. They’re both dressed in white. Are these the two voodoo boys we got tailing us?”

“Is there anyone else near them?” Martinez asked.

“Not within fifty feet.”

Martinez nodded. “They will be our Abakua. No one will get very close to them.”

Pitts leaned forward and lowered his voice. “These guys are dangerous? Armed?”

Martinez nodded again. “With knives, only. But they are-how do you say? — very proficient with these implements.”

The detective’s eyes glittered. “Listen, Martinez. Since we got these armed scumbags-these known fucking killers-shadowing us, what are the chances of you getting me some heat?”

“Heat?”

Pitts rolled his eyes, “A pistolero. Boom, boom.”

Martinez shook his head. “Ah, a pistola. No, my friend. Not here in Cuba. It is not allowed for citizens, and certainly not for tourists. Besides, if Colonel Cabrera were to learn of it, it would give him an excuse to lock you away in one of our very unpleasant prisons for many, many years.”

“You carry one?” Pitts asked.

The major dropped a hand to the waistband of his trousers, which was covered by the tail of a pale blue shirt. “Si, my friend. I carry one.”

Pitts sneered at him. “If it gets too heavy, I’ll relieve you of the burden.”

“Thank you, Detective,” Martinez said. “But it is very light, this pistola.”

Colonel Antonio Cabrera climbed out of the rear of his car and glanced casually over his shoulder. The large truck that had followed him had pulled to the curb on the opposite side of the park. Cabrera was dressed in civilian clothes and walked casually now to one of the benches that faced the Inglaterra Hotel. He beckoned to the two Abakua, and watched with satisfaction as people nearby scattered as the two white-clad men approached.

“Your truck is on the other side of the park,” he said. “If they leave the hotel, take care of this matter tonight. If not, do so in the morning.”

One of the Abakua, a tall, lean, hard-eyed man somewhere in his thirties, stared down at Cabrera. There was no fear in his eyes as he confronted the colonel.

“It will be easier to make it seem an accident if they are driving.”

“They will definitely be driving in the morning,” Cabrera said. “They have an appointment at State Security at ten. But tonight, if possible. It will be better in darkness. And an evening stroll could put them in your headlights.”

“And if the major is with them?” the second Abakua asked.

“As I told you once before, I have little concern for the major’s safety,” Cabrera said.

Devlin and Adrianna arrived on the terrace at eleven-thirty. Adrianna was dressed in khaki slacks and a scoopneck, sleeveless yellow jersey. Despite efforts to appear outwardly calm, she could not hide the hint of nervousness in her eyes.

“You are dressed in the color of Ochun,” Martinez said. “Plante Firme’s nganga is dedicated to Oggun, who has always favored this goddess of beauty. It is a good omen.” He turned to Devlin, taking in his green, short-sleeved shirt. “And green is the color of Oggun,” he said. “Another favorable omen.”

“What about me?” Pitts asked, pulling at the front of his flamboyant Hawaiian shirt.

Martinez smiled. “The gods are tolerant,” he said.

Devlin glanced at Pitts, noting that his shirt was not tucked into his trousers-the street cop’s method of concealing a weapon when going jacketless. He knew Ollie was not carrying, had made sure of it when he arrived at the airport, and he wondered if he had chosen to wear his shirt this way out of habit or to give himself the comfort of at least pretending he had a weapon.