Red Angel

in his mixture of Spanish and Bantu.

“He likes you,” Martinez said. “But he says you must put aside your fears and follow Oggun.”

“For a picture of Andrew Jackson, he should give him a kiss,” Pitts said.

Adrianna threw Pitts a disapproving look. The big detective gave her a shrug and an impish smile.

Out in the courtyard, Pitts held up his hand. “Let me check the street before we go out,” he said.

He opened the gate, stepped out, then returned smiling. “There’s a big truck parked about three quarters of the way down the block,” he said. He turned to Martinez. “Ask the man if there’s a way to get into the backyard next door so I can work my way down the street and check it out.”

Martinez relayed the question to Plante Firme. The palero nodded and answered in rapid Spanish.

“There is a rear gate that leads to an alley and into the next property,” Martinez said.

Pitts glanced around and saw a piece of lead pipe lying on the ground near the rear wall. He pointed to it. “Ask the palero if I can borrow that.”

When told he could, Pitts turned to Devlin. “Give me five minutes, then you and the major step outside, okay? Just keep their attention on you while I see if it’s our boys in white.”

“How far away is the truck?” Devlin asked.

“About fifty yards,” Pitts said. “Close enough for you to get there if it looks like I need help.” He glanced at Martinez. “You still got your peashooter?”

“Si, I have my peashooter,” Martinez said.

Pitts entered the alley and moved into the next yard. It was pitch-black, the only light seeping through an occasional curtained window. He felt his way, climbed over succeeding fences, until he thought he had gone about sixty yards. When he made his way out to the street, he was no more than ten yards behind the large truck. A glance at the fresh gouge in its right front fender told him what he wanted to know.

Pitts moved up behind the truck, then inched along the passenger side, until he could hear voices inside the cab. He gave the side of the truck a solid whack with the lead pipe, then ducked down under its bed.

The passenger door opened immediately, and as it slammed shut Pitts saw two white-clad legs standing next to him. A grin flicked across his broad, flat face.

“Hola,” he whispered as he drove the pipe up between the legs, feeling it crunch against the softness of the man’s crotch.

The Abakua hit the ground with both knees and began to gag as Pitts emerged from under the truck and sent a second blow to the back of the man’s head.

Keeping low, he circled the front of the truck and crouched again. The second door slammed, and another white-clad figure came around the front fender. This time Pitts used the lead pipe like a police baton, jabbing it forward into the second man’s solar plexus. A knife clattered to the street as the man pitched forward, and Pitts grabbed the back of his head and drove his knee up into his face. The second Abakua sprawled on the street like a bag of white linen. Pitts picked up the knife, checked that both men were unconscious, relieved them of their wallets, then circled the truck, puncturing each of the four tires. He watched with satisfaction as the truck settled on its rims, then walked slowly back to the palero‘s house.

“You wanna cuff those scumbags?” He was grinning at Martinez.

The major shook his head. “Are they alive?”

Pitts gave him a shrug. “Yeah, but they ain’t gonna feel too good tomorrow.”

Martinez nodded, and Devlin thought he detected a note of approval. “I would like to see them,” the major said.

Martinez removed Adrianna’s sketches from his pocket and walked to the fallen Abakua. When he returned he handed the sketches back to her. “They are the same men from this afternoon. The likenesses are excellent,” he said.

A gleam came to Adrianna’s eyes, and Devlin could tell she was pleased she was finally a part of their ragtag investigation. “It might be better if we just leave those clowns where they are,” he told Martinez. “There’s no point in tipping Cabrera that we’re onto him. All those Abakua will be able to say is that they were run over by some elephant with a lead pipe.” He turned to Pitts, shaking his head. “Did you get their IDs?”

Pitts handed over the wallets. Devlin opened the first, noted it was empty of any money, and eyed Pitts again.

“Hey,” Pitts said. “It’s a poor country.”

Devlin handed the wallets to Martinez, who immediately withdrew two small books. “Their identity papers,” he said. “I will have two of my most trusted men pick them up later tonight.” He glanced at Pitts. “If they have recovered from the elephant attack, they will be taken someplace where Cabrera cannot find them. We will hold them as long as our law permits.”

6

U.S. Senator Warren Burgess sat behind the dark mahogany desk. It was midnight and the only light came from a solitary banker’s lamp, its luminous shade casting a green tint about the small study tucked into one corner of the senator’s nine-room apartment in the Watergate.

The man seated across from Burgess seemed suited to the dim lighting. Everything about Michael DeForio was dark-his hair, his eyes, even the five-o’clock shadow that covered his cheeks and chin. Tonight, his clothing was dark as well, black jacket over black slacks and a black polo shirt.

Burgess could feel the sweat in his palms as he smiled at Mickey D, the street name given to DeForio by his bosses. It could stand for Mickey Dark, Burgess thought as he realized yet again just how unnerving it was to have this man in his home.

DeForio was forty years old, the youngest capo in the Gambino crime family. But he was a different breed of gangster. Unlike other mid-level mobsters, he did not head a crew of thieves and legbreakers and shakedown artists. He was a graduate of the Wharton School of Finance, with a master’s degree in business administration, and for the past seven years he had worked as the Gambino family’s “Washington liaison.” It was something that gave the man weight. Especially for a U.S. senator who had been in the mob’s pocket for the past fifteen years.

DeForio took a sip of the drink Burgess had given him. Single malt, just like the man who poured it. He studied the senator, took in the very patrician nose, the distinguished wings of white hair along the sides of his head, the slightly uplifted, slightly arrogant chin. The perfect WASP. The perfect candidate for the moneyed set. But the man was a cheap cardboard cutout. Very cheap. Still, with a little luck-for us-he might one day find himself sitting in a large white house on Pennsylvania Avenue.

Mickey D leaned forward, struggling to keep the amusement out of his eyes. It was time for business. Real business.

“Senator, I always enjoy drinking your scotch. But it’s time for a little serious talk. We’re very close to moving ahead with our Cuban plan. But we’re a little disturbed by the rumblings we hear that the administration may lift the embargo after the November elections.”

“I thought there were problems in New York,” Burgess said. “I thought there was a war going on because of Rossi’s little blunder.”

DeForio waved his words away. “All settled,” he said. “In fact, Rossi’s going to Cuba to resolve that problem. I’ll be there at the same time to finalize things with Cabrera. But we’ll want assurances that the sanctions will remain in place.”

Burgess twisted nervously in his chair. “I’ll beat the drums. Where Castro’s concerned, it doesn’t take much to stir up the conservative wing of the party. But there are people in the administration who are especially adamant this time. We may have to call on the Miami Cubans again.”

A smile flickered across DeForio’s lips. The last time plans had been laid to lift the embargo, the Miami Cubans had come through like champs. They had set up a special flight for one of their planes, then had fed phony information to a known Castro spy that the plane would be dropping plastique to anti-Castro insurgents. Castro’s