I’m in no mood. Finger and thumb together, “
In this part of town the hookers are all black and mulatto teenagers, the kind patronized by German and Canadian sex tourists whose fat white asses are also here in abundance. Go to bed, Hans, some pimp will knife you for that watch of yours. That watch will get him to Miami.
San Rafael all the way to Espada.
People thinning out. No plump anglos. Kids sleeping in doorways. An old man on a bicycle.
Past the Beard’s hospital. Party members, diplomats, and tourists only. “The best hospital in Latin America.” Yeah, right. Half the night staff probably outside soliciting blow jobs.
Espada to San Lazaro.
The police station.
A few lights on. Shutters closed. Couple of Mexican Beetles and a midnight blue ’57 Chevy parked outside.
Sergeant Menendez urinating into a storm drain.
Sees me. “What are you doing here?” he asks.
Play it cool. Buddy-buddy.
“I heard that in Regla a guy pissing in the bay had his dick bitten off by an alligator,” I say.
He laughs. “I heard that too.”
He grins and strokes his mustache.
I smile back, flirty with the DGI pig. “I heard you got a lot to lose, Menendez.”
Blushes. “Word gets around,” he replies.
“It’s just what I heard.”
Again flirty, not that I ever would in a million years. No one would unless they had a thing for cadaverous bastards with pockmarked skin, greasy hair, and a vibe that would creep out an exorcist.
He leers but it’s not really for me. I’m way too old for him. Hector says he goes for schoolgirls. Hector says the PNR had a file on him for child rape, but it was mysteriously pulled. Hector says a lot of stuff, but this I believe.
“No, really, what are you pissing in the street for?” I ask.
“Plumbing’s out.”
“Again?”
“Again.”
“Not in the ladies’ room, too?”
Another laugh. There is no ladies’ room. The whores piss in a bucket in the communal cell and the secretaries go next door to the Planning Ministry. Since Helena Gonzalez retired, I’ve been the only female police officer in the place.
“What are you doing here so early?” he wonders again.
Persistent little fuck.
Careful now. Tightrope walk. Menendez is the DGI
I smile. “Oh, you know me, anything to get ahead, catching up on some currency fraud cases,” I tell him.
He nods and spits out the stub of his cigarette. His eyes check me out. I’m wearing a white blouse with the top button undone. Blouse, black pants, black Czech shoes. No jewelry, short crop. Cop from a mile away. He looks down the shirt and back up at my eyes.
“Trying to get ahead. I heard you put in for a leave of absence. That won’t help your career,” he says.
Christ. How did he hear that already?
Flirty, young, bubbly: “You’ll see, Menendez. I’m studying criminology. I’m hoping to do an M.A. at the Universidad Nacional Autonoma de Mexico,” I say with a hint of pretend pride.
“Never heard of it,” he says sourly.
“It’s the oldest university in the western hemisphere. One of the biggest, too. And when I get the M.A. they’ll make me a sergeant for sure. You better watch out when I’m in charge of you.”
And for icing I add a little laugh, a little girlish laugh. Oh, Menendez,
He grunts. “They’re going to let you go to Mexico?”
“Well, they haven’t given permission yet for the whole year. I haven’t even applied formally yet, but I have an interview at the university next week. I think they’ll let me go for that at least.”
“Maybe,” he says coyly. “But on the whole college is a waste of time. Good solid police work you learn on the job. And a year away: big mistake if you ask me, Officer Mercado.”
“Well, we’ll see what they say.”
“If you want to get ahead you should join the Party,” he adds.
“I’d like to, but I can’t. Because of my father.”
His forehead wrinkles, as if he’s bringing up the mental files he has on the whole police department: cops, secretaries, cleaners, other
“Ah, yes, your father. A terrorist. Defected in ’93.”
“He wasn’t a terrorist.”
“He hijacked the bay ferry to the Keys.”
“No. He was on the ferry at the time but he wasn’t one of the hijackers.”
“Did he attempt to come back?”
“No.”
Triumph and a snort. “Well, I won’t keep you, Officer Mercado.”
“Good day, Sergeant Menendez.”
I walk inside. One of the newer precinct buildings, but already paint peeling off the walls. Uneven black-and- white floor tiling. Frozen ceiling fan. Big painting of Jefe, Mao style. No one around. A snore. Sergeant Ortiz sleeping behind the front desk. I tiptoe past him up the steps and through a set of grungy glass doors that squeak open, almost waking Ortiz.
Through central processing.
Officer Posada asleep under
The stairs to the second floor.
Crumbling concrete, cracks in the floor the size of plantains. A corridor-length mural depicting Cuban history from the time of Cortes to the glorious Pan American Games in 1990 when the socialist system triumphed again over the Yankees and their vassals.
Hector’s office.
Knock.
“Come in, Mercado.”
I open the door.
Books and papers everywhere. Two telephones. Another dead ceiling fan. A window looking down to the sea. Hector nursing a rum and coffee. He looks tired. He hasn’t shaved. Wearing the same shirt and jacket as yesterday.
“Sit.”
I sit.
“You wanted to see me,” he says. This early and this unguarded, his accent has that provincial eastern lilt he’s been trying to eradicate his whole life. If he weren’t bald, fat, married, and very ugly I’d find it sexy.
“So what’s this about?” he asks sipping from the coffee flask.
“It’s about my leave of absence,” I say.
His eyes flick toward the door.
“You’re early; I like that. Who else is in the building right now? Who did you see?” he asks.
“Posada.”