investigating foreign currency fraud and nobody could ever say he was short of work. The aim of his team – the Contreras Tubbies, as they were known – was to be the daily thorn in the side of Havana’s speculators and dollar- sellers, and over recent months it had chalked up an enviable record for nailing speculators.
“He’s not in the trade,” he concluded, still looking at the photo. “What does your computer say on the matter?”
“That he’s as clean as a baby’s bottom straight out of the bath.”
“I knew it. So what do you want from me?
“That you should get your informers and undercover agents to check him out in case he ever sold dollars. He handled a lot of Cuban money, and I think that’s how he got it. I also want you to investigate another guy whose photo I’ll send you shortly.”
“What are their handles?”
“This guy’s Rafael Morin, and the other’s Rene Maciques, but don’t worry about names, work on their faces.”
“Hey now, Count, isn’t this the fellow who disappeared?”
“Welcome to the party, Fatman.”
“You gone mad? Don’t go getting me into deep water. The man is a big deal… A minister keeps calling the Boss and stuff like that. You dead sure he’s been messing with greenbacks?” asked Contreras, dropping the photo on the desk as if it were suddenly a red-hot potato.
“I’m sure of fuck all, Fatman. It’s a hunch from the heart or rather from a headache. Fatman, he was getting lots of money from somewhere, and it wasn’t on the black market.”
“Yes, it was, for all you know. But you’re stirring shit, Conde and when the shit hits the fan…” replied Fatman, returning to his bruised chair. “OK, when do you need to know by?”
“As of yesterday. The Boss is in a foul temper because I’ve been three days on the case. He’ll soon want blood, and I suspect it will be mine he’ll be after. So give me a helping hand, Fatman.”
Then Captain Contreras laughed again. The Count was astonished he should find everything so amusing, because Fatman was in fact the hardest policeman he’d known, no doubt the best in his line of business, although his cheery obese face hid almost three hundred pounds of complexes. The ever-present smell of burnt grease he gave off and the hurried ends to both of his attempts at marriage were too much of a burden for him. But he fought back with laughter, convinced he’d been born to be a policeman and that he was a good one.
“All right, all right, as it’s you… Send me the other photo and tell me where I can contact you if something turns up.”
The Count stretched his hand out over Captain Contreras’s desk, ready to suffer in silence the tight grip of a fist that could throttle a horse.
“Thanks, Fatman.”
He left the office in the fallout from Fatman’s guffaws and walked up to the Boss’s office. Maruchi was typing, and the Count wondered at the fact she could talk, even look at him and still type.
“You’re late, Marquess. I mean, Count. The major went out a minute ago,” the girl told him. “He went to a meeting at Political Headquarters.”
“Uh-uh, just as well,” replied the lieutenant, who preferred to defer his confrontation with Major Rangel. “Can you tell him to wait till five thirty? I think I’ll sort this case today. All right?”
“No problem at all, Lieutenant.”
“Hey, wait a minute,” he asked, and the secretary stopped typing and looked resigned. “Do you have a couple of aspirins?”
“What’s new?” smiled the Count.
Manolo, Patricia and her experts in the Fraud Squad looked at him in a state of shock. He’d only left the enterprise an hour ago saying he’d be back in the afternoon, and now here he was demanding results. The lieutenant cleared a space on the desk in the deputy financial manager’s office they’d been lent for the investigation and sat down, giving respite to less than one buttock.
“Nothing as yet, Mayo,” said Patricia as she closed the folder labelled SERVICE ORDERS. “I warned you it wouldn’t be easy.”
“I don’t understand why the hell they need so much paper,” protested Manolo, opening his arms as if trying to embrace the huge office space occupied by the files that comprised the daily records of the enterprise. “And that’s only for 1988. We’ll soon have to invent an enterprise to deal with the papers of this enterprise.”
“But just imagine, Mayo, despite all the controls, audits and checks, there’s more theft, embezzling and siphoning off of funds than anybody could imagine. If there were no paperwork, it would be impossible to control.”
“And have you found everything on Rafael’s trips abroad and the business he was doing there?” asked the Count, who’d decided not to light up.
“There are the contracts, cheques and expenses records. And, of course, the breakdown for each business deal,” replied Patricia Wong, pointing to two mountains of paper. “We had to start at the beginning.”
“And how long will you need to make sense of it, China?”
The lieutenant laughed again, with that Chinese laugh of resignation that closed her eyes. No, she can’t see, she can’t.
“Two days at least, Mayo.”
“No, China!” shouted the Count, and he stared at Manolo. The sergeant’s eyes were begging “Get me out of here, man” and he seemed skinnier and more helpless than ever.
“I’m not Chan Li Po, that’s for sure,” protested Patricia, crossing her monumental legs.
“Fine, let’s do two things, China. Use any excuse to get Maciques’s file because I need a photo of him. And secondly, prioritize, you know, just prioritize, and while you’re at it, right, look into all the agreements and payments in relation to allowances for Rafael, Maciques and the deputy financial director who’s currently in Canada. Also look out the marketing expenses, in Cuba and abroad, and take a long hard look at the presents declared as the result of good contracts. I’m sure nothing extraordinary will turn up, but I need to know. And in particular, look at two areas, China: what Rafael did in Spain, the country he most visited, and check out all the deals he signed ever since he started to direct the enterprise, with the Japanese firm…” and then extracted his notebook from his back trouser pocket and read, “… Mitachi, because these Chinamen will be in Cuba in a couple of days and there may be something about them.”
“This is all quite feasible, but don’t call them Chinamen, if you don’t mind,” protested the lieutenant, and the Count remembered how Patricia had recently had an attack of nostalgia for Asia and had even joined the Chinese Society of Cuba, given her status as a direct descendent.
“Patricia, it boils down to the same thing more or less.”
“Oh, Mayo, don’t be so pigheaded. Go and tell my father that and see if he invites you back for dinner.”
“Forget it, forget it. It’s not that important.”
“Hey, you seem very chirpy. You got something on the go?”
“If only, Patricia… All I’ve got is an ancient prejudice and what you can find now. Help me. Look, it’s eleven thirty. You could get what I asked for by two…”
“By four at the earliest.”
“No can do. I’ll be here at three. Now let me have my boy back.”
Patricia looked at Manolo and could read the torture in his squinting eyes.
“No problem, given his level of knowledge of finance and accounting…”
“Thanks for the compliment, Lieutenant,” replied Manolo, already settling his pistol in his belt and smoothing his shirt so the weapon was less visible.
“OK, see you at three.”
“Yes, but go now, Mayo, because if you stay around I won’t be finished by five. Rebecca,” she gave an order to one of her team of experts, “get that photo for the lieutenant. Enjoy, Manolo.”
After ten years on duty Mario Conde had learned that routine doesn’t exist just because of a lack of imagination. But Manolo was still too young and preferred to solve everything through a couple of interrogations, a lead pursued to the end of the trail and, if really necessary, a pause for thought before forcing through a resolution.
