The Golden Havana Night

by Manuel Ramos

  The restaurant had turned hot and stuffy, heavy with the smell of blood and gunshots and death. About a dozen plainclothesmen and uniformed police were on the scene, many smoking cigarettes. Another dozen or so restaurant workers stood nervously in the kitchen, obviously worried about their jobs and the possibility of a visit to the Havana jail. The gunman’s shrouded corpse remained on the floor. A pool of blood surrounded the upper body, and blood splatter marked the stairs and portions of the wall. My forehead felt warm and clammy.

  “We can leave,” Lourdes said. “Solís knows what happened. He will find out who the shooter was and who he works for. Then, maybe, this will end. And things, as you say, can get back to normal.”

  We were about to walk out the door, when Solís appeared again at the top of the stairs.

  “Lourdes!” he shouted. “I just got a call. Your man at the house—he’s been killed. Your house was attacked. There’s been a fire. You can’t go back there.”

  I caught most of what he said but I had to be sure.

  “Sánchez is dead?”

  She nodded, then her body wobbled. She leaned into me and I held her up. Her head fell onto my chest, where she buried her muffled sobs.

  Solís offered to take us in for the night. The beach house had been saved from the fire, but no one could stay there. And Solís also didn’t think Lourdes should stay in the apartment she kept in the city.

  “Havana’s not safe for you,” he said to Lourdes.

  He’d learned that Sánchez’s throat had been cut. The man had bled to death with a rifle in his hands. There were no other bodies. Lourdes took the news hard. Esteban Sánchez had worked for her for twenty years.

  “He was a gentle man, a poet,” she said. “He studied flowers and plants and played the piano. They didn’t have to kill him.”

  She wanted to leave the city as soon as possible. She made a few phone calls from the restaurant, and then one of her men drove us to Solís’ place. The detective told her not to travel in her own car. Solís said he would join us later, when he completed what had to be done to officially process the shooting.

  Inspector Solís’ house looked unfinished. The front door was at the back of a row of concrete buildings that I thought were small warehouses or storage units until I realized they were homes. The area did not have street lights, and the golden aura of Havana did not reach into the dark alley where one of the city’s top cops lived. Some of the buildings had broken windows. Dim light shined through cracks and loose door jambs. The sidewalk was nothing more than cracked bricks and boards strewn along a muddy path.

  Solís had given Lourdes a key, and she let us in. She made a pot of strong coffee and turned on a flickering television set that broadcast music and dance videos. She poured two cups and dropped several cubes of sugar into each one.

  Wooden chairs crowded the kitchen. Peeling cupboards held chipped plates, cracked glasses, stained cups. A wall clock had a painting of Che Guevara on its face.

  “Federico got that from a relative in Miami,” Lourdes explained. She had not spoken on the trip from the restaurant.

  Next to the clock a framed yellowing certificate declared a celebration to honor the “exemplary courage and devotion to duty” of the “much respected” Inspector Federico Solís.

  “You must want an explanation,” Lourdes said when we sat down in the shabby kitchen.

  “That’d be good.”

  “I should begin with the inspector.”

  “Okay. Good start.”

  “Federico earns about thirty dollars a month. That’s the going rate for teachers and doctors, too, so he’s doing good, if he has another job, which he does at times. This place is what he can afford. Most of Havana lives like this. Everyone has a home, or so we are told. Some have better homes.”

  I didn’t think the irony was lost on her.

  “You gave him money. You bribed him?”

  She sipped the coffee and shook her head. “It’s not like that. That money is to pay him for his services, and to share with his men. It’s the way the system works, the only way it works. Like I said, police don’t make much money—very few Cubans do, so we have other ways of providing. Federico’s a decent policeman, mostly honest. The money I gave him won’t change that. He will find out who killed Hoochie and he will arrest him.” She paused. “Unless he gets other orders. That can happen if there are more important things going on than the simple assassination of a loan shark and criminal. I told you before: living in Cuba is complicated.”

  “I’m starting to believe you.”

  I tried the coffee. The rich sweet liquid coated my throat and then my stomach. It was probably my imagination, but I felt instantly awake and alert, something I hadn’t experienced since before I landed at the Havana airport.

  “What if he thinks you were involved, or me?”

  “Then he will arrest you, or me.” She set down her empty cup. “But we don’t have to worry about that, do we?”

  “I know I didn’t have Hoochie killed.”

  “But you wonder about me? Really?”

  I shrugged. “There’s something going on that I don’t understand completely, maybe that I’ll never understand. It’s complicated.”

  She smiled.

  “But here we are,” I said. “Now what?”

  I drained my cup, sat back in my chair and waited for Lourdes to tell me our next steps. I briefly thought that perhaps I could go home now. I’d tried to do what I’d been hired to do. The killing of Hoochie was not part of the plan, but wasn’t I finished with Cuba? I answered my own question by shaking my head. My job wasn’t just about delivering the money, it never had been. Kino Machaco wanted the threat to his family removed, neutralized. That’s what I’d been paid for, with more money waiting for me if and when I did return to Denver, but only if the work was well and truly finished. Lourdes was running for her life, hiding in a back street, plotting an escape from someone who’d already killed her driver, house guard and her brothers’ tormentor. Clearly, the threat still existed, only in a form different from Hoochie.

  The rickety front door opened. Inspector Solís and Marita Valdés walked in. The cop looked even more wrinkled and tired. Marita’s dress was blood-stained. Make-up smeared her face.

  “Marita,” Lourdes said. “Why am I not surprised?”

  It wasn’t really a question.

  — Chapter 13 —

  BAD FOR BUSINESS

  The Cuban cop fiddled around his tiny, decrepit home like a bad Columbo impersonation. He obviously grasped that tension existed between Lourdes and Marita. Hell, even I could feel it in the dank atmosphere of the worn-out kitchen. He chose to ignore it. He made more coffee and poured everyone a cup. He brought out a platter of stale cookies, a small baguette and a jar of very red jam.

  We sat at the table. The blinking TV played in the background, but I couldn’t hear anything specific.

  He introduced me to Marita. I doubted she’d heard him.

  “You should leave as soon as possible, Lourdes,” Solís said after finishing a small chunk of bread and jam.

  “That’s my intention,” Lourdes answered. “What is she doing here?” She nodded her head at Marita.

  “I’m afraid, Lourdes,” Marita said before the cop could answer. “Surely you appreciate that. Federico thought it might be safer for both of us if we worked together.”

  Solís nodded.

  “Miguel . . . ” Marita’s voice trailed off.

  “I can’t work with you. You and Hoochie have . . . there’s no way I can forget our past, your lies and deceit.”

  “That wasn’t me,” Marita said.

  “You or Hoochie . . . what’s the difference? This all happened because of Hoochie and his abuse of my brothers. He has only himself to blame for his own death. He deserves…”

  Marita sprung from her chair. Her coffee tipped over and spread in a dark circle.

  “Don’t . . . you can’t . . . ” She reached across the table for Lou
rdes.

  Solís grabbed her and held her back. “Marí, Marí! Calm down. Lourdes!”

  He pulled Marita out of the kitchen and disappeared into a dark room separated from the kitchen with a bamboo curtain. Lourdes found a rag and cleaned up the coffee. Marita’s moans filtered into the kitchen. Solís whispered. Drawers opened and then were shut.

  Solís returned a few minutes later. “I gave her something to sleep,” he said. “Half of my job is calming down witnesses, victims.”

  “She’s no victim,” Lourdes spit out.

  “You have to listen to me,” Solís said. “She’s in bad shape. She’s afraid for her life. Someone is after you, and it appears that same someone had Hoochie killed. The burning of your home and the shooting . . . it’s too much of a coincidence. Marita could easily also be a target.”

  Lourdes stared at her policeman friend but didn’t say anything.

  “What are you thinking?” I asked.

  “I know this will be difficult,” Solís answered. “But it makes sense to me.”

  Lourdes stiffened against her chair.

  “You leave Havana, tonight or early tomorrow. I have family in Trinidad. They manage a hotel . . . well, it’s an old mansion that was built by one of Batista’s cousins. It’s not the Hilton but it’s safe. You can stay there.”

  “And Marita?” I asked.

  “She can’t handle this alone. Together, you three can wait this out until I track down the person responsible for the attacks on you and Lourdes, and Hoochie’s murder. Both of your families have enemies. Apparently, some are the same.”

  “You’re insane,” Lourdes responded, her words heavy with anger. “I can’t do that. You know what that woman has put me through. You know our history. I don’t care what happens to her. I don’t care.”

  “When did Marita become Lourdes’ problem?” I asked. “I can go with Lourdes wherever she thinks it’s safe. But this Marita should fend for herself. I don’t see any other way.”

  Solís shook his head. “Lourdes can answer that better than me.”

  Lourdes stood up and put her cup in the rusty sink. She talked with her back to the cop and me. “Federico thinks I have an obligation to Marita. Never mind all the trouble and problems she’s caused my family over the years. He thinks I have a debt to her. I guess he’s saying this is the time to pay it off.”

  “What could you owe her for?” I asked.

  A gust of wind smashed against the house. Rattles and squeaks erupted, and for a second I worried that a tropical storm might rip out Solís’ home from its cracked foundation.

  Lourdes turned and faced us. “For one, Marita’s family helped Kino when he left Cuba. That’s what he’s talking about.”

  “It was more than simple help,” Solís said. “Her family was close to the government. It goes back to the Revolution. The men in that family fought with Che and Fidel. Marita’s great-grandfather died in one of Batista’s prisons. Her father worked under Raúl Castro for years. Without the help of the Valdés family, Joaquín Machaco would not be playing baseball in the United States.”

  “That wasn’t Marita,” Lourdes insisted. “She had nothing to do with Kino’s escape.”

  “You know that is not important, Lourdes. It was her family. The Valdés people took a big risk for your family. Now, a Valdés needs your help. It’s only right that you do what you can.”

  “Not if it means setting herself up as a target,” I said.

  Solís looked at me as though I’d grown a tail or lost an eyeball.

  Before he could respond, Lourdes interrupted. “Federico! Please. I’m in hiding, running from people I don’t know, for reasons I don’t know. I can’t help myself . . . so what can I do for her?”

  “You can take her with you, keep her safe until I finish my job and bring in the killer. You can watch her, protect her if necessary. Depending on where you go, I can have someone with you.”

  “I’ll be with her,” I said. “I’m still working for her and the Machaco brothers.”

  “And what? Does that make me feel more secure about Lourdes’ safety?” He answered his own question. “No, not in the least.”

  Lourdes clutched the cop’s hands. “Gus saved my life, Federico. Twice. He drove us out of the ambush, and he knocked me down when the shooting started in El Supremo. He could have been shot himself. Both times. I trust this man.”

  The cop grumbled to himself. He slouched into his ill-fitting jacket. His face wrinkled as though he had a very bad case of heartburn.

  “There are other reasons you should help Marí. You’ve not forgotten that, I hope.”

  Lourdes shrugged. She said nothing about the “other reasons” that Solís mentioned.

  “Why are you so invested in what happens to Lourdes and Marita?” I asked. “What’s in it for you?”

  Solís straightened up. “Mr. Corral? Gus? Correct?”

  Lourdes and I both nodded.

  “You might not understand. Cuba is at an historic juncture: the death of Fidel, the change in, uh, perspective by the government, the loosening of travel restrictions and the trade embargo by the U.S., if only for a short period. Cuba is changing, growing. This thing that happened tonight . . . well, it’s bad for business. I’m a public servant. I work for the common good. I take that responsibility very seriously. I’ve been instructed to put everything else aside and to concentrate on this series of events that began when you arrived in Cuba. Which means I focus on the people most directly involved in those events. Lourdes. Marita. And you, Mr. Corral.”

  I didn’t like the emphasis he put on me. He smiled, awkwardly, as if his face was not comfortable with high levels of expression.

  “You want us together,” I said. “The better to keep an eye on us?”

  “Something like that.”

  “I’m leaving Havana,” Lourdes said. “We won’t be around. What about Alberto?”

  “I have men watching him, twenty-four hours a day. He’s safe. If he’s released from the hospital, I’ll send him to you.”

  She nodded. “I’ll stay away forever if I have to.”

  “You won’t need to do that,” Solís assured her. “Take Marí with you. Give me a few days, and Havana will once again be safe for you. I have resources available. You are important, respected by many people in the government. I will be given all the help I need. And the government wants the violence stopped quickly. If I can’t do that, then others will take over. You know that won’t be good, Lourdes . . . for any of us.”

  She nodded again, reluctantly.

  We talked for several more minutes. Eventually, we agreed that Lourdes and I would leave Havana in the morning for Trinidad, a village to the southeast, where Solís believed she would be safe. Marita Valdés would travel with us. When Solís sent word, we’d return to Havana and then, I hoped, I could finally go home to Denver.

  Solís found blankets for us and tried to create beds out of chairs and pillows. He climbed a ladder and stretched out on the floor of a miniature loft that hung over the kitchen. Lourdes slept in the only comfortable chair in the place, an oversized recliner that looked as old as the house. I crashed on the floor and I got very little sleep.

  Too many questions picked at my brain. Why was Solís so insistent that Marita travel with us? Why was he so sure he could end the crime spree in a few days? Who “instructed” him to prioritize Hoochie’s murder, to the exclusion of everything else? I had several concerns about the Havana detective. But they were nothing compared to my anxiety about Lourdes. I knew very little about her. Sister of a Cuban defector making millions playing baseball in the major leagues. She was obviously well off, by Cuban or North American standards. She was given deference and space by police and, it appeared, government officials. How had she accumulated her wealth and her status? Why did she have men “working for her”? Why had someone attacked her house and killed her house guard on the same night that someone killed the enemy of her brothers? The more I thought about my situation,
the more questions popped into my head, and the more answers I didn’t know.

  The night turned into a crazy montage of images and disconnected conclusions: dead men sprawled on restaurant floors, blood-splattered walls, screaming oxen, beautiful Cuban women dancing on new graves. Deep into my morbid insomnia, I heard a gentle patter of rain against the grimy windows. It pulled me back from the nightmare and I started to doze off almost peacefully.

  A massive flash lit up the room, and I saw Lourdes in that instant. Her eyes were open, staring at me. The crash of thunder shook the cups in the sink and the few pictures on the wall. Lourdes said something I couldn’t make out, then silence. I held my breath and waited.

  I felt as if the night had stopped, as if the darkness had taken root. No sounds came from outside, and the only thing I heard in the house was the steady tick-tock of Solís’ Che clock.

  A few seconds passed.

  A heavy, monotonous drumbeat pounded the house. I breathed again. The storm lasted until the first gray rays of morning slipped through the makeshift curtains.

  Part Two

  — Chapter 14 —

  ROCKIN’ WITH RITCHIE

  Trinidad is about three hundred and fifteen kilometers from Havana. To get us there, Lourdes secured another yellow taxi van with a driver, a short, pudgy guy who called himself Juanito.

  We’d wanted to leave early, around seven, but we were delayed until almost ten. Solís provided a breakfast, but he was a slow cook. He measured everything, more than once, and his stove wouldn’t cooperate. He left the house twice for things he didn’t have.

  Then we waited for Lourdes’ men to bring her a change of clothes and other necessities she would need in Trinidad.

  The biggest wait was for our driver, who showed up with a hangover. He explained that the only message he’d received was that he had to pick us up before noon, so he thought he was doing well.