Havana Twist

by Lia Matera

  I thought back on our encounter at the sea wall. He’d seemed to be gushing on about his life and dreams, but he’d learned very quickly why I was there.

  “That’s where Pirí comes in,” Jamieson said. “He looks through the paperwork and gives a shout, as it were. He tells us when Americans enter Cuba through Mexico. He’s not attached to us, you understand. Just contract work, simple commerce.”

  “Did he tell you Agosto Diaz went to see him?” I could feel tears sting my eyes. “Did you kill Agosto?”

  “Of course not.”

  “Then who did?”

  “Señor Marules, I presume.” He pointed to the phone. “If we don’t call back soon—”

  “Marules? You’re lying.”

  “Just a guess. Do you mind?” Jamieson reached for the phone. “Really, all hell will break loose if we don’t call back.”

  Don said, “Give him the phone.”

  As Jamieson dialed, he continued, “Who else knew you were going to San Diego? Who but Marules knew where you were staying?” He stopped as if listening.

  “You’re lying,” I repeated. I crossed to Don, grabbing his arm. “They’re lying.”

  Jamieson spoke into the mouthpiece. “A slight wrinkle,” he said. “We have San Francisco Homicide Lieutenant Donald Surgelato and Santa Cruz attorney Willa Jansson here. Our options, unfortunately, were limited. To minimize outside involvement, we had them make the call.” He listened, watching us as he did. Then he nodded and hung up.

  “Luckily,” he said, “these are kinder, gentler times. Just as you offered to let us go … rather than shoot us?” He smiled “I am authorized to reciprocate.”

  “It’s not too late to shoot him,” I said to Don.

  Ernesto (or whatever his name was) laughed.

  Don slid the gun into his pocket.

  Jamieson waved his hand as if to say, Think nothing of it. “The important thing is that this goes no farther. We’ve pulled Ernesto out of Cuba, as you can see. And we’ll be moving on, as well. That’s why your knowledge is not … a problem for us. But it could become a problem if you choose to share it. We have ears in many places.”

  He did look a little like Mr. Potato Head.

  “Tell us where June Jansson is,” Don said. “That’s all we want to know. You tell us that, and you’ve got our cooperation.”

  “We haven’t a clue,” Ernesto replied. “I’m sorry to have to say that—it doesn’t really speak well of our efforts. But believe me, I’ve done my share of asking around. I can tell you one thing: if she left Cuba, she didn’t use her passport.” He raised his brows. “There’s certainly a growing criminal underclass there. Perhaps she was attacked.”

  “If I were you,” Mrs. Travolta said, “I would ask Señor Marules.”

  I walked to where she stood. I looked at the scrapbook she’d left on the couch. It seemed to be filled with clippings about cats and cat shows.

  I asked her, “Why would I believe you over Martin Marules?”

  “Because I didn’t know you were on your way to Myra Wilson’s house, did I?” She glanced at the scrapbook.

  “Pirí could have seen our names on the departure list. And what else would we be doing in San Diego?” I ran my fingers through my hair. “Or he could have told you we’d looked through Wilson’s customs file. That he gave us the photograph.”

  “Ah, the famous photograph. I don’t doubt it was a photograph of Lidia Gomez. But are you sure it was taken in Mexico City?” She took off her half-glasses. “Perhaps it was just a way to keep you busy.”

  The photo background showed the customs office wall. Pirí had sold Agosto genuine information, I was sure of it.

  And my mother’s phone bill proved she’d talked to someone at Wilson’s house. No one had faked that.

  What were these people up to? What else were they lying about? My mother? Cindy and Dennis? Everything?

  I glanced at Don. His face was composed, his eyelids partly lowered. He said, “I’ve been a police investigator since I was twenty-four years old. And in all these years, I don’t know if I’ve ever heard a better blend of half-truths, expedience, and outright bullshit. You think we can’t touch you. You think you can make life a lot harder for us than we can for you.” He sighed. “Fine.”

  He walked over to me. He put his arm around me.

  Jamieson and Travolta exchanged glances.

  “Here’s the deal,” Don continued, “you can tell us the truth about June Jansson or we can make a big mess finding out on our own.”

  Jamieson raised his palms as if to say, Do what you must.

  Don, arm still around me, began backing us toward the door. I noticed the gun was out of his pocket again.

  When we reached the door, he groped for the knob and opened it. He said to me, “Go!”

  I hesitated.

  “Go!” he insisted.

  I dashed down the stairs, turning to see if he followed. The car keys landed at my feet. I grabbed them, then ran out to the car. I fumbled maddeningly getting the driver’s door open, then I started the engine and made a hasty U-turn, pulling the car as close to the building as I could. I honked the horn.

  Seconds later, Don came out, walking backward. I reached across the passenger seat and flung the door open. When he climbed in, I stepped on the gas.

  After rounding the corner, I looked over at him. The gun was still in his hand, but he wasn’t looking out the back window. He was frowning straight ahead.

  He said, “Where the hell is Price?”

  I was still reeling from the encounter with Ernesto, from the news and lies and information, from the frustration of knowing more without knowing the one thing I’d hoped to find out. “Price?”

  “Our backup. Why didn’t he show up?”

  Since it hadn’t made a difference, I found it hard to care.

  “Pull over,” he said. “We’ve got a problem.”

  That much I knew. I pulled over.

  He climbed out of the car, coming around to the driver’s side. I slid over to give him the wheel. Nice of him to ask.

  He doubled through a back alley. The time he’d spent exploring the neighborhood before we parked was paying off. He skirted the building we’d just left, zipping down every side street around it.

  I didn’t want to say it, but it sure looked like we’d been out tough-guyed. “They were lying.”

  “No shit.”

  “Are they definitely CIA? They weren’t lying about that part?” I wanted to believe it was all false, every bit, because none of it was good news. I wanted to go back and threaten them again.

  “Yes. The call you made—I knew then. The phone number. We’ve had occasion to use it, some of us.”

  “We?”

  “Upper management law enforcement.”

  “Then why did you leave there holding a gun?”

  “You expect me to trust the CIA?” He shot me a look. “And you an old hippie.”

  “Were they lying about my mother?”

  “I couldn’t tell. They’re pretty seamless, aren’t they? It’s hard to guess where the crap ends. Except when they get flagrant.”

  “About Cindy and Dennis?”

  “Yeah. The AIDS colony, the prison—pretty convenient for them to say there are places so mysterious and impenetrable no one can take roll. That’s a hell of a big rug to sweep your mistakes under.”

  I couldn’t stand to ask what he meant by “mistakes.” Did he think Mother had been killed doing something the CIA wanted kept secret?

  “Chinese labor camps, Jesus.” He shook his head. “What next, shark attacks? Ebola outbreaks?” He looked at me, his eyes glinting. “I’m sorry they put you through that. Don’t believe them.”

  “Cuba does have an AIDS colony.” I’d researched it. “They segregate Cubans who test positive for
HIV. They’re in barracks surrounded by barbed wire. They’re fed well, so a few people have contracted HIV on purpose to go there. No one’s allowed to leave even for a visit. They’re there till they die.”

  “I guess they don’t want to be another Haiti, half their population infected. But there’s no possible reason to throw an American tourist in there. Not even one as—” He stopped himself. One as annoying as my mother?

  I hoped he was right.

  “Whatever happened to your mother and those two reporters, the CIA doesn’t want anyone to know about it—that’s my impression. But I don’t have a clue what it means.”

  “If the CIA wants to hush it up?” My chest was tightening. “That’s a good sign, right? They’d want anything negative about Cuba brought to light.”

  “True—the cold war’s not over, not where Cuba’s concerned. But in this case, whatever’s going on, it seems to be embarrassing the hell out of both sides.” He took another ride around the block. “And it’s also made one of the best PIs in San Diego a no-show.”

  23

  We walked across the Zocalo. The washed stones of the Palacio National, pillaged from Aztec pyramids, glinted in the morning sun. The cathedral and the courts opened their carved doors. Soldiers marched away from bright flags they’d just raised above the square. Smartly dressed Mexicans hurried to work. Restaurants spread pink cloths over outdoor tables.

  In spite of everything, it was a beautiful morning in a fairy-tale city.

  We soon reached the side street where the newspaper office was located. Don ushered me inside, murmuring, “That’s her?”

  I looked at the receptionist, a heavy woman whose makeup ill concealed the puffiness around her eyes. “Yes.”

  Don stepped up to her desk. “Do you speak English?”

  “Yes.” She looked up him with a smile apparently reserved for handsome men. I certainly hadn’t gotten one when I’d approached her months ago. Nor did she offer me one this morning.

  “Good.” Don pulled the Polaroid of her out of his pocket, holding it close enough for her to see.

  She made a sound as if she’d been hit.

  Don put the picture back into his pocket, then unfolded his badge ID, giving her a good look. “As you can see, this apartment is under surveillance. What were you doing there?”

  She shook her head, then shrugged slightly, then raised and lowered her brows. She seemed to be silently rehearsing different answers.

  “I have no jurisdiction here,” Don continued, “so I’m under no obligation to discuss this with your police or your customs officials. But I’d have to have a reason not to.”

  She opened a desk drawer and began groping for something, her eyes still on Don.

  He said, “That’s not what I mean.”

  I saw that she’d extracted a wallet.

  “I don’t want a bribe. I just want the truth. What was your business with these people?”

  She chewed the lipstick off her lower lip.

  “It won’t go any farther. Unless you lie to me.”

  She began rocking in her steno chair. I felt like we were pulling wings off a fly.

  Don leaned closer. “Is it Marules you’re afraid of? Are you worried I’ll get you fired?”

  Her eyes welled with tears. “This is a very excellent job, Señor.”

  “Then don’t make me tell him.”

  She glanced nervously over her shoulder. “I have collected certain information at the request of the man who lives in this apartment.”

  “He paid you for it?”

  “Yes.” Her plump cheeks glistened with perspiration. “Occasionally I have taken information from the computer. Not often. This is the first time I have been to visit him in a very long time, I swear to you.”

  “What did you drop off this morning?”

  “Please?” She looked pained. “You will say nothing?” Another glance over her shoulder.

  “If you tell me the truth.”

  “Mr. Marules has a database—that is the right word? A list which he keeps on his computer—this is called a database?”

  “Yes.”

  “I have received a phone call before I close the office door. I stay late, and with a password which I am supplied by Mr. Jamieson, I am able to copy this database to a computer disk.” Her eyes were wet. She certainly seemed remorseful about having been caught. “He does not wish to come here, and so I have usually taken it to him, although once a woman with bad hair came to me at the Zocalo, and took it from me.”

  “What’s in the database?” Don’s tone was friendly. She was warming to her confession, adding details. He was keeping her comfortable.

  She grimaced with full Latin emphasis—she didn’t know or couldn’t tell. “It is a jumble, Señor. Code.” She leaned forward. “He has put it in code perhaps for such an occasion, and it may be they do not even understand it. So it is not so bad what I am doing.”

  “Can you get us a copy of what you gave to Mr. Jamieson last night?”

  She recoiled, her eyes widening.

  “You said yourself,” his voice was gentle, “that it’s in code.”

  She nodded uncertainly.

  “Do this, and that’ll be the end of it,” he promised. “I won’t tell Mr. Marules or Mr. Jamieson.” He paused, his voice losing its warmth. “Or the police.”

  When he spoke the word, she jumped as if he’d jabbed her with a pin. “Please, Señor, I am the only support of my two children.”

  “Then it works out fine for everybody,” he said.

  She didn’t look so sure about that. “I can meet you, perhaps at seven o’clock?”

  “We’ll be in the Zocalo,” he agreed.

  She gasped when someone else pushed the door open. She shot the newcomer, a young woman holding a sheaf of paper, a look that cried, Save me!

  The young woman didn’t seem to notice. She queued up behind Don.

  Don said, in a more impersonal voice, “Is Mr. Marules in?”

  The receptionist’s mouth gaped.

  I stepped up beside Don, assuring her, “Not about this. About something else.”

  Don nodded.

  “I don’t think— I don’t know—”

  “He’ll definitely want to see us,” Don insisted. “Tell him Willa Jansson is waiting.”

  That got her attention. She stared as frankly and ghoulishly as if I were Lizzie Borden. She’d clearly heard that Agosto Diaz was murdered in my room.

  I had to turn away.

  I heard her speak into a telephone. “Tell Señor Marules Willa Jansson wishes to see him.”

  For a long minute, there was silence. Then she hung up, saying, “He will send his secretary to show you the way.” She glanced at the young woman behind us as if willing her to disappear.

  A moment later, a thin woman in a tight blue suit and a tall chignon came out to greet us. “Allow me to take you to Mr. Marules,” she said, in nearly unaccented English.

  We followed her along a high-ceilinged corridor with marble panels inset between carved strips of heavy wainscot. The floor was well-worn alabaster. Don looked around, a half-smile playing on his lips. It was a hell of a lot nicer than the San Francisco Chronicle office.

  When we reached Marules’s door, the secretary knocked, waited a few seconds, then opened it, standing aside for us to enter.

  Marules was already on his feet to greet us. He looked thinner and older, not as well integrated into the murals behind him.

  “My friends!” He stepped to our side of his desk and shook our hands, clasping them in both of his. His eyes filled with tears. “It is good to see you again. You are well?”

  It was a little hard for me to talk.

  “You know.” Don shrugged.

  “Ah.” Marules gave my shoulder a quick squeeze. “So there has been
no word about your mother? I feared so. But I have been … I’m sorry, I should have called. One becomes reluctant to hear more bad news.”

  I nodded.

  He motioned us into heavy wood chairs that matched his desk. “May I offer you coffee? Ah yes, you look eager for it.” He motioned his secretary, still standing in the doorway, to go fetch. When she closed the door, he asked, “What brings you here? A holiday?”

  Don shifted closer, straightening the tie he’d put back on for the occasion. “We found out that Jamieson and Travolta were in town. We came to talk to them.”

  Marules’s dark brows went up. With his smooth olive skin and slightly bulbous nose, he looked like a child’s sketch, all easy, rounded lines. “Has this been useful? I believe they had been in Belgium?”

  Don just sat that there, not quite frowning.

  Marules looked at me. “You have been to see them already?”

  I nodded. We hadn’t discussed what we would say or do when we got here. I didn’t want to make the wrong decision off the cuff: I like to put a little thought into my misjudgments.

  Marules looked from me to Don, then back to me. Our silence brought creases to his forehead.

  There was a tap at the door, and his secretary came in with a tray containing three china cups with a matching coffee set. She left the tray on the desk and walked out.

  Fixing the coffee took a few moments. I tried to catch Don’s eye, but he seemed absorbed in thought, inaccessible even at arm’s length.

  When I sipped the strong brew, Marules said again, “So you have been to see Jamieson and Travolta?”

  “Have you met them?” I hedged.

  “Yes. I met them … at a party? Perhaps a meeting of some type? It was some years ago.”

  “What’s your impression of them?” Don asked him.

  “Well, she is certainly not a chic woman. Too loud in her manner and her dress for my taste. But not a foolish person, certainly. Her conversation, I recall, was good. Her companion seemed by comparison without color. Perhaps he has lived in her shadow so long he has grown pale. It is not good to live with a loud woman unless you are yourself even more loud.” He smiled. “But I have no basis to criticize, you understand, having spent so little time with them. Did you find them … pleasant?”