Death Comes in Through the Kitchen

by Teresa Dovalpage

  “Comrade Instructor!” she exclaimed. “You won’t believe it, but I was thinking of you a moment ago.”

  “I do believe it, mija,” he laughed. “It’s called telepathy.”

  She looked down at citizen Portal’s file, wondering if she should tell him about the case. Wouldn’t that be a breach of code? He wasn’t a member of the police force anymore.

  “What’s up, Comrade Instructor?” she asked.

  “I’ve taken on a case and I heard that you are part of it. Do you have a moment to talk?”

  While she listened to him, Marlene’s mind flashed back to her mother’s altar.

  The orisha’s helping, huh?

  They met later that day. Martínez didn’t like the idea of money being involved—her former teacher had disclosed that he was being paid—but she ended up accepting his offer to work together. After all, she wasn’t the one receiving dollars. (Not that she couldn’t use them, but she wouldn’t have dared.) Besides, what comrade instructor did was his business, and she needed his help as much as he needed hers.

  “I’ve already questioned Yosvani Álvarez and his mother, who was a friend of citizen Portal,” she said. “I can give you the recordings if you want. Then we have the gusanos.”

  She talked nonstop about them for around ten minutes.

  “Was Yarmila involved with them?” was all comrade instructor asked. “Politically, I mean.”

  “I don’t know for sure, but I don’t think so. There is nothing in their Seguridad file about her.”

  He didn’t seem interested in the dissidents. That hurt Marlene’s feelings a bit.

  “What about Yarmila’s family?” he asked.

  “I saw her parents when they came to identify her body, but I still have to meet with them again. That wasn’t the right moment, you know? The problem is that they live in Pinar del Río.”

  “I can go,” he said.

  Marlene exhaled loudly. “I am so relieved to have you here, Comrade Instructor,” she said. “Even if you are—even if this is your private business now.”

  He opened his arms in a gesture that had as much acknowledgment as surrender in it.

  “What’s a guy going to do? Yep, I’ve become a bisnero all right.”

  “But not in the bad sense, not like—”

  She saw the smile on his face. A smile that became more pronounced when he pointed to the computer. “I see you are all techie now.”

  “Don’t talk to me about that dinosaur!” Martínez huffed. “Can you believe I got it two days ago and it’s already broken? Mierda! Ah, speaking of computers, citizen Portal must have had one too. Jacobo sent me some of the blog posts she wrote. But they are all in English and I am trying to make sense of them.”

  Comrade instructor, who had frowned at the mention of the Seguridad agent, said, “I would like to see copies of these posts.”

  “Of course. But from what I can tell they are rather boring: long, detailed descriptions of fancy food I can’t imagine where she found.” Marlene felt a hunger pang. “Nothing you can buy through the ration card, for sure. I bet Jacobo has more information, but he isn’t sharing it with me. You know how the Seguridad people act, so secretive and stuck up.”

  “They watch too many movies,” comrade instructor said with a sly wink. “But we’ll prove to them they ain’t so smart.”

  Chapter Two

  From El Cincuentenario

  to El Mercado

  El Cincuentenario Bar smelled like rum and piss. Located on Pocito Street, one block away from Salvador Allende Avenue, the bar had been a neighborhood fixture since 1950. The storefront had been reinforced with metal shutters and a big dumpster was placed against the main entrance every night as an added precaution. A mélange of offensive odors concentrated overnight in the main room. When the bartender, who started his workday at nine thirty in the morning, opened the shutters, the unfortunate passersby crossed the street and held their noses.

  Sometimes the occasional cook got inspired to make croquettes, fried in reused lard and served with crackers, but most patrons didn’t care for snacks. If they were hungry, there was a private food cart called La Dulcinea a few yards away, across the street, where they could buy Mexican chicharrones, refried cracklings, and cheese sandwiches for fifty CUC cents.

  At ten o’clock, los cinco, the five customary drunks who came by every day, were not interested in anything that wasn’t presented to them in liquid form. They weren’t smashed yet, but well on their way, having ordered double shots of the cheapest rum, Coronilla. Their faces, as reflected in the mirror punctuated by fly poop, were red, with jovial jowls and yellow teeth. Their loud voices spilled onto the sidewalk, but their constant requests from the bartender (Hey, cantinero!) didn’t attract the guy’s attention. He was huddled in a corner, reading a Vanidades magazine, or rather ogling the models’ legs. When the drunks got too annoying, the cantinero put the magazine aside and, with a sigh of discontent, proceeded to refill their glasses, making sure to collect his fee first.

  One of los cinco, feeling exceptionally generous, bought an entire bottle of Coronilla to share with his friends. They began to discuss baseball. Two were Industriales fans while the others rooted for the Santiago de Cuba team. Though curses were exchanged and fists raised, fights among them were unheard of. The five drunks had known one another for years and considered themselves a sort of clan. They would drink, spit on the floor, get up to take a piss, and come back to pat their friends on the back.

  It was business as usual at El Cincuentenario.

  A young man in blue jeans and a muscle shirt came in. He wasn’t a total stranger but a neighborhood kid, and not the kind the regulars were used to seeing there—at least not so early in the day.

  “Look who’s here,” a drunk said. “The grieving boyfriend!”

  Pato Macho approached the counter and asked for a double shot. He handed ten Cuban pesos to the cantinero, who took them with a sly grin but said nothing. Los cinco weren’t that discreet, though.

  “Coming to drown your sorrows in Coronilla?”

  “Did your mama let you come before lunch?”

  The young man stared at them until his drink arrived. Then he shrugged and said, “Fuck off.”

  “Careful there or I will wash your mouth with soap, bebito.”

  Neither the bartender nor the drunks noticed the guy in white who had stopped outside the bar, though his looks were unusual enough to warrant a double take. Men and women dressed in Santería attire were not such an oddity as they had been in the seventies and eighties—after the government had more or less legalized religion by welcoming non-atheists into the Communist Party in the early nineties, more people felt free to make their beliefs known. Still, a guy dressed in full babalawo regalia wasn’t an everyday sight.

  Padrino had positioned himself behind the dumpster. From his vantage point, he was able to watch the scene without being noticed. And he saw how, after a crossfire of insults and laughs at Pato Macho’s expense, the latter lost his cool and punched a drunk in the face. The drunk’s friends hurried to help him. Two attempted to take on Pato, but they were no match for the athletic younger guy, who kicked one and threw another to the floor. It was only then that the cantinero deigned to intervene.

  “Eh, comemierda, get lost before I call the cops,” he told Pato Macho, barely lifting his eyes from the glossy Vanidades page that featured an interview with Kate Moss.

  But Pato Macho was enraged. So were los cinco, who had regrouped and were advancing toward him in a threatening manner. Pato grabbed the Coronilla bottle by the bottom, broke it against the counter and wielded what was left of it.

  “Carajo!” the bartender barked and lifted the receiver.

  Padrino decided to get involved. He came in and took Pato Macho by the arm. While the cantinero made a real or fake call asking for the Unidad’s support, Padrino
managed to drag the young man out of the bar.

  “What is this all about, son?” he asked as he walked down Espada Street with a reluctant Pato by his side. “Don’t you know that you are in no position to go looking for trouble right now?”

  Pato Macho stopped. They were near La Caldosa. He wiped his forehead and smoothed his shirt.

  “Don’t tell la pura about this,” he pleaded.

  Padrino nodded in agreement. In the new street lingo, young guys referred to their mothers as “the pure one.” “I won’t,” he said. “But you have to get a hold of yourself. First, you wanted to kill the Yuma. Now this. What’s up?”

  “My nerves are shot,” Pato Macho said. “I blew it with the Yuma, yes. And I shouldn’t have messed with los cinco, but I couldn’t help myself, Padrino. I’m sorry.”

  “What did these guys say that pissed you off so much?”

  “They started talking about Yarmi.”

  “Well, son, everybody is talking about Yarmi after what happened to her. You will have to get used to it.”

  Pato Macho winced. “They said she was a whore and I was a happy cabrón.”

  “Los cinco are a bunch of stupid drunks, Pato. Consider the source and don’t sweat it.”

  La Caldosa’s window was open. They saw Isabel peeling potatoes at a table.

  “You’re right, Padrino,” the young man muttered. “But you know what’s the problem? That they said exactly what I was thinking, and I couldn’t take it.”

  Isabel offered Padrino a ritual greeting, crossing her arms over her chest and then leaning, first to the left and then the right, touching shoulders with him.

  “A gua wa o to, Omo Oshún,” he said and proceeded to make the sign of the cross over his goddaughter’s head.

  “It’s nice to see you again,” she said.

  “I’m working on your friend’s case.”

  “Ah, I knew you would take good care of it.”

  Though Padrino didn’t mention the incident with the drunks, Isabel only needed to take a look at her son to figure it out. Padrino didn’t mention that he had started to watch the young man, either. Yes, he had told Matt that Pato Macho was “just a big boy,” but the rooftop incident had worried him. If Pato had attacked a stranger with a metal bat, what else could he have done in a fit of rage? Padrino didn’t know him that well, after all.

  Isabel was complaining about her son’s behavior. By then, Pato Macho had locked himself in his room.

  “He is out of control, Padrino, totally out of control since you know what,” she said. “I heard him crying all night long. I wonder if a Santería ceremony may help him. Do you think her spirit is haunting him?”

  “Oh, most spirits don’t . . .”

  Someone knocked at the door.

  “That’s Yony, one of my providers,” she said. “Now, if you would excuse me. But I’d like to talk about this later, please.”

  Isabel introduced the two men and went to fetch her precision scale from the kitchen. She prided herself on being a good hostess, but business came first. Yony had brought her the five pounds of pork and she wanted to weigh it right away.

  Yony already knew who Padrino was. He had seen him eating at La Caldosa and heard about his connections to the police. As a bisnero, he would have rather stayed away from him. Yony’s activities, though by no means a secret, were very much against the law. He acted as an intermediary between his partners, who worked in CUC-only shops, and the general public. The store clerks would steal the merchandise under their bosses’ noses—no big deal, since the bosses were stealing as well. But they wouldn’t risk selling; there were too many outsiders who coveted their jobs and could turn them in. They needed people like Yony, who had plenty of connections through his taxi business: Cubans and foreigners with disposable income to buy food, clothes and electronics at half their retail value. The store’s prices were so high that Yony and his partners made a profit without squeezing the consumers’ pockets too much.

  “What are you selling today?” Padrino asked in a friendly manner.

  “Just a bit of pork,” Yony said, fidgeting with his burlap sack. “Listen, I don’t want problems, okay? I can explain this. I am an honest bisnero. I’m only—”

  “You don’t have to explain anything to me,” Padrino said. “I don’t care about other people’s lives. And I have my own business too.”

  Yony’s shoulders relaxed a bit. Isabel came back with the scale and set it on the table.

  “Padrino is my godfather, Yony,” she said. “You can trust him. You may even gain a client here.”

  Padrino didn’t contradict her. But the bisnero still stared at him suspiciously. When the transaction was over, Yony refused to stay for a cup of coffee.

  “I have to walk all the way to the Cuatro Caminos Farmers’ Market,” he said. “I’d better start off before it gets hotter.”

  “Why do you need to walk?” Isabel asked. “Don’t you have an almendrón?”

  “I had to take it to the mechanic and that’s going to cost me an arm and a leg. All these bastards jack up their prices for almodrivers like me. They think we are made of money.”

  “I can give you a ride,” Padrino offered. “My old VW Beetle is not as fancy as an almendrón but it runs well.”

  Yony’s face lit up. “Thanks, man!”

  They talked cars first, on the way to Cuatro Caminos. Padrino had learned to take care of the VW by himself.

  “I’ve already figured out most of its tricks and quirks,” he said. “It isn’t too complicated. Not like these new cars where everything is run by a computer.”

  “Me, I’m all thumbs.” Yony pointed to two small wounds that punctured his Virgin of Charity tattoo. “See, I tried to seal a leak last week and got nailed by a connecting rod or whatever it was. I hate tinkering with cars.”

  “That’s too bad.”

  Later, Padrino steered the chat to Pato Macho. Yony barely knew Isabel’s son, but that didn’t stop him from calling him “a mama’s boy.”

  “That’s partly her fault too,” he said. “You know how mothers are, always overprotecting their kids. Mine is a lot like Isabel. When I visit her, she still fusses over me and calls me ‘her baby’ in front of everyone. But what am I going to do? I can’t disrespect her because chances are she’s the only decent woman I’ll ever know.”

  “Yeah, the pure one.”

  “Right. But she can be a nice pest, particularly with my girlfriends. The Cubans, I mean.”

  “So you have both Cuban and foreign girls.”

  Yony spread his arms as much as the small car’s interior allowed him to. “I have dozens of Yumas,” he said. “They see me and they can’t keep their hands off me . . . I could go to the States tomorrow, if I wanted to.”

  “Ah, lucky you.”

  “And my pura, she is fine with them. Mom makes rice pudding, even gave a girl a massage—she is a sobadora too, a healer. But she doesn’t give my Cuban girlfriends the time of day. Isabel is like that, only ten times worse. She is obsessed with that Pato kid.”

  It didn’t take long for the conversation to shift to Yarmila. Yony admitted that he knew, like everybody else, of her affair with Pato Macho.

  “But I don’t think she took him seriously,” he said. “She was too much of a woman for him.”

  “How did you know her?”

  “Her Yuma guy is friends with my Yuma girl.”

  “And you? Were you friends with her too?”

  Padrino coughed and took his eyes off the road to watch Yony’s reaction.

  “Not in the way you are thinking!” Yony protested with a forced smile.

  “How do you know what I’m thinking?”

  “Just in case.” He grew somber and looked out the window. “I’m so sorry about this. I picked up her Yuma at the airport the other day. Coño, we couldn�
��t imagine then that poor Yarmila wasn’t there waiting because she had been killed. Life is . . .” He shook his head.

  “Did you do business with her?” Padrino asked.

  “Well, she didn’t need me. Her Yuma sent her whatever she wanted. But I would sell her food sometimes. Once, I got an electric fan for her gusano friends.”

  Padrino pricked up his ears. “Who are her gusano friends?” he asked, feigning ignorance.

  Yony shrugged. “I don’t know their names. For one thing, they aren’t my friends. They like to eat at La Caldosa.”

  “So you sold her an electric fan and she gave it to them?”

  “Yes. People say that gusanos get loads of cash from the Yumas and maybe they do, but they never buy anything from me.”

  “She used the money her American boyfriend had sent her to buy stuff for the gusanos?” Padrino said, arching an eyebrow. “Isn’t that a little strange?”

  Yony coughed, then blew his nose. Padrino watched him attentively, wondering if he was just attempting to gain time.

  “I thought it was strange too,” Yony admitted. “But what was I going to say? A sale is a sale, man.”

  Padrino waited a few seconds before asking in a casual manner, “When was the last time you saw her?”

  Yony scratched his head. “Let me see . . . around two weeks ago. She called me because she wanted to make caldosa and needed vegetables and meat. I sold her pumpkins, sweet potatoes, yuca, plantains, and four pounds of pork. I took them to her apartment. She paid me right away. She wasn’t like other people who wait until they shit the food to pay for it.”

  “You didn’t hear from her again?”

  Another pause. Now Yony cracked his fingers, a habit that always irritated Padrino and put him on guard.

  “Yes, a few days later she called me and ordered stuff for merenguitos,” Yony answered. “She said she had promised her Yuma to make some . . . But I got the ingredients Wednesday evening and by that time it was too late. So sad, man.” Yony gazed at the streets. “Such a beautiful woman. Death plays no favorites, does it?”

  “Do you happen to have any idea of who could have killed her?”