Christine scanned the area, looking for any way to get in. If not, then she would have to contact Juan and hope he still had enough clout to get herself in. But after their fight earlier, it didn’t seem likely. It reminded her of Mombasa; the head of the local agency did everything he could to hinder her actions. No fucking way, she thought. Then her eyes caught a glimpse of something and she smiled.
A small bus, actually a van, had pulled up on the corner and exiting it were a gaggle of Cuban floozies, most likely prostitutes. All were dressed scantily with heavy makeup on and pointing at the roof of the hotel. The pimp started hustling them towards the first checkpoint and Christine knew how she could get in.
#
The elevator dinged open and the floozies rushed for the first available wealthy man they could find. This is standard operating procedure for escorts as it means they can latch on to a gentleman and siphon their funds all night long. Only one took her time.
Her dress looked slightly torn like the owner had taken a pair of scissors to it. To the fashionably inclined, it was the latest style. Grunge they called it. Her eyes were smoky and her lips were red. Deep red. Almost to a heightened style. Christine admired the view. The Capitol building was lit up and seemed like the perfect beacon of hope for Cuba. She knew better.
Around her was a hedonist’s paradise. Three small open bars with the finest selections of rum, tequila, and some whisky. There was a small dance floor that was packed to the brim with girls dancing, laughing, and having a drunken fun time. Christine shook her head. The elevator dinged again and the doors started to slide shut. She gracefully glided out and into the unwashed throng.
The music was Cuban but with a hint of the most vilest of music genres known to Latin America. Reggaeton. Whoever had decided on this music should be drawn and quartered, she chuckled to herself. A slightly drunk frat boy type came up to her with a big glass of a vile-looking concoction. “Hey beaut’ful, how about a drinshk?” he slurred, holding out the beverage.
Christine shook her head. “Not right now, baby, I’m looking for my papi.”
She moved away from the guy who within seconds was hooking up with a barely dressed woman.
As Christine moved along the rooftop, her eyes kept scanning for the president. Where the hell could he be? She didn’t have time for a wild goose chase.
“And then! Then! I slapped her ass and sent her back to the secretary pool!” She heard the boisterous laugh which was followed by uncomfortable chuckles. “Now, who wants a presidential inspection?”
There he was. President Aaron Sanderson in the pool, surrounded by naked women. All were drinking and trying to get his attention. The man himself was smoking a large Cohiba with one arm around the closest body and the other holding a large beer. He was laughing, smoking, and trying to nuzzle her bosom at the same time. It was going to end in tears.
Which it did.
The cigar touched the breast, and the woman cried out, quickly moving away, ducking under the water to soothe the slight burn. When she came up, she was swearing in rapid Español. “English! Say it in fucking goddamn proper English!” the President snapped. His smoke was ruined and he tossed it away disgusted.
So this was the leader of the supposed free world, Christine mused. Definitely living up to all the stories. She watched as the President snapped his fingers, getting the attention of the nearest agent who rushed over then bent down and listened. Seconds later, three agents had grabbed the woman and escorted her to the elevator, sans clothes.
Sanderson roared with laughter at the sight but was quickly distracted by a fresh cigar and fresh body. “Fuck me I love this country! Everything is ripe for the taking,” he exclaimed, “and I do mean ripe.” He growled as his free hand fondled the young lady who was faking her pleasure sounds. These pros must have been getting paid a pretty sum of money.
“Yes, that’s the leader of the free world,” a gruff voice said next to Christine. She turned slightly and smiled. Next to her stood a squat agent. His bearing was that of a man who knows his position and how to defend it. “Don’t worry,” he said, “I’m not going to try anything. You just seem like a normal woman.” He shrugged as he said this, uncomfortable with small talk.
“I thought he would be more…refined,” Christine said, trying to sound dumb and failing.
“In public yeah. But…you know the saying, absolute power corrupts.”
They stood there watching the debacle before them. It was obvious that at any moment the President would either drown or get a knee to the crotch, in which case the party would be over.
“Are you head of security?”
The agent nodded. “You have something to report?”
Christine swallowed. This would be her only chance. “I have information about a possible attempt on the President’s life.”
“We get those three times a day.”
“Maybe but,” Christine said as she moved in front of the agent so she could see his face properly. It was craggy and had seen much violence. “This comes from the most dangerous man in Cuba. I can tell you everything. Just let me speak to the President.”
The agent glared at her; that seemed to be his only emotion. His mind was ticking over and each second more made Christine nervous. She didn’t want to be kicked out before she could warn the President.
Then, “Okay, you’ll have five minutes with him. Any funny business and I’ll put a bullet through that pretty face.”
#
The penthouse suite had been refurnished, probably for the President. It reeked of new money and the shininess of capitalism. Fidel would be rolling in his grave, Christine thought as she tried to make herself comfortable. The agent had led her in, told her the rules then left promptly saying that he’d be back with the president.
That was five minutes ago as far as she could tell. She would wait another ten and then leave, making sure there would be a note for him to find. It would be a futile effort on her part, but at least she would have warned him, in a fashion.
The small alarm clock also had a radio in it, as most do nowadays. Even in Havana, she thought, they need to keep up certain appearances. The radio was on and the gentle song had just ended leading into a news report. She listened intently.
“…in the south. I repeat there are reports of strange and horrific incidents happening in the south and eastern parts of our beloved Cuba. In Trinidad, there have been at least fifty cases of family members attacking others and… I’m sorry listeners, but I can’t believe what I’m reading. Cannibals. Cuba has cannibals! Also, it appears that in the mountains of the Sierra Maestra the… Is this a joke? En serio?!… Okay… There are reports of the dead… I’m sorry! But zombies are not real!”
Christine shook her head and tried to be logical about what she had seen and now heard. It was hard; her training and rationality screamed at her not to believe that there was a zombie plague hitting Cuba. No, she told herself, get the proof first. She turned her attention back to the radio.
“…I apologize for my earlier outburst. But, this is the most unbelievable news I have had to report to you in my thirty years of being on air. If these reports are an elaborate hoax, then the person or persons responsible will be caught and prosecuted. Until then, our illustrious Presidente has declared that our beloved Cuba is in a State of Emergency. It pains me to say this but… There is a plague in Cuba.”
The door swung open and as Christine spun to face it, President Sanderson walked in. He was wearing a bathrobe and seemed pissed. “What the fuck do you mean, Harris?” he was saying to the agent. “I had my pick of the tits and ass up there. Why would you pull me away from that…hello beautiful!” He smiled creepily the moment he saw her. “What can I do for you? An autograph perhaps? A picture?”
He moved towards her, arms reaching out, trying to grasp her. Christine moved away quickly and made the decision to keep a chair between herself and the horny President.
“Mister President,” she began “I have inform
ation about your safety in Cuba.”
“Harris!” the President barked. “How did you get this beauty? She reminds me of my daughter,” and he growled lustily.
“President Sanderson! Your life is at risk here,” Christine continued. “A man called Jeremiah Banks is planning to kill you, before the end of the festival.”
Sanderson wasn’t paying attention though. His eyes were on Christine’s body. “Come here, sweetheart. Tell the President all about it.” He licked his lips as he circled towards her. “And who knows, maybe we could discuss another important matter of state,” as he said this, he untied the robe and let it slip off.
Christine tried to avoid looking at the naked man. The agent had disappeared; apparently, this was a standard technique for them. “Mister President, this is serious!”
The man nodded. “I believe you. This is very serious.” He wiggled his erect member at her. “Come here and make me understand.” He grinned at her lecherously.
Another idea came to Christine. She smiled sweetly at him. “Sure thing, Papi,” she said, “but first, what will you do about the killer? Cancel all public appearances?”
The President laughed as she started walking towards him. “How about you convince me, my dear. I’m used to getting death threats.”
Christine nodded and reached out a hand towards the President. She would have to act quickly and make him understand, the drunk misogynist.
“If you were to cancel all public engagements while here, I would be yours until you leave, and I can make you feel pleasure like you have never felt before.”
The President shuddered as she gently wrapped her fingers around him. “Go on,” he breathed.
“Promise you’ll stay indoors. Or at least use a double,” she whispered into his ear.
“What about my popularity?”
“I’m your popularity.”
A scream escaped from the President as Christine wrenched the member. She twisted it and pulled it in directions it was not meant to go. “You listen to me,” she said, all business. “If you don’t stop this and take my advice, then you’ll be dead. The USA will go to war with Cuba which will bring Russia into it and World War Three will start.”
The President of the United States screamed again as Christine wrenched once more. Christine could hear banging on the door and muted voices calling for the President. Time to go, she thought.
“Think about it, Papi,” she said with disdain and gave one final hard pull. She let go, kicked the President in the crotch, and made her way to the door as he collapsed, unconscious.
She opened the door and left with a smile.
#
Outside, she shivered. The night had been a waste of time and Christine felt the urge to beat someone. Anyone. The first person to cross her. She hoped it would be a man. At that moment, she felt a burning hatred towards all men.
“Disculpe, señora,” a small voice said to her.
Looking down, Christine saw a little girl. She held a folded piece of paper. The girl looked at her and held the paper up. “I was told to give this to you.”
“Gracias, niña,” Christine said and as she took the paper, she gave the girl a small handful of pesos. The girl smiled then ran away into the night.
Christine looked around trying to see who would have sent the note. There was nobody suspicious looking. Slowly, she unfolded the note:
GO TO PAPA’S. THERE YOU WILL FIND WHAT YOU SEEK.
Right, Christine thought as she used her lighter to burn the piece of paper.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
Ernest Hemingway loved Cuba. He lived, wrote, drank, fought, smoked, and fished there. His most famous piece of work, The Old Man and The Sea, was written there.
There are many places that purportedly say that Hemingway visited drank or was there for an extended period of time. It is hard to distinguish the man from the myth. But for Cuba, it is one hell of a business.
Papa’s was created to capitalize on the famed author’s reputation. The menu and drink list are all supposedly the food and beverages that Hemingway loved while living in Havana. The decor is inspired by Hemingway House and the artifacts are either replicas or fakes. Nobody cares though; it is the spot for Hemingway enthusiasts.
Why on earth would a small restaurant have any answers for Christine though? She had to find out. It was late and she was getting tired of all the dead ends. Eventually, something would have to break in the case or she would have to call Station Master and then there would be hell to pay.
Any lead was worth following up on, she told herself as she stood in front of the small house that had been converted into the restaurant. The sign was a replica of Hemingway’s signature that had written his nickname, Papa’s. There were no people waiting to get in which was odd. At this time of night during the Habanos Festival, every restaurant and bar was packed. This was suspicious.
Christine slowly went up the small stairs then ducked to the right, using the door jam for cover, just in case. She tried to peer in through the windows, but the curtains were drawn. The lights were on, that she was sure about. Damn, if only she had a gun or knife. Without them, going into an unknown location and situation was idiotic, but she had to risk it. Adriana and Juan were being useless.
Slowly, she reached out and touched the doorknob. It wasn’t hot and didn’t feel funny. Gently, she turned it. The door swung open silently. Christine felt uneasy. This was too simple.
Bending down, she checked to see if there was a trip wire. Nothing. Instead, she found a footprint that was the color of blood. The sense of unease started to change becoming dread. Standing, Christine gently stepped over the bloody imprints of boots. There were multiple tracks. At least three that she could count.
Inside the main area, a living room and dining room that had been joined and then converted into the restaurant proper, there were bullet holes pockmarking the walls, ceiling and floor. Around some tables were pools of blood. No bodies though. Christine grabbed a large steak knife and held it at the ready. It would do nada against a trained opponent, but it was the best she could do.
She continued walking through the restaurant, stepping on any part of the floor that was not covered in pools of blood. She noticed that the puddles of blood had streaks, as if the body or bodies of the dead had been dragged. Christine sniffed the air; burning food. She quickened her steps.
The streaks of blood parted into two paths, one heading to the back of the building, the other went towards the smell. It was the kitchen.
Treading carefully, Christine used the point of the blade to push open the swing door that led into the kitchen.
“Jesus!” she exclaimed.
The burning smell came from the grill where the two cooks had their heads sizzling nicely. They were burnt and some would say overdone. The hands had been tied to each other and to either side of the metal cooker. Christine’s first instinct was to turn off the grill, but her training kicked in; better to be observant than cause problems. The rest of the kitchen staff had been lined up against a wall then executed. The large butcher knives and chef knives were buried deep into the bodies.
Quickly, Christine exited the kitchen then made her way to the back, keeping to the side of the hallway, knife still at the ready. Her heart was beating faster and faster at each step. She had a rough idea of what was behind the door and a part of her screamed not to open it. But she had to. There were answers here.
A swift kick and the door slammed open. Christine stared at the mass of bodies heaped before her. Men, women, and children. Their faces forever locked in expressions of screams, disbelief, and anguish. Knives impaled into faces, skin burnt off, bullet-ridden bodies.
“Dios mio,” Adriana said softly.
Christine whirled around, her blade flashing brightly as she brought it up. The slice was quick and Adriana had to be quicker. She dodged it then caught the next attack. “Chris! It’s me!”
Adriana disarmed the other woman then gently sat the knife on a table
. She took Christine’s hand and led her back to the main room.
“What happened here?” she asked.
Christine shook her head. “I got a note saying that I would find answers here. All I found was this.”
“Do you know who sent you the note?”
Adriana watched as Christine shook her head. “A girl gave it to me… What are you doing here?”
“My section got an anonymous tip about yelling and screaming. I got over here as soon as I could. You were not what I was expecting.” She stood and started looking around. Christine sat, staring at her hands.
“Chris, you better see this.” The call brought Christine back to the present.
Slowly, she got to her feet then made her way back to the mass of bodies in the back.
Adriana had started to shift the bodies but had stopped. She was a couple of steps away and pointing. Christine stood at the door. Her eyes followed the finger to the pile of bodies. There were new faces and one in particular made Christine’s heart sink.
In life, he had been fun and loyal and always pleasant. But now, Rafael Cienfuentes was nothing more than a body, a lifeless vessel. There were four bullet holes in his chest and his face had been beaten. Where once was a nose, now there was a pulpy mess.
“They really went to town on him, eh?”
“What the hell was he doing here?” Christine asked.
“You know him?” Adriana was surprised. “I just wanted to show you, this was the guy they were after. I mean, look at how they treated him compared to the rest.”
Christine wasn’t listening. She had leaned down and was staring at the bloody mess. “He was the manager at the Nacional.”
“Why would he be here then?” Adriana asked. “What could he know that would get him killed?”
Christine stood then looked at the other woman. “You tell me,” she said quietly.
Big Smoke Page 8