Red Angel

by William Heffernan

  “Get him,” Pitts said from behind them. “The man’s a shoofly.”

  Martínez ignored him. He raised his hands in a gesture of futility. “I assure you, I have great respect for your powers. We have been friends for many years, and I have watched in fascination as you have tormented members of our government.” He stepped closer, a small smile starting to form. “But I am confident my actions to guarantee your safety will be approved at the highest levels. You are a treasure to our country, María.”

  María Méndez rolled her eyes. She turned to Adrianna. “Listen to this man. He is the father of all scoundrels.”

  “But a devoted scoundrel,” Martínez said. “Both to you and to the revolution.”

  María Méndez reached out and pulled Adrianna to her again. “At least he was not able to kill you all,” she said. “If I had known of his insane plan, I never would have allowed it.”

  She glanced past Adrianna’s shoulder. Martínez was still standing before her, and Devlin thought he saw a small smile begin to form on her lips. “Thank you for your protection, Arnaldo. Even if it was unnecessary and overdone.” She paused a moment. “And what have you done with Cabrera?”

  Martínez inclined his head to one side. “I am afraid he is no longer with us.”

  A cold glint came to María Mendez’s eyes, and Devlin realized he was not watching some helpless old woman.

  “And that thief Sauri?” she asked.

  “He is under house arrest,” Martínez said. “We also have in custody Señor Cipriani, Señor DeForio, and the mañoso Rossi, who had hoped to make use of your body.” He raised a finger. “Which reminds me. There is a certain service I believe you can perform for Señor Devlin. If you will permit me, I will arrange it for tomorrow morning.”

  “Is this another of your scoundrel’s tricks?” the old woman asked.

  “But of course,” Martínez said. “But it is one I think you will enjoy.”

  An hour later they were seated in a semicircle about María Méndez, listening as she explained how she had learned of the plan to bring gambling to the Isle of Youth.

  “I was told of this plan by Manuel Pineiro, who once ran our intelligence service. He was very concerned, and believed something very wrong, perhaps even corrupt, was happening.” She shook her head. “But he was retired for many years, and no longer had strong contacts in the Ministry of Interior. He said they just brushed his concerns aside.” Her eyes hardened. “And then, of course, he was killed. In an ‘automobile accident.’” She shook her head. “I did not even suspect he had been murdered. So I went to Sauri, who I knew, and expressed my opposition.”

  “What did he do?” Adrianna asked.

  “At first he tried to bribe me,” she said, laughing. “He said the government would add a condition to the plan—a demand that the foreign developers build and endow a children’s hospital on the Isla de la Juventud.” She held up one hand like a traffic cop. “This made me suspicious. Sauri had always opposed all my efforts to draw money away from the revolution’s grand projects.” She waved her hand in a broad circle. “And to use that money for our deteriorating health programs.” She wagged a finger. “Now, suddenly, the health needs of the people were important, and he wanted to include them in his plan. It was a miracle. And it smelled like old fish. That is when I went to Martínez and told him he must investigate.”

  “And that,” Martínez added, “was when I learned that Cabrera’s men had put our Red Angel under strict surveillance.”

  “And then you started to tumble to the rest of their plans,” Devlin said.

  “Yes,” Martínez said. “But before I had adequate proof, they moved against her.” He nodded toward María Mendez, momentary relief flooding his eyes. Then it was gone as he hardened himself against any display of sentiment. “The rest, of course, you know,” he added.

  One of Martínez’s men entered the house and came to him. After a whispered conversation, Martínez excused himself and left.

  Adrianna reached out and took her aunt’s hand. “Have you known Martínez a long time?” she asked.

  The old woman laughed. “For a hundred years,” she said.

  “And you trust him?”

  María squeezed her niece’s hand. “Completely.” She rolled her eyes. “He is a scoundrel, of course. But it is his job to be a scoundrel.” Her face became tender as she spoke about her friend. “And it is a thankless job. Of this there is no question. The secrecy of who he is, and what he does, denies him any recognition from the people, or even from his family and his friends. To those who know him personally, he is simply a police administrator who has risen so high and no more—a very modest success in life. For a proud man like Martínez, this is difficult, I think.”

  Their heads turned as the door of the cottage opened. Martínez stood holding the door back, his eyes filled with mischief. Adrianna let out a gasp as a second man entered.

  Fidel Castro walked slowly across the room. He was dressed in his trademark fatigues, free of any decorations or distinctions of rank. His gray-streaked beard hung to mid-chest, and his gait reflected his seventy-three years. He was a tall man, easily six-three, and he had the bearing of a man used to deferential treatment.

  Devlin and Pitts stood as he approached, but Castro ignored them. He went straight to María Mendez and began speaking to her in Spanish.

  The old woman immediately cut him off. “Speak in English, Fidel. I have guests who do not understand our language.”

  Castro stiffened at the rebuke, then shook his head as if it were an indignity he should have expected.

  “You know my English is bad,” he said. “Why do you make me do this?”

  “It is a courtesy,” María snapped. “It is also my wish in my home.”

  Castro raised his hands and let them fall back. “I come to tell you I am happy you are safe, and you treat me this way.” He looked down at Adrianna. “This is your niece?” he asked.

  “My niece, Adrianna.”

  Fidel reached down and took her hand, then bent and kissed it. Devlin detected a slight flush come to Adrianna’s cheeks.

  “Your aunt torments her oldest friends,” Castro said. He gave Adrianna a sly wink. “But we all still love her … in spite of herself.”

  “You do not love me enough to get me the medical supplies I need.”

  Castro raised his hand—in exasperation this time. “You no longer work for the government. You resigned in protest. How can I get you anything?”

  “Of course I resigned,” María snapped back. “You had abandoned the people’s needs. Something was needed to bring you to your senses.” She turned to Adrianna. “And do you know what he did? He had the government announce that I retired. Not that I resigned in protest, that I retired.”

  Castro waved his hand in the air. “Let me announce that you have unretired.”

  “Never.”

  Castro shook his head. “I will find a way to get you the medicines and equipment you need. I do not know how, but I will find it somewhere.”

  María stared at him for several long seconds. “And prostitution? Will you see to it that this disgusting practice that puts our young women on the streets—a practice you have permitted to return to our country—will you see to it that this is ended?”

  Castro looked at the ceiling. “I will do everything in my power to see that the laws banning it are enforced,” he said.

  María Méndez gave a firm nod of her head. “If you do these things, I will think about returning to my post,” she said.

  Castro raised his hands, then let them fall back to his side in a surprising gesture of helplessness. “Torturer,” he said. He looked at the others as if seeking support. “She was this way even in the mountains when we fought Batista. Never a word of respect. Only arguments.”

  María snorted, but said nothing.

  With effort, Castro knelt before her. He took her hand. “You are a stubborn old woman,” he said.

  “And you are a stubborn
old man.”

  “Sí. We make a good pair,” Castro said. He placed a second hand on top of hers and stroked it gently. “I am pleased you are well. Cuba would be a poorer place without you.”

  María reached up and stroked his beard. “Thank you for coming, Fidel.”

  Castro nodded. “You will truly consider my proposal?”

  “I will truly consider it.”

  Again with effort, Castro pulled himself up. He nodded to Adrianna, then glanced at Devlin and Pitts. “I have heard about you two,” he said. He raised a finger and shook it, then headed for the door.

  “That’s it?” Pitts said as the door closed. He stared at Martínez. “No medals? No Lycra concession? That’s it?”

  “Be thankful we’re not in jail,” Devlin said. He looked down at Adrianna. There was a broad grin spread across her face.

  “Fidel Castro kissed my hand,” she said.

  25

  Giovanni “John the Boss” Rossi sat in the small cell he shared with Mattie Ippolito. The bottle of oxygen that had been at his side for months stood in the corner. The Cuban jailer had put it there, even after he had explained it wasn’t necessary. He had not used oxygen since the ritual, and felt no need for it now. Or ever, he told himself.

  What he did need was Cabrera, or Sauri, or somebody who could get him the hell out of this stinking cell. Then he could find a way out of the country. But this clown Martínez had kept him isolated. Not even a stinking phone call, or a lawyer. Nothing.

  Rossi glanced around the cell. It was in the basement of a police station that resembled a small castle, and it had been obvious since they arrived that Martínez ran the show. Even his attempts to lay some serious money on his jailers had been ignored. A thousand bucks just to deliver a message. And these clowns had looked at him like he was crazy.

  Rossi shook a finger at Ippolito. Mattie was seated on the opposite bunk, only three feet away. “We gotta find a way outta this shithole,” he said.

  Ippolito raised his hands an inch from his lap, then let them fall back. “The cop said ten days before we could contact anybody. I think he means it. I think he’s gonna break our chops as long as he can.”

  “These fucking Cubans think I’m gonna sit here eating rice and beans for ten days, they’re crazy.” Rossi placed his hands on his knees and pushed himself up. “How much money you got?”

  “A little over two grand,” Ippolito said.

  “Okay. I got at least a grand in my pocket. At least the Cubans didn’t take our money away from us. So we’ll up the ante to these guards. Offer them two large, wave the cash under their noses. That still leaves us with a grand for traveling money.”

  Ippolito reached into his pocket, then froze as the door to the cellblock opened. He withdrew his hand and leaned back against the wall as he watched Devlin and Pitts saunter in with the Cuban cop.

  “Hey, Bathrobe. How’s it hangin’?” Pitts called. He grabbed hold of the bars and let his eyes roam the cell. “What a shithole. Hey, Martínez, if this is the way you treat Americans, I gotta tell you, I think it’s a fucking disgrace.”

  Martínez feigned embarrassment. “But, Señor, these accommodations are among the best in Cuba. Our real prisons are truly horrible. But this …” He waved his hand at the cell. “This is luxury.”

  Rossi sneered at the trio. “Hey, a comedy act. This joint even has entertainment. Martin and Lewis. Abbott and Costello.” He raised his chin, indicating Devlin. “Whassamatter, Inspector? You don’t know any jokes? You join in, you guys could be the Three fucking Stooges.”

  “You’re the only joke I know, Bathrobe.” Devlin grinned at the old man. “How much bribe money did you lay on the guards today?” He shook his head. “Oh, yeah, the cell’s bugged. But you knew that, right, Bathrobe?”

  “Fuck you,” Rossi snapped.

  Devlin stepped up next to Pitts and placed his hands on the bars. “How you feeling, old man? How’s your health today?”

  Rossi sneered at him. “I’m a hundred percent, Devlin. It’s like twenty years fell off me.” He used both hands to slap his chest. “I’m like a young bull again.”

  Devlin glanced at Pitts. “Mind over matter?” he asked.

  “Definitely,” Pitts said. “I think the old Bathrobe really believes in all that ooga-booga crap. I think those mumbo-jumbo witch doctors coulda put a fucking bag lady in that pot, and old Bathrobe woulda believed in the fucking cure.”

  Rossi snorted, and Devlin turned to Martínez. “Show him the newspaper,” he said.

  Martínez held up an English-language edition of Granma. One of the lead stories above the fold carried a photograph of María Mendez. The headline read RED ANGEL SURVIVES CRASH. COMPANION KILLED. Next to it was a second story, detailing a nationwide crackdown on prostitution.

  Ippolito got off his bunk and snatched the paper from Martínez. He read the story about the Red Angel, then turned to Rossi. “It says this doctor wasn’t killed. It says a friend of hers was.” He looked back at the paper to make sure he got the words right. “It says she’ll be back at her job at the Ministry of Health by the end of the month.”

  Rossi took the newspaper from Ippolito’s hands, looked at it, and snorted again. “I recognize the picture,” he said. “But even if the picture’s legit, the newspaper’s a phony.” He looked up at Ippolito. “It’s all bullshit. Devlin and his Cuban buddy are just tryin’ to turn the screws on me.” He glanced through the bars. “Go away, Devlin. Go fuck your little girlfriend. Go have a nice life while you still got time.” He slapped his old man’s chest again. “Like a bull, Devlin. Like a fucking bull.”

  Devlin turned to Martínez. “He doesn’t believe us.” He turned to Pitts. “He thinks we’re bullshitting him, Ollie.”

  “Hey, it’s show-and-tell time,” Pitts said. “Martínez, you gotta do your thing.”

  Martínez nodded, offered up his Cuban shrug, then walked back to the door. “I will do my best,” he said.

  María Mendez entered the cellblock with Adrianna at her side. She walked up to the bars and stared down at the old man seated on the bunk. She looked at the newspaper in his hands, then raised her face.

  “Do you recognize me from my photograph, Señor?”

  Rossi stared at her. His lower lip trembled, almost imperceptibly, and his breathing was suddenly labored. He fought it as long as he could, then his hands began to shake. He stared across the cell at Ippolito. “It’s a fake,” he gasped. “The broad’s … a fake.”

  He could barely get the words out. Mattie hurried across the cell and dragged the bottle of oxygen to Rossi’s side.

  Rossi grabbed the mask and placed it over his mouth. “She’s a … fake,” he said, his words barely audible through the mask.

  Devlin took the Red Angel’s arm and turned her toward the door. Halfway there, he stopped and looked back at Rossi.

  “Hey, Bathrobe. Sorry to rush off. But we gotta get Ollie to the airport. He’s got a flight back to New York.”

  “Yeah,” Pitts said. “I gotta start spreadin’ the word about the old Bathrobe bein’ locked up in a Cuban jail.”

  Devlin shook his head. “I guess the boys will figure you’re a goner, Bathrobe. Not right away, of course. A day or two might go by before they start dividing up your turf. Jesus, could be a helluva mess.”

  Devlin started away again, then stopped once more. He looked back over his shoulder. “Hey, Bathrobe,” he called. “Have a nice life.” A smile spread across his face. “How did you put it a little while ago? Oh, yeah.” The smile widened. “While you still have time.”

  Outside the cellblock they waited while Martínez locked the ancient steel door.

  María Mendez, Cuba’s Red Angel, reached up and gave Devlin’s cheek an affectionate pat. She turned to Adrianna. “This man,” she said. “He reminds me of Martínez. He, too, is something of a scoundrel.”

  Adrianna looked at Devlin and smiled. “I know, Auntie. He’s a terrible scoundrel. It’s one of the things that mak
es him so lovable.”

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  I would like to thank my editor, Zachary Schisgal, and my agent, Gloria Loomis, for their unwavering enthusiasm for this book. Also, a special thanks to my Cuban friends and fellow writers Luis Adrián Bentancourt, Ignacio Cárdinas, Daniel Chavarria, Justo Vasco, José Latour, and especially Arnaldo Correa, all of whom taught me about their country and the great love they have for it. I would also like to acknowledge the memory of Plante Firme, Cuba’s great Palo Monte palero, who before his death generously shared the mysteries of his faith with me.

  It should also be noted that the political views in this book are those of my imagined characters (and in some cases my own) and should not be attributed to any individual mentioned here.

  Books by William Heffernan

  CITYSIDE

  THE DINOSAUR CLUB

  BRODERICK

  CAGING THE RAVEN

  THE CORSICAN

  ACTS OF CONTRITION

  RITUAL

  BLOOD ROSE

  CORSICAN HONOR

  SCARRED

  TARNISHED BLUE

  WINTER’S GOLD

  Please turn the page

  for an early look at

  UNHOLY ORDER

  A PAUL DEVLIN MYSTERY

  by

  William Heffernan

  Available in hardcover from

  William Morrow and Company

  1

  They followed the vested priest in long lines, two abreast, first the men, then the women, all of them young, all looking as though they had just stepped from steaming baths—every one so clean and fresh and seemingly innocent. Next came the nuns, also young, each one dressed in the black and white habits you seldom see anymore, large rosary beads wrapped around their waists, the crucifixes at the ends hanging to their knees. Brothers followed in black suits, each distinguishable from the handful of priests who brought up the rear only by the black neckties they wore in place of clerical collars.