Ollie Pitts sat on the terrace that ran the entire length of the Inglaterra Hotel. It was ten-thirty in the evening. Devlin and Martinez had picked him up at Jose Marti Airport two hours before, and Pitts had simply dumped his bags in his room and retreated to the terrace to have the first of the many beers he planned to add to Devlin’s tab.
Martinez sat on the other side of the small tile-covered table, a cup of strong Cuban coffee before him. He had offered to keep Pitts company while Devlin returned to his room to give Adrianna whatever comfort he could before her meeting with the dead man, now only an hour and a half away.
Pitts had only rolled his eyes when told of their midnight seance with the Palo Monte witch doctor. Now those same cop’s eyes roamed the sidewalk, taking in the array of beautiful young prostitutes who strolled by, smiles flashing at the tourists who crowded the terrace. Pitts let out a small snort and brought his attention back to the sad-eyed major.
“So, listen, Martinez. We pull this thing off, and find this old broad’s body, I figure Fidel owes me a big one. Am I right?”
Martinez fought off a smile. “I am sure the Comandante will be very grateful.”
“Yeah, well, gratitude don’t quite cut it. You know what I mean?”
“What is it you would wish in payment for your services, Detective?”
Pitts smirked and again fixed his gaze on the young prostitutes parading along the sidewalk. “I want the Lycra concession for the whole island.” He let out a louder snort. “Hell, I’ll be a fucking millionaire overnight.” He shook his head and turned his gaze back on the major. “Where do these broads get their clothes, Martinez? You got a store down here called Whores ‘R’ Us?”
Martinez closed his eyes momentarily. “It is more simple than that, my friend. They see these clothes in American movies and on American television, and they think this is how they must look to be desirable.”
Pitts was now staring at a young woman with dark hair and garish makeup. She was no more than eighteen, and she was wearing a jersey-style top, tight about her neck but with a hole cut in its center large enough to allow half of each breast to protrude lasciviously. “I must be seeing the wrong fucking movies,” Pitts said.
The young woman seemed to sense mat Pitts was speaking about her. She stopped at the row of plants that created a barrier between the terrace and the street. Slowly, she withdrew a cigarette from her purse and indicated she wanted Pitts to light it.
“You are being offered one of the few capitalist delights of Cuba,” Martinez said. There was a hint of regret in his voice.
“I’ve been here for two hours. It’s about fucking time,” Pitts said.
Pitts pushed himself up from the table. He was dressed in a flamboyant Hawaiian shirt over khaki slacks, but his feet were still clad in the black iron-toed cop brogans he had worn since his first day as a patrolman. He clomped over to the woman, grinning at the sizable breasts protruding from her blouse.
“You need a light, sweetheart?” Pitts raised his eyes, then glanced quickly over her shoulder toward the street.
The young woman gave him a coy look, drawing his eyes back, then placed the cigarette between suggestively puckered lips. When Pitts had applied flame from an oversized Zippo lighter, she tilted her head back and sent a stream of smoke into the air. Then she thanked him and rattled off a stream of Spanish in a soft, suggestive voice.
“You speakee the English?” Pitts asked.
The woman shook her head and offered up another soft phrase. It required no translation.
“Sex?” Pitts asked.
“Si. Sex,” the woman said. She smiled at his sudden comprehension.
“Fuck?” Pitts asked.
“Si. Fuck,” the woman said. She was still smiling.
Pitts shook his head in mock regret. “I’m sorry, sweetheart, but I promised my old mom that I’d never ball a chick who didn’t speak English.” He grinned again and started back to the table.
“You are a cruel man,” Martinez said as Pitts reclaimed his chair.
“So I’m told,” Pitts said. “By the way, there are two assholes standing next to a car over by that little park. They’re both dressed in white. Are these the two voodoo boys we got tailing us?”
“Is there anyone else near them?” Martinez asked.
“Not within fifty feet.”
Martinez nodded. “They will be our Abakua. No one will get very close to them.”
Pitts leaned forward and lowered his voice. “These guys are dangerous? Armed?”
Martinez nodded again. “With knives, only. But they are-how do you say? — very proficient with these implements.”
The detective’s eyes glittered. “Listen, Martinez. Since we got these armed scumbags-these known fucking killers-shadowing us, what are the chances of you getting me some heat?”
“Heat?”
Pitts rolled his eyes, “A pistolero. Boom, boom.”
Martinez shook his head. “Ah, a pistola. No, my friend. Not here in Cuba. It is not allowed for citizens, and certainly not for tourists. Besides, if Colonel Cabrera were to learn of it, it would give him an excuse to lock you away in one of our very unpleasant prisons for many, many years.”
“You carry one?” Pitts asked.
The major dropped a hand to the waistband of his trousers, which was covered by the tail of a pale blue shirt. “Si, my friend. I carry one.”
Pitts sneered at him. “If it gets too heavy, I’ll relieve you of the burden.”
“Thank you, Detective,” Martinez said. “But it is very light, this pistola.”
Colonel Antonio Cabrera climbed out of the rear of his car and glanced casually over his shoulder. The large truck that had followed him had pulled to the curb on the opposite side of the park. Cabrera was dressed in civilian clothes and walked casually now to one of the benches that faced the Inglaterra Hotel. He beckoned to the two Abakua, and watched with satisfaction as people nearby scattered as the two white-clad men approached.
“Your truck is on the other side of the park,” he said. “If they leave the hotel, take care of this matter tonight. If not, do so in the morning.”
One of the Abakua, a tall, lean, hard-eyed man somewhere in his thirties, stared down at Cabrera. There was no fear in his eyes as he confronted the colonel.
“It will be easier to make it seem an accident if they are driving.”
“They will definitely be driving in the morning,” Cabrera said. “They have an appointment at State Security at ten. But tonight, if possible. It will be better in darkness. And an evening stroll could put them in your headlights.”
“And if the major is with them?” the second Abakua asked.
“As I told you once before, I have little concern for the major’s safety,” Cabrera said.
Devlin and Adrianna arrived on the terrace at eleven-thirty. Adrianna was dressed in khaki slacks and a scoopneck, sleeveless yellow jersey. Despite efforts to appear outwardly calm, she could not hide the hint of nervousness in her eyes.
“You are dressed in the color of Ochun,” Martinez said. “Plante Firme’s nganga is dedicated to Oggun, who has always favored this goddess of beauty. It is a good omen.” He turned to Devlin, taking in his green, short-sleeved shirt. “And green is the color of Oggun,” he said. “Another favorable omen.”
“What about me?” Pitts asked, pulling at the front of his flamboyant Hawaiian shirt.
Martinez smiled. “The gods are tolerant,” he said.
Devlin glanced at Pitts, noting that his shirt was not tucked into his trousers-the street cop’s method of concealing a weapon when going jacketless. He knew Ollie was not carrying, had made sure of it when he arrived at the airport, and he wondered if he had chosen to wear his shirt this way out of habit or to give himself the comfort of at least pretending he had a weapon.
Devlin had no such need. He hated guns, a hatred that stemmed from the times he had been forced to use one lethally. He still dreamed about those times, especially the first, when he had been forced to take the life of a fellow cop gone mad. That’s right, the man’s a cop killer. John the Boss Rossi’s words flooded back at him. He shuddered inwardly. Never again, he thought. Please, God, never again.
“I think we must be going,” Martinez said. “Plante Firme’s home is in the Lawton district, and it will take us twenty minutes, or more, to get there. And I want to go carefully, to see if we are followed.”
Martinez drove his old Chevrolet along the Avenida de Maceo, which fronted the coast. Like the streets of Old Havana, here the sidewalk promenade was awash with people, many with small children, all escaping the heat-filled confines of small apartments. At the National Hotel, which stood on a high bluff overlooking the sea, Martinez cut back inland, then headed south on the Avenida de los Presidentes. As they entered a large traffic circle with a fountain at its center, he pointed to a tall, stark building on his right.
“That is the Hospital Infantil,” he said. “It is where your aunt worked as a young intern before the revolution.” He gave a small shrug. “But then it was only for the children of the rich. Later your aunt changed that, and it was at this hospital that most of Havana’s children received their inoculations. To this day many people still call it the Hospital of the Red Angel.”
As he had done since they started out, Martinez kept a constant watch in the rearview mirror. From the rear seat, where he sat with Adrianna, Devlin glanced out the back window.
“I don’t see our Abakua friends,” he said.
“No,” Martinez said. “Just the same truck that has remained fifty meters behind since we began.”
Devlin gave the truck greater attention. As he did, the truck pulled out and accelerated. It seemed to leap ahead, coming quickly alongside their rear quarter panel. Now, under the streetlights, Devlin could see two white-clad men behind the windshield.
“Watch it,” he shouted. “They’re in the truck.”
“I see them,” Martinez shouted back. He hit the accelerator and the old Chevy’s big V-eight threw the car forward.
Devlin watched as the truck also jumped forward, quickly coming even with the Chevy’s rear bumper. Before he could warn Martinez, the truck cut sharply to the right, and he felt the jolt and the simultaneous thump as the truck struck the rear fender. Instinctively, he threw his arm around Adrianna and pulled her toward him, hoping his body would serve as a buffer to any heavier impact.
The truck pulled out, preparing to swerve into them again. They were headed down a steep incline, a large rock formation on their right, a sharp right-hand curve rapidly approaching.
As the truck started to jerk toward them again, Martinez hit the brakes, allowing the truck to slide past. Then he cut the wheel left, pressed the accelerator to the floor, and began a quick passing maneuver before the truck could respond.
“Give me your piece,” Pitts growled from the passenger seat. “I’ll pump a few in their door.”
“No,” Martinez snapped.
The Chevy leaped forward, and Martinez took it into the sharp right-hand turn at full speed. The car fishtailed, then straightened, racing along Avenida Rancho Boyeros, then into another sharp turn onto Avenida 20 de Mayo.
To their right, as they made the rum, the large marble monument to Jose Marti loomed above them. Opposite the statue, the wall of the Ministry of the Interior displayed an illuminated silhouette of Che Guevara.
“Back there, in the heavily treed area behind Jose Marti’s statue, is where Fidel’s office is,” Martinez said.
Devlin noted there was no hint of fear in his voice. “Never mind the tourist crap, Martinez,” Devlin snapped. “Just get us the hell out of here.” He tightened his arm around Adrianna. He could feel her tremble under his touch.
“Hey, maybe we should drop in and pay a social call,” Pitts said. “Maybe Fidel’s got some boys with Uzis who can discourage these fucking voodoo assholes.” He jabbed a finger toward Martinez. “You know, you really pissed me off, not giving me your piece back there.”
“I will try to remember next time,” Martinez said. “For now, I must concentrate on losing our pursuers.”
Martinez cut off the main thoroughfare and into a rabbit warren of small streets, turning right, then left at every third or fourth intersection, gradually weaving his way through clusters of small houses, past scattered residential shops, the streets growing darker, the houses poorer with each turn.
The old Chevy, with its large engine and more maneuver-able chassis, quickly left the truck behind. Now the streetlights vanished, the houses became even smaller and more squalid. Here the occasional faces staring out from the sidewalks and front porches were entirely black, the quiet broken only by the sporadic strains of Latin music drifting out from open windows.
Five minutes later Martinez pulled the car to a stop in front of a small blue cinderblock house, with a matching high wall that enclosed a small courtyard.
The major let out a long breath. “We are here,” he said as he climbed out and walked to the rear of the car. Devlin heard him utter a curse as he viewed the damage to his left rear fender.
“We are here,” Pitts mimicked. His eyes roamed the darkened street, taking in a small group of black youths gathered a short distance down the street. “We’re in fucking Harlem and Senor Major’s got the only heat, which, if you ask me, he probably forgot to load.”
“Shut up, Ollie,” Devlin snapped. “In case you didn’t notice, Senor Major kept us from being roadkill back there. So cut him some slack.”
Pitts pushed open his door and heaved his bulk onto the sidewalk. “I hope that’s the only thing that gets cut around here.” He walked to the rear of the car. “Hey, Major, nice neighborhood. You got any baseball bats in the trunk.”
Martinez ignored him. He was still staring at the crumpled rear fender. Even with the lack of light, Pitts could see his face was glowing with rage.
“I’m sorry about your car,” Devlin said as he and Adrianna joined him. “It seems the colonel wants our visit postponed a little longer than he said.”
Martinez nodded. “So it would seem.” He looked up at Pitts, his eyes still angry. “And you do not have to fear our Negroes, Detective. Here in Cuba, they have no need to attack an oppressor. Here we all share misery together.”
Martinez took a bottle of rum from the Chevy’s oversized glove box and led them to a solid iron gate set in the high blue wall. He pulled a chain that rang a small bell inside. Moments later the gate was opened by a thirtyish brown-skinned man, dressed only in a pair of shorts and rubber shower sandals. He greeted Martinez in rapid Spanish, then led them into the small courtyard.
“This is Plante Firme’s son,” Martinez explained. “He asks that we be seated while he gets his father.” The major turned to Devlin and Pitts. “The palero speaks only Spanish and Bantu. If you will permit me, I will translate for you. Senorita Adrianna, of course, will be able to converse with the palero in Spanish.”
The courtyard was small and sparsely furnished. There were four kitchen chairs arranged in a line so they faced a larger, solitary chair that sat with its back to the house. A small pen stood off in one corner, and they could see a half-grown pig snuffling about in the dirt. Martinez pointed to two cast-iron pots off to one side, one slightly larger than the other.
“These are ngangas being prepared for believers,” he said. “Please do not touch them.”
“They got the bones of some stiff in them?” Pitts asked.
Martinez nodded. “Among other things.”
They seated themselves in the four chairs. Devlin noticed bunches of feathers hanging from an arbor, along with bundles of sticks. The skull of what he thought was a dog sat on a small table off to his right, and, inexplicably, there were posters of American cowboys hanging on the exterior wall of the house.
A large black man came around a corner of the house and entered the courtyard. He stopped at the pen that housed the pig, picked up a bucket, and threw feed to the grunting animal. Finished, he walked slowly-majestically, Devlin thought-to where they were seated. He was naked to the waist, ballooning pants hanging from surprisingly narrow hips. From the waist up he was immense, with a wide chest, thick arms, and a protruding belly; well over six feet and easily two hundred and forty pounds. He was in his late sixties, or early seventies, but still gave off a sense of physical power. The only hair on his head was a closely cropped gray beard. He wore a necklace of green beads around his neck, and a length of rope surrounded his waist, from which hung a woven straw pouch.
Martinez leaned into Devlin and nodded toward the pouch. “His macuto,” he whispered. “Inside is his mpaca, the horn which contains all the elements of his nganga.”
“Including …?” Devlin whispered.
“Yes. Inside are small parts of the dead man.”
They all stood as Plante Firme stopped in front of them. His eyes were curious, but not in any way threatening. He extended a massive hand to each of them. He was the only man Devlin had ever met with hands even larger than those of Ollie Pitts.
“Npele nganga vamo cota. Npelo nganga ndele que cota.”
“He welcomes us to speak with and to consult his nganga,” Martinez said.
With that, Plante Firme turned and walked to the large chair opposite. He sat, placing his massive hands on his knees. Equally large feet, with gnarled, twisted toes protruded from well-worn shower sandals. Everything about the man looked impoverished. Everything except his demeanor, Devlin thought. There was an aura of power about the man, and it was reflected in his son’s eyes as he took a subservient position behind the palero‘s thronelike chair.
Plante Firme uttered a stream of Spanish in a low, soft, rumbling voice.
“He says he has consulted his nganga before we arrive,” Martinez said. “So he can know about us.”
Plante Firme’s eyes fixed on Adrianna. He shook his head as he spoke again. “No es amarillo. No es Oshun. Yemaya. Madre de la vida. Madre de todos los orishas. Es la duena de las aguas y representa el mar, fuente fundamental de la vida. Le gusta casar, chapear y manejar el machete. Es indomable y astuta. Sus castigos son duros y su colera es temible pero justiciera. Sus colores son azul y blanco.”
Adrianna turned to Devlin. “He says I’m wearing the wrong color. That I am not a daughter of Oshun. He says I must wear blue and white for Yemaya. He explained why, and who Yemaya is.”
Plante Firme turned to Devlin, and again his voice rumbled forth. “Oggun. Si, Oggun.” He continued rapidly, in what to Devlin became a jumble of words.
Martinez leaned in again. “He says you are a son of Oggun, which pleases him, because he is also Oggun’s son, and has dedicated his nganga to him. But he also says you are in conflict. Oggun is a warrior who fears nothing. He says you fear your own power, and wish to avoid violence. This, he says, is because you have been forced to kill, and this has caused peace to flee your heart. He says this is wrong for you, that you lose Oggun’s power by believing this way.” Martinez hesitated as Plante Firme spoke again, then quickly translated. “He also says you have a child who is very self-willed. That you must care for this child around water, which is a danger for her. He says Adrianna, a daughter of Yemaya, can help you in this.”
Devlin sat stunned as Plante Firme turned to Pitts. The palero‘s face hardened.
“Chango.” The word came from his mouth in a low growl. He shook his head and turned quickly away.
Martinez fought back a smile as he turned to Pitts. “I am afraid you will receive no help here,” he said. “The nganga, which is dedicated to Oggun, has identified you as a true son of Chango, the great enemy of Oggun. The nganga would not speak of you.”
“I’m fucking crushed,” Pitts said.
Devlin stared at the voodoo priest. He turned to Martinez. “How did he know those things about me? You have a dossier on me, Martinez?”
Martinez nodded. “I know much about you, my friend. It is part of my job. But I assure you I have not shared my knowledge. This is the first time I have met with Plante Firme. But, as I have told you, he is a great palero. Perhaps the greatest in all Cuba.”
Adrianna had ignored them, and was now speaking to Plante Firme in rapid Spanish. Martinez leaned in close again, his voice just above a whisper.
“The senorita is telling the palero about her aunt, and her need to find the Red Angel’s body so it can be buried and give peace to her family.”
Devlin heard Adrianna say the word “Abakua,” and saw Plante Firme’s body stiffen. The old witch doctor’s eyes became hard and he leaned farther forward as if preparing to leap from his thronelike chair. He began to speak, and Martinez translated again.
“Plante Firme says we must go to the cemetery where the Red Angel was to be buried, and look for earth taken from the four corners where her body was to rest. He says if Palo Monte is involved, it is the work of a palero he knows well, a man of great evil who has joined with the Abakua. He says if this is true, we must go to this man, for only through him will we find the bones of the dead one who was once Maria Mendez.”
Devlin listened to the rumble of Plante Firme’s voice. Standing beside him, the man’s son seemed to shiver uncontrollably. “What’s he saying now?” Devlin asked.
“He is warning us about the danger ahead,” Martinez said. “He says we must be cautious if parts of Maria Mendez’s body have already been placed in a nganga. We must not just try to take them back. He says we must now consult his nganga to see if we should abandon our efforts, or if seeking her body is the right path to follow.”
Plante Firme rose from his chair and started back toward the house. Martinez beckoned the others to follow. As they passed the pigsty, the animal began to snort and squeal. The palero stopped and snapped out a string of Spanish epithets, then reached down and removed one of his shower sandals and gave the pig several slaps on its snout.
Out of the corner of his eye, Devlin saw Ollie Pitts take an angry step forward, and he reached out and grabbed his arm. As brutal as Pitts could be to fellow humans, he had an inexplicable affection for dumb animals, to the point of keeping five stray cats in his three-room Manhattan apartment. Devlin’s second in command, Sharon Levy, claimed Pitts liked animals because they bit people.
“Leave it,” Devlin whispered. “We need the man’s help. And remember, this guy makes a living laying curses on people.”
Pitts started to say something, then stopped himself, and Devlin wondered if it was the threat of a voodoo curse that silenced him. He momentarily considered asking Plante Firme for some mojo that would keep Pitts under control for the remainder of his cop career.
They followed the palero into a small room. A cast-iron pot stood near its center, this one at least three feet in diameter, and rising from it was an aggregation of items so vast that the entire mass stood over six feet high.
“This is said to be the most powerful nganga in all Cuba,” Martinez whispered as they followed the palero‘s instructions and sat on four small stools placed before it.
Devlin couldn’t quite grasp what he was looking at. An assortment of small bones had been hung around the rim of the pot. They could be animal, or human-there was no way to be certain. Rising from within the pot and its necklace of bones was a collection of objects so eclectic it seemed overwhelming. Spears, swords, and axes mixed together with chains of various lengths and thicknesses, military medals, an old revolver, several religious crosses and medallions. There were numerous lengths of wood, and from deep within, Devlin could see the skull of what appeared to be a goat, horns still attached. Hanging beneath the skull, just barely visible, were the skeletal remains of what could only be human fingers, each joint held together by small wires. Sitting on top of the entire mass was a cloth, black-faced doll, dressed in a brightly patterned shirt and wearing a straw hat. An unlit candle in a long metal holder stood before the nganga, its base surrounded by small statues and vases, an ornate, cast-iron bell, and a large wooden bowl filled with water.
Hanging on a wall next to the nganga was a portrait depicting in profile a white-haired black man dressed in a white shirt. Martinez leaned in close to Devlin and nodded toward the picture.
“It is a picture of Plante Firme’s teacher,” he whispered. “Before Plante Firme he was the greatest palero ever to have lived, a holder of great magical power. It is said that his bones are the dead one in Plante Firme’s nganga, and that when he dies, Plante Firme has decreed that his own bones will join those of his teacher to create the most powerful nganga that has ever existed.”
Using a long taper, Plante Firme ignited the candle, then took up a seven-foot stick, forked at the top into five branches, each at least a foot long. He placed a straw hat, festooned with green feathers, on his bald head, so he now resembled the cloth doll atop the nganga. Slowly, he lowered his bulky body onto a wide stool, wooden staff in hand, like some primitive potentate.
Martinez handed Adrianna the bottle of rum he had taken from his car. “This is an offering to Oggun, the god of the nganga,” he whispered.
Adrianna seemed momentarily confused, then bent forward and placed the bottle before the candle.
Plante Firme pointed to the cast-iron bell.
“You must ring the bell to awaken Oggun,” Martinez whispered.
Adrianna did so, the loud clanging sound almost deafening in the small room.
Plante Firme’s voice rumbled, low and sonorous, in a mixture of Spanish and Bantu.
“Vamo a hacer un registro con los obis. Y creo que le oi a Planta Firme tambien decir parte do esto a continuacion.”
“He is informing us that he wishes to make a consulta with the coconuts,” Martinez explained. “But first he must pray to the god Eleggua, because nothing can happen unless you first ask Eleggua, who opens and closes all roads.”
The palero ignited a second, smaller candle, set on a white saucer before a statue of the god Eleggua, and his voice rumbled forth again.
“Omi tutu Eleggua.” He dipped a hand into the bowl of water and sprinkled the statue.
“He gives fresh water to Eleggua,” Martinez whispered.
“Ana tutu. Tutu Alaroye.”
“In his moyurbaciones, his prayers, he asks for fresh relations with the dead one, if Eleggua will remove all disagreements.”
“Eleggua, ile mo ku e o.”
“‘In your care I leave my home.’ Senorita Mendez must now say ‘A kue e ye,’ which means, ‘We greet you.’”
Adrianna repeated the chant.
“Eleggua, mo du e o,” Plante Firme said, resuming his chant, and instructing Adrianna to again chant her response.
“They are telling Eleggua that they trust him completely,” Martinez whispered.
“Ariku, baba wa.” Plante Firme’s voice rumbled out the words.
“He says, ‘Health, Father, come,’” Martinez whispered. “Now Senorita Mendez must say ‘Akuana.’ This is like saying amen to the prayer.”
Plante Firme raised one arm, holding it high above his head. “Yu sow mo bi.” He lowered his arm.
“He says, ‘Come in.’ Now we will ask the dead one.”
Plante Firme’s voice bellowed out into the room. “La fo!”
Martinez lowered his eyes. “He is casting out the last of all unexpected evil,” Martinez whispered. “Now we may begin.”
Plante Firme turned to Adrianna. telling her that she could now consult the nganga, but only with questions that could be answered with a yes or a no. As Martinez translated, she asked if they would be able to find her aunt.
Plante Firme picked up a leather pouch and withdrew seven coin-shaped pieces of coconut shell, the concave portions painted white, the convex stained with a black dye. Again, he chanted in a low, rumbling voice, then cast four of the shells on the floor. When they rolled to a stop, all four came to rest with the white, concave sides facing up.
“Alafia,” Plante Firme said, nodding.
“This means the answer is yes, good news,” Martinez said. “But not conclusive. More must be asked.”
Adrianna lowered her eyes. Devlin could see her lip tremble.
“Has my aunt’s body been placed in a nganga?” Her voice was barely audible, as if she did not want to hear the question as well as the answer.
Again, Plante Firme cast the shells. This time all four black convex sides pointed up. The palero stared at the shells and drew a deep breath.
“Oyekun,” Martinez said. “It means the dead man wants to speak. Now Plante Firme must ask the questions. Only he can speak directly when the dead one asks to talk.”
Plante Firme rumbled forth with a heavy mix of Bantu.
Martinez shook his head. “It is too complex. I do not understand the question,” he whispered.
Again the shells were thrown. When they stopped rolling, three convex sides faced up.
Now Martinez drew a long breath. “Ocana,” he whispered. “The answer from the dead man is no. Something is wrong, or has happened, or was done. It is needed some ebbo, some offerings.”
Plante Firme opened the bottle of rum that had been given to the god Oggun, drank deeply, then sprayed the rum onto the nganga. Then he spoke again to the dead man, a long, rambling question, almost exclusively in Bantu. Only the word Santiago was in Spanish. Again he cast the coconuts. This time two of each side faced up.
“Eyife,” Martinez said, his voice excited. “This is a conclusive yes. The dead one has told the palero what must be done.”
The palero lowered his eyes, then slowly picked up the shells and returned them to the pouch. When he raised his eyes, his face seemed heavy with concern. Martinez translated as he spoke.
“He says it is as he feared. The palero of the Abakua has the body you seek. You must go to Santiago de Cuba and confront him. But before you go there, you must go to the cemetery where Maria Mendez was to be buried. There, if the words of the dead one are true, you will find that earth has been removed from the four corners of the grave. You must take handfuls of dirt from each of these places, and carry it with you. Only this will protect you from the palero, and the dead one he has created. Only in this way will you learn the truth. The palero you seek is called Baba Briyumbe.”
The palero reached out to the nganga and withdrew a red feather attached to a gnarled stick and handed it to Adrianna. He spoke again.
“The feather must be placed with the earth and carried at all times,” Martinez translated. “It will create a charm that comes from the dead one, and from a power greater than Baba Briyumbe. Only this will protect against the evil of Baba Briyumbe.”
Plante Firme rose, leaned his staff against the wall, and removed his feathered hat.
“You should make an offering,” Martinez said.
Devlin was momentarily confused, his mind filled with visions of earth from a grave and bright red feathers.
“Money,” Martinez said. “An offering to the palero for his work.”
Devlin reached into his pocket and withdrew some folded currency. He took a twenty-dollar bill from the top and glanced at Martinez for some indication it was enough. Martinez nodded.
“Place it on the floor, before the nganga,” the major instructed.
Devlin did so.
“Now you must ring the bell.”
Devlin’s jaw tightened. He felt like a fool, but did as he was told. Again, the sound of the iron bell filled the room. When Devlin stood, Plante Firme placed a meaty hand on his shoulder, nodded his approval, and spoke again in his mixture of Spanish and Bantu.
“He likes you,” Martinez said. “But he says you must put aside your fears and follow Oggun.”
“For a picture of Andrew Jackson, he should give him a kiss,” Pitts said.
Adrianna threw Pitts a disapproving look. The big detective gave her a shrug and an impish smile.
Out in the courtyard, Pitts held up his hand. “Let me check the street before we go out,” he said.
He opened the gate, stepped out, then returned smiling. “There’s a big truck parked about three quarters of the way down the block,” he said. He turned to Martinez. “Ask the man if there’s a way to get into the backyard next door so I can work my way down the street and check it out.”
Martinez relayed the question to Plante Firme. The palero nodded and answered in rapid Spanish.
“There is a rear gate that leads to an alley and into the next property,” Martinez said.
Pitts glanced around and saw a piece of lead pipe lying on the ground near the rear wall. He pointed to it. “Ask the palero if I can borrow that.”
When told he could, Pitts turned to Devlin. “Give me five minutes, then you and the major step outside, okay? Just keep their attention on you while I see if it’s our boys in white.”
“How far away is the truck?” Devlin asked.
“About fifty yards,” Pitts said. “Close enough for you to get there if it looks like I need help.” He glanced at Martinez. “You still got your peashooter?”
“Si, I have my peashooter,” Martinez said.
Pitts entered the alley and moved into the next yard. It was pitch-black, the only light seeping through an occasional curtained window. He felt his way, climbed over succeeding fences, until he thought he had gone about sixty yards. When he made his way out to the street, he was no more than ten yards behind the large truck. A glance at the fresh gouge in its right front fender told him what he wanted to know.
Pitts moved up behind the truck, then inched along the passenger side, until he could hear voices inside the cab. He gave the side of the truck a solid whack with the lead pipe, then ducked down under its bed.
The passenger door opened immediately, and as it slammed shut Pitts saw two white-clad legs standing next to him. A grin flicked across his broad, flat face.
“Hola,” he whispered as he drove the pipe up between the legs, feeling it crunch against the softness of the man’s crotch.
The Abakua hit the ground with both knees and began to gag as Pitts emerged from under the truck and sent a second blow to the back of the man’s head.
Keeping low, he circled the front of the truck and crouched again. The second door slammed, and another white-clad figure came around the front fender. This time Pitts used the lead pipe like a police baton, jabbing it forward into the second man’s solar plexus. A knife clattered to the street as the man pitched forward, and Pitts grabbed the back of his head and drove his knee up into his face. The second Abakua sprawled on the street like a bag of white linen. Pitts picked up the knife, checked that both men were unconscious, relieved them of their wallets, then circled the truck, puncturing each of the four tires. He watched with satisfaction as the truck settled on its rims, then walked slowly back to the palero‘s house.
“You wanna cuff those scumbags?” He was grinning at Martinez.
The major shook his head. “Are they alive?”
Pitts gave him a shrug. “Yeah, but they ain’t gonna feel too good tomorrow.”
Martinez nodded, and Devlin thought he detected a note of approval. “I would like to see them,” the major said.
Martinez removed Adrianna’s sketches from his pocket and walked to the fallen Abakua. When he returned he handed the sketches back to her. “They are the same men from this afternoon. The likenesses are excellent,” he said.
A gleam came to Adrianna’s eyes, and Devlin could tell she was pleased she was finally a part of their ragtag investigation. “It might be better if we just leave those clowns where they are,” he told Martinez. “There’s no point in tipping Cabrera that we’re onto him. All those Abakua will be able to say is that they were run over by some elephant with a lead pipe.” He turned to Pitts, shaking his head. “Did you get their IDs?”
Pitts handed over the wallets. Devlin opened the first, noted it was empty of any money, and eyed Pitts again.
“Hey,” Pitts said. “It’s a poor country.”
Devlin handed the wallets to Martinez, who immediately withdrew two small books. “Their identity papers,” he said. “I will have two of my most trusted men pick them up later tonight.” He glanced at Pitts. “If they have recovered from the elephant attack, they will be taken someplace where Cabrera cannot find them. We will hold them as long as our law permits.”