Havana Gold (17 page)

When Cuqui told him that Candito was in church the Count's first reaction was one of surprise. It was the first he'd heard about Red's profession of faith, but he was pleased, for he could talk to him on neutral territory. In front of that façade with towers like exotic European
pines, the policeman had hesitated for a second about what he should do: but then decided to wait for Candito by participating in the mass himself. Conde breathed in the pliant smell of cheap incense; he sat on the back pew and listened to the Sunday sermon of that priest who was young and vigorous in his gestures and words, and spoke to his flock of the most arcane mysteries, of power and the infinite, in the tones of a good conversationalist:

“The paternity of Jesus, who revealed the paternity of God through fraternal solidarity. By relating to people from below, at their level, he not only saved the one who received the gospel, and Jesus was fulfilled as brother to men and as son of God. Hence the vulnerability of Jesus: his joy when simple people welcomed the revelation of God and his sorrow for Jerusalem, because of the authorities that wouldn't receive him . . .”

Then the priest raised his arms and the parishioners who packed his church stood up. Feeling he was profaning an arcane mystery he himself had renounced, the Count took advantage of that movement to escape like a man persecuted into the light of the square, a cigarette between his lips and an amen in his ears chorused by people who were happy once again to have known the sacrifices made by their Lord.

Fifteen minutes later the believers began to process, their faces lit by an inner light rivalling the splendour
of the Sunday sun. Red Candito, on the last step of the stairs, stopped to light a cigarette and greeted an old black guy who was walking by, dressed in a linen guayabera and straw hat, perhaps in flight from a 1920s photo. The Count waited in the middle of the square, and saw how his friend raised his eyebrows when he spotted him.

“I didn't know you were a churchgoer,” the Count said, shaking his hand.

“Some Sundays,” admitted Candito who suggested they should cross the road. “It makes me feel good.”

“Church depresses me. What do you hope to find there, Candito?”

The mulatto smiled, as if the Count had said something stupid.

“What I can't find elsewhere . . .”

“Of course, the infinite. You know, I now find myself surrounded by mystics.”

Candito smiled again.

“And what's up now, Conde?”

They walked up Vista Alegre and the Count waited for his breathing to settle after their climb as the ochre structure of the school where Lissette Núñez had taught and where they had met came into sight.

“Yesterday I was thinking this bastard Pre-Uni seems to wield power over my destiny. I can't throw it off.”

“They were good years.”

“I think they were the best, Red, but it's not as simple as that. This is where we grew up, right? It was here I met most of the people who are my friends. You, for example.”

“I'm sorry about Friday, Conde, but you've got to understand me . . .”

“I do, I do, Candito. There are things you can't ask of people. But a twenty-four year-old woman was teaching in one of the classrooms over there until she turned up the other day dead, murdered, and I've got to find out who did it. It is that simple. And I've got to find out for several reasons: because I'm a policeman, because the person who did it must be called to account, because she was a Pre-Uni teacher . . . It's a fucking obsession.”

“What about Pupy?”

“It looks as if it wasn't him, although we're putting the screws on him. He told us something important: the head of Pre-Uni was having an affair with her.”

“Didn't he do it then?”

“I'm off to see him now, but he's got a good alibi.”

“So what do you reckon?”

“That if the head isn't the solution then marijuana can probably give me a lead.”

Candito lit another cigarette. They were level with the PE yard and from the street they could see the basketball court, its bare hoops and boards worn out by all those hard throws. The playground was empty, like every Sunday, a sad place without the hue-and-cry from
matches, the rivalries and girls reduced to hysteria by a brilliant shot.

“Do you remember who used to score the most?”

“Marcos Quijá,” answered the Count.

“Piss off,” protested Candito with a smile. “I taught Marcos how to dribble. You know, in one game, I scored two from the halfway line against those jerks from Vedado.”

“If you say so . . .”

“Look, Conde,” said Candito, stopping on the street corner, where a stinking overflow trickled from a rubbish container that was new there, “things have changed. In our day if anyone smoked marijuana it was because he was an addict, but now anyone can get dope and that's when the trouble starts because they all go crazy. The same with rum: before you did or you didn't, now any one can, and there's no such thing as a nice girl, because shagging is the order . . . But I can tell you something I heard yesterday that may help . . . and remember I'm risking my neck. I don't know if it's true or not, but I heard there's a fellow who lives in Casino Deportivo, I don't know where exactly, but you can find that out, who's been shifting red-hot dope for days. Nobody knows where it came from, but it's red-hot. He's known as Lando the Russian . . . See where that takes you. But let me be for two years, Conde, OK?”

The Count took Candito by the arm and gently forced him to walk along.

“And what do I do to buy some size-five sandals from you?”

“Well, you can take the sandals now, and then start counting the two years you won't see me . . .”

“And in all that time you won't invite me for a drink?”

“Piss off, Conde.”

 

“What have you stirred up now, Conde?” asked the Boss not stirring from his seat behind his desk.

“I'll tell you in a second. Just let me say hello to our comrade,” he raised his arms, as if appealing for respite from a demanding judge of good manners, and shook hands with Captain Cicerón who was sitting in one of the big armchairs. They greeted each other with the usual smiles and the Count asked: “Does it still hurt?”

“Just a little,” replied the captain.

Three years ago Captain Ascensio Cicerón had been designated head of the Drugs Section at headquarters. He was a dark-skinned mulatto, with a constant smile on his lips and a widespread reputation as a good person. The Count only had to see him to remember that fateful baseball game: they had met in their university days and played together in the faculty team in 1977, and Cicerón had become famous as the result of a fly that had dropped on his head, the only day they gave him a glove and he went out to cover second base, with more enthusiasm than skill. There were never enough
baseball players in their faculty of artists and thinkers, and Cicerón accepted the role assigned to him by his rank-and-file committee: he'd be a member of the team for the Caribbean Games. Luckily, when the wretched fly-ball fell on Cicerón's head they were already losing by twelve to one and their manager, resigned to the inevitable, just shouted at him from the bench: “Get up, mulatto, we're catching up”. Ever since the Count had greeted him with a smile and the same question.

The lieutenant sat in the other armchair and looked at his boss: “It's looking good,” he commented.

“I imagine so, because on this particular Sunday I'd not intended putting in an appearance, and Cicerón started his holidays yesterday, so make sure it is really good.”

“You tell me . . . Let's go from the simple to the sophisticated, as the song goes . . . We checked out the head teacher's alibi and it's just as he said, but it could be total fabrication. According to his wife, he spent the whole night at home writing a report while she watched a film. And the report in fact exists, but he could easily have drawn it up the day before and then dated it Tuesday the eighteenth. It is true, however, that this fun will cost him his marriage. The man's fucked himself. Well, when I was talking to Pupy it slipped out that Lissette had a Mexican boyfriend a few months ago. The detail seemed significant as people reckon the marijuana isn't
Cuban. Now this afternoon one Mauricio Schwartz, the only Mexican Mauricio doing the tourist bit in Cuba these days is going back to Mexico. We've organized a photograph so Pupy can identify him. If it's the same man it wouldn't be a surprise if he'd come back to see Lissette . . . What else . . . Best of all I have a name and a lead that may be real dynamite,” he said looking at Cicerón. “The report on the marijuana that appeared in Lissette Núñez's house says that it wasn't any ordinary dope, that it must be Mexican or Nicaraguan, am I right?”

“Yes, I told you that. It had been affected by water, but it's almost definite it's not local.”

“And you caught two guys with joints from Central America, didn't you?”

“Yes, but I haven't been able to find out where they got it. Their so-called supplier disappeared or the guys invented a ghost.”

“Well, I've got a flesh-and-blood ghost: Orlando San Juan, alias Lando the Russian. I heard a whisper he's got some really strong stuff and I bet it's the same that's round and about in town.”

“And how do you know, Conde?” asked Major Rangel, who'd finally got to his feet. Like every Sunday he'd gone to headquarters not in uniform but wearing a tight-fitting pullover so he could show off his swimmer/ squash player pecs intent on keeping autumn at bay.

“The word was passed on to me. A whisper doing the rounds.”

“Ah, a whisper . . . And you got the file on this Russian?”

“Here it is.”

“Do you want Cicerón to help you?”

“That's what friends are for, aren't they?” replied the Count looking at the captain.

“I'll help him, Major,” Cicerón agreed with a smile.

“Good,” said the Boss and made a gesture as if frightening hens away, “exercise keeps the cold at bay. Find that Russian and see what you can get out of him and don't stop until I tell you to. But I want to know every step you make, you listening? Because this is going all black as ants. Your antics in particular, Mario Conde.”

 

Casino Deportivo seemed varnished by the Sunday sun. All clean, painted and gleaming in technicolour. Pity I don't like this barrio anymore, the Count told himself now in front of Lando the Russian's house. They were barely five blocks from where Caridad Delgado lived and he thought how he'd like to deduce something from that proximity. Caridad, Lissette and the Russian, all in the same bag? The lieutenant took his glasses off when Captain Cicerón came out of the house.

“Well? Turned anything up?”

“You know, Conde, Lando the Russian is no smalltime dealer. A man with his record isn't going to walk
the streets selling joints to dopers. And someone who deals in quantity won't keep his stock under his bed, so searching this place any more is a waste of time. I'll put out a search-and-arrest order, but if what his aunt says is true and the fellow rented a beach house, the Guanabo folk will track him down in two or three hours and don't worry because I need to get my hands on this guy more than you do. This marijuana trade is pissing me off and I need to know where it fucking came from and who brought it. I'll send Lieutenant Fabricio off right now to liaise with the Guanabo folk.”

“So Fabricio is with you now, is he?” asked the Count, remembering his last encounter with the lieutenant.

“It's been a month or so. He's learning.”

“Just as well . . . Hey, Cicerón, could the marijuana be from one of those lost consignments that gets thrown overboard?” asked the Count as he lit up and leaned against Captain Cicerón's official car.

“It could be, anything's possible, but what's strange is that it's fallen into the hands of people who know how to move it. And the other problem is it's not South American, which is what they sometimes try to ship past Cuba. I can't imagine how it got here, but if it was set up, they can get anything in through the same channel . . . that's why we've got to catch Lando with the goods . . .”

“Yes, we've got to, because Manolo called me on your radio to say the Mexican is a no-go. It was his first time in
Cuba and Pupy says he's not the one who went out with Lissette. So Lando is the man of the moment. And the case is over to you, right?”

Cicerón smiled. He was almost always smiling and did so now as he placed a hand on one of Conde's shoulders.

“Tell me, Mario, why did you hand me this case on a plate?”

“I told you just now, didn't I? What are friends for?”

“You know you're never going to get anywhere if you throw cases around like confetti.”

“Not even if I go home and start washing all my dirty clothes?”

“You have such high aspirations.”

“Well, I don't. Washing clothes is a pain in the arse. If anything crops up, you'll find me between the sink and the clothes-line,” he said, shaking his friend's hand.

In the car, on his way home, the Count reflected that Casino Deportivo was a good place to live after all: from deputy ministers and journalists to marijuana dealers it had a bit of everything, like any other stretch of the Good Lord's vineyard.

 

The Count pegged the last pair of underpants on the clothes line and contentedly surveyed his praiseworthy labours. I must be a vanguard policeman, he told himself, watching the gusts of winds make all the clothes that
his hands had washed dance in the air, hands softened by water and still smelling of potash and scented conditioner: three sheets, three pillowcases and four towels, boiled and washed; two pairs of trousers, twelve shirts, six pullovers, eight pairs of socks and eleven underpants; the whole range from his wardrobe, clean and gleaming under the midday sun. It had been a must: he contemplated the fruit of his labours in ecstasy, burning to witness the miracle of the entire, aseptic drying process.