Havana Blue (25 page)

“You know the combination, I suppose?”

“But it's been empty for a long time. I mean there's not been any money or anything like that. As far as I recall, there are just the title deeds to the house and papers relating to the family pantheon.”

“But you know the combination, don't you?” Now it was Manolo who was insisting. He'd become a lean, rubbery, edgy cat once more.

“Yes, it's in Rafael's telephone book as just another number.”

“Can you open it now, comrade?” the sergeant repeated, and she looked at the Count.

“Please, Tamara,” he asked as he stood up.

“What's this all about, Mario?” she asked, although she was really wondering herself as she led them into the library.

She kneeled in front of the fake fireplace, removed the safety grille, and the Count remembered how it was the eve of the day of the Three Kings who always preferred to bring their presents down the chimney. Perhaps his had arrived, amazingly early. Tamara read out the six numbers and started to turn the handle to the safe, and the Count tried to glance over the shoulder of Manolo, who was in the front row. She moved the wheel a sixth time to the left and finally pulled open the metal door and stood up.

“I hope you're mistaken, Mario.”

“Hope on,” came the reply, and when she moved away, he went over to the fireplace, kneeled down and extracted a white envelope from the cold iron belly. He stood up and looked at her. He couldn't stop himself: he felt palpably sorry for that woman who'd stripped him to the bone and frustrated him and whom, he now realized more than ever, he'd preferred not to have seen again. But he opened the envelope, took out a few sheets of paper and read while Manolo rocked impatiently on his heels. “Better than we'd imagined,” he said, stuffing the papers back in the envelope. Tamara was still rubbing her hands, and Manolo couldn't keep still. “Maciques has got an
account in the Hispano-American Bank and owns a car in Spain. The photocopies are here.”

 

 

Major Rangel contemplated the sweet-scented death agony of his Rey del Mundo as if he were watching the death of a dog that had been his best friend. Momentarily, as he placed the butt in the ashtray, he regretted he'd not treated it more lovingly. He'd had an awful smoke listening to Lieutenant Mario Conde's explanation.

“Seeing is believing,” he pronounced and tried to avoid seeing his cigar go out, perhaps so he didn't need to believe it. “And how was he able to perpetrate so many dreadful things?”

“Dreadful things are all the rage, Boss . . . Wasn't he a totally trustworthy cadre? Wasn't he a man eternally on the up? Wasn't he purer and saintlier than holy water?”

“Don't be sarcastic, because that won't explain anything . . .”

“Boss, I don't know why you're shocked at the lack of controls in an enterprise. Whenever and wherever they do a really surprise audit, they find dreadful things that beggar belief, that nobody can explain, but which are for real. You've already forgotten the millionaire manager of the Ward ice-cream parlour and Cheep Cheep fried chicken chain, and in . . .”

“OK, OK, Mario, but let me feel shocked, if you don't mind? One always prefers to think people aren't that corrupt, and, as you say, Rafael Morín was a completely trustworthy cadre, and look what he got up to . . . But let's leave that for later, now I want to know where that fellow is holed up. I want to know so I can hand the case to the industry minister neatly sorted.”

The Count scrutinized his dry listless cigarette, the ink from the
Popular
brand that had run, the tobacco flaking out at both ends and the packet that was falling apart, but it was his last one, and when he lit up he enjoyed the strength hidden in that smoke.

“Do you need more people?”

“No, just let me finish what I'm saying. Look, everything points to the fact that Rafael Morín was going to show his true colours on a trip to Barcelona in January. He intended vanishing there with all the money of which part was already safely invested, and as he knew for the moment nobody would be checking the paperwork, he may have overstretched himself and started cooking his allowances and marketing expenses, to have money on account, you know? One of Fatman Contreras's informants, I mean Captain Contreras, Yayo el Yuma, says his photo reminds him of someone, but he'd have to see him personally to be sure. So it's also possible he changed dollars into Cuban pesos he could spend here, for, according to Zoilita, he did like to throw it around.”

“And still no news from the coastguards?”

“Nothing as yet, and I don't think there will be, although it's beginning to make more sense that his problems were here and he has been sent to a better place . . . But I'm sure Maciques is behind whatever has happened . . . Because if not, why on earth would Rafael keep those papers belonging to Maciques at home? In any case it all went awry when Rafael found out a delegation from Mitachi was coming to Cuba earlier than expected. Look, here's the telex. It arrived the morning of the thirtieth. It seems they were very interested in doing a deal, and when there's a good deal to be done, the Chinese don't worry about Christmas trees and New Year. And Rafael knew that the deputy
minister, perhaps the minister and other people from other enterprises, would join in the bargaining. As I was saying, he realized he was caught and went into hiding or was put out of harm's way. So it's more than likely he left the country illegally, but he hasn't, otherwise the shout would have gone up over there. Just imagine, Boss, he was a big wheel in the Cuban economy. And if I'm sure of one thing, it's that Rafael wouldn't risk his skin trying to make his escape on a raft made from two truck inner tubes. He'd find the safest route and then get to Miami . . . Rafael Morín is in Cuba.”

“And what if he avoided creating a fuss so his account in Spain wasn't frozen?” Major Rangel rubbed his eyes, and the Count noted he was reacting anxiously, which wasn't his style.

“I reckon that even if he didn't want a fuss, the people in Miami would have made one. What's more, time was on his side. And he was a trustworthy cadre, was he not?”

“So you keep telling me.”

“Well, he knew nobody would ever imagine anything of this sort, and he'd only have to go into the first Miami bank he found to have money on tap. He reckoned nobody would suspect a thing for a few days and that nobody would ever imagine a guy who made a regular eight or ten trips abroad every year skiving off in a motorboat.”

“Yes, you're probably right . . . But he didn't take the paperwork to do with travel allowances. China found them.”

“That's where two and two don't make four. I thought Maciques had put them there at midday on the thirty-first, but by midday on the thirty-first Rafael already had his hands on those papers.”

“So, what an earth is Maciques's role in all this?”

“This is what I'd like to find out; I'm sure he's up to his neck in shit. He knows the whole story, or at least the main plot, because on the third, when Manolo questioned him, he was very on edge and kept going back and forth, as if trying to wriggle out of the conversation. And today he was quite different. He was very self-confident, as if there was no mess, and he was quite convinced he wouldn't have any problems even if Rafael's fiddle over allowances, marketing expenses and the like were rumbled, which he knew we would do eventually: if not today, tomorrow or the day after . . . The time that has passed since his boss disappeared apparently gave him peace of mind, because he never imagined Rafael was keeping those documents in that safe.”

“So he was in partnership with Rafael Morín?”

“No, he was just an accomplice. He had some four thousand dollars in the bank and Rafael had hundreds of thousands. There's something not quite right there. But Manolo and I will question him again to see if we can extract something new.”

The major stood up and walked over to his office's picture window. It was barely six pm and already getting dark in Havana. From up there you could see the laurel trees from a perspective that was of no interest to the Count. He preferred the view from his small window and stayed seated.

“You've got to find that bastard even if he's six feet under,” the Boss grated in his most terrible visceral tone. He hated such situations, felt cheated and annoyed that they only reached him after such dastardly things had been perpetrated. “I'll call the industry minister. He can sort the business of the money in Spain and give it some thought, because it's more his
problem than ours. But tell me, Mario, why would a man like Rafael Morín do something like that?”

 

 

“So visiting time again. I think we should go back to the beginning.”

“But what do you hope I will tell you, Sergeant?” René Maciques responded, looking at the Count as he walked in and sat in a chair by the window. The lieutenant lit a cigarette and exchanged glances with the sergeant. Go on, put the boot in.

“What did you and Morín discuss on the thirty-first?”

“I told you, the usual work-related things, our good financial year-end and the reports we had to file.”

“And you didn't see him again?”

“No, I left the party shortly before he did.”

“And did you know anything about this fraud?”

“Sergeant, I've already told you I didn't, and could never have imagined anything of the sort. And still can hardly believe it. I don't know why he would do such a thing.”

“What's your level of involvement in the matter?”

“Mine? Mine? None whatsoever, Sergeant, I'm a mere office manager who makes no decisions.”

The Count extinguished his cigarette and stood up. He walked over to his desk.

“Your innocence is most moving, Maciques.”

“But the fact is . . .”

“Don't strain yourself. Does this remind you of anything?”

The Count took two photocopies from the envelope and put them on his desk, in front of Maciques. The office manager looked at the two policemen, leaned forward and stayed like that for what seemed an eternity: as if he'd suddenly forgotten how to read.

“The lieutenant asked you a question,” said Manolo as he picked up the photocopies. “Does this remind you of anything?”

“Where did you find these papers?”

“As usual, you make it necessary for me to remind you that we are the ones asking the questions . . . But I'll give you an answer. They were quite safe and sound in a strongbox in Rafael Morín's house. What do these documents mean, Maciques?” Manolo repeated, placing himself between the man and the desk.

René Maciques looked up at his interrogator. He was now a perplexed, gloomy old librarian. Sergeant Manuel Palacios took his time. He knew he'd reached a decisive point in the interrogation, when the man under arrest must decide to tell the truth or put his hope in deception. But Maciques didn't have options.

“It's one of Rafael's ruses,” he said nevertheless. “I know nothing about these papers. I've never set my eyes on them. You said he did things using my name. Well, here's another example.”

“So Rafael Morín wanted to put you in a spot of bother?”

“So it seems.”

“Maciques, what might we find in
your
house if we did a search?”

“In my house . . . Nothing. The usual. One travels abroad and makes purchases.”

“With what money? Entertainment expenses?”

“I already explained how one can save from the daily allowances.”

“And when you wrap up a big deal, don't you get a bonus in kind? A car, for example?”

“But I never wrapped up any big deals.”

“Maciques, do you have it in you to kill a man?”

The office manager looked up again, the glint gone from his eyes.

“What are you inferring?”

“Do you or don't you?”

“Of course I don't.”

And he kept shaking his head: no, no.

“Why did you go to the enterprise on the thirty-first? And don't say to switch off the air conditioning.”

“What would you like me to say?”

Then the Count walked back to his desk and stopped next to Maciques.

“Look, Maciques, I'm not as patient as the sergeant. I'm going to tell you straight what I think of you, and I know that one way or the other you'll end up confessing today, tomorrow or the day after . . . You're a piece of shit, as much a thief as your boss, more careful though less powerful. Right now the validity of these papers is being checked in Spain, and perhaps the bank will give us some information, but the car's a clue that's much simpler than you think. For some reason I've still to fathom, Rafael kept these papers under lock and key, perhaps to protect himself from you, because he knew you were quite capable of putting on his file the allowances he didn't spend and the expenses he doubled. And Rafael will turn up, I don't know whether dead or alive, in Spain or Greenland, but he will turn up, and you'll talk, but even if you don't, you're covered in shit, Maciques. Don't forget it. And to help you think more clearly, you're going to spend some time on your own. From today you will start a new life at police headquarters . . . Sergeant, get the papers ready and ask the public prosecutor for an order for the temporary arrest of citizen René. One that can be extended. Be seeing you, Maciques.”

Mario Conde looked at the other laurel trees, the ones very close to the sea that heralded the Paseo del Prado, and repeated his question. A bitter wind blew in from the mouth of the bay forcing him to keep his hands in his pockets, but he needed to think and walk, lose himself in the crowd and hide his Pyrrhic glee and the frustrations of a policeman pleased to strip bare the evil wrought by others. What had led Rafael Morín to do something like that? Why did he want more, still more and more besides? The Count contemplated the Palace of Matrimony and the shiny black '57 Chrysler decked out in balloons and flowers waiting for the nuptial descent of the over-forties who still had it in them and still smiled for the inevitable photo at the top of the steps. He observed the ones with staying power defying the cold in the queue at the pizzeria on Prado and saw the notices, stapled to the trunk of a laurel tree, of those who needed to move. They made honest and dishonest proposals but just needed a few square feet of ceiling where they could live. He watched two dead-set, unconnected homosexuals walk by shivering with cold; their well-intentioned, ingenuous eyes looked him up and down. He spotted a peaceful mulatto, leaning against a streetlamp, looking like a lethargic Rastafarian, his perfect dreadlocks tucked under his black beret, perhaps waiting for the first foreigner to step up so he could suggest five pesos for one dollar, Mister, seven for one, bro', and I've got grass, anything to get through the doors to the forbidden world of abundance armed with a passport. He switched to the lamppost on the pavement opposite: a blonde in incredibly lascivious make-up was dying of cold, though she promised to be hot, even if it snowed, with a mouth made for a blowjob; the blonde for whom a nationally produced mortal like Mario Conde
was worth less than a drunk's spittle and who wanted dollars like her friend the Rasta mulatto and would suggest thirty for one: her youthful sex, perfumed, well-trained and guaranteed against rabies and other sickness, in exchange for the dollars she yearned after; the blowjob came extra, natch. He watched a kid skating jump onto a wooden box and skate off into the dark. He reached the Parque Central and almost decided to get entangled in the eternal arguments over baseball that raged there daily, whatever the temperature, to find a reason for yet another defeat for those bastard Industriales; balls, balls is what they're lacking, he'd have shouted in honour of Skinny, who was neither skinny nor nimble enough to be shouting on his own behalf. He contemplated the lights in the Hotel Inglaterra, the shadows surrounding the Teatro García Lorca, the queue in front of the Payret cinema, the dismal drab entrance to the Asturian Centre and the aggressive dilapidated ugliness of the Gómez edifice. He felt the irrepressible beat of a city that he tried to make a better place and thought of Tamara: she was expecting him and he was on his way, perhaps to ask her the same question, and nothing else.