Havana Bay

  "What did you get out of that?"

  "Finder's fee, costs. You know, I used to think because I was a Marxist that I understood capitalism. I didn't know anything. John plays it like a game."

  O'Brien said, "I have always noticed that people from the socialist camp take money far too seriously. You should have fun."

  "It's like a second college education being with John."

  "Yes?" Arkady was ready to be educated.

  "Like boots," said Walls. "The Cubans ran out of boots. We found out that the U.S. was getting rid of surplus boots at a dollar a pair. We bought all of them, which is why the Cuban army is marching in American combat boots."

  "You must be appreciated here."

  "I'd like to think that George and I are," said O'Brien.

  "But how do you do that from Cuba? I would think you'd need a third party."

  "In a third country, of course."

  "In Mexico, Panama?"

  O'Brien twisted in his seat. "Arkady, you've got to stop being such a cop. Over the years, I have helped a lot of police in your situation, but it's a matter of give and take. You want to know this and you want to know that, but you have yet to give me a believable explanation how you came to stand on the dock of the Havana Yacht Club."

  "I was just visiting places where Pribluda might have been."

  "What made you think he might have been there?"

  "There was a map in his apartment and the club was circled." Which was true, although not as true as the photograph. "It was an old map."

  "Just an old map? That's how you heard about the Havana Yacht Club? Amazing."

  The Hotel Capri was a pocket version of the Riviera, a high rise but off the Malecón, and no dome or spiral stairs, instead a simple lobby of glassy sounds and chrome furniture. Cubans were not allowed upstairs; they sat and nursed colas as they waited for appointments to materialize, ready to wait all day. The air-conditioning eddied around potted plants.

  "I can't get over the coat," Walls told Arkady. "Do you mind if I try it on?"

  "Go ahead."

  Although Arkady didn't want other people even touching the coat, he helped Walls in. The coat stretched a little over Walls's shoulders. He ran his hands along the cashmere outside, the silk lining in, felt the pockets inside and out.

  O'Brien watched the fashion show. "What do you think?"

  "I think he's a man with empty pockets." Walls returned the coat. "But nice. You got this on an investigator's pay? Good for you."

  "A good sign for us all." O'Brien led the way off the lobby and through the doors into a small, darkened theater. Arkady could barely see the stage, steps, speakers and overhead lights with colored eels. "La Sala Roja. It wasn't a cabaret then. It was a better show. Use your imagination and you can see red drapes, red carpet, red velvet lamps. In the center, four blackjack tables and four roulette. In the corners, seven-eleven and baccarat. Girls selling cigars, and I mean beautiful girls selling Cuban cigars. Perhaps a little cocaine, though who needs it? It's the sound of the ball on the track, the excitement around a craps table. The man says 'Bets, gentlemen' and people bet. Do you gamble, Arkady?"

  "No."

  "Why?"

  "I don't have the money to lose."

  "Everyone has the money to lose. Poor people gamble all the time. What you mean is, you don't like to lose."

  "I suppose so."

  "Well, you're unusual, most people need to. If they happen to win, they keep on playing until they do lose. Right now around the world more people are gambling than ever in the history of man." O'Brien shrugged to show that the phenomenon was beyond him. "Maybe it's the coming millennium. It's as if people want to shed material things, not in a church but in a casino. People are willing to lose everything as long as they have fun. They can't resist. It's human. The worst snub in the world is a casino where they won't take your money."

  "Were you here before the Revolution?"

  "A dozen times. Jesus, that was a long time ago."

  "Did you gamble?"

  "I'm like you, I don't like to lose. Mostly, I admired the operation. You know who I pointed out to my wife? I pointed out Jack Kennedy. He had a peroxide blonde on one arm and a sultry mulata on the other. During the missile crisis I wondered if Jack ever thought back to that night."

  "There were other casinos, too," Walls said.

  "Deauville, Sans Souci, Montmartre, Tropicana," said O'Brien. "The Mafia's great plan was to tear down Havana and rebuild it, make it completely modern and create a triangle of tourism between Miami, Havana and the Yucatan, an international zone of prosperity. That's what the Revolution stopped, not that the Revolution wasn't overdue but, economically, Cuba lost forty years."

  "That's your plan, to reopen old casinos?"

  "No," O'Brien said, "still too many hard feelings. Anyway, the Havana Yacht Club and Casino can be ten times bigger than any of these."

  "You're ambitious."

  "Aren't you?" Walls asked. "The Cold War's over. I was a hero in that war and look what it got me. Marooned."

  "What kind of life is Moscow?" said O'Brien. "Wake up. You have sailed into Paradise and you're about to sail out. Don't do it. Stay here and work for us."

  "Work for you? Take Pribluda's place?"

  "Like that," said Walls.

  "Why is it that I can't take this offer seriously?"

  "Because you're suspicious," said O'Brien. "It's the Russian attitude. You have to be positive. Every millionaire I ever met was an optimist. Every down-and-outer expects the worst. It's a new world, Arkady, why not plan big?"

  "You would share your Cuban gold mine with a man you'd never met before?"

  "But I've met your type before. You're the man at the end of the pier, who's either going to jump in the water or change his life." O'Brien's eyes glowed with... what? Arkady wondered. The showmanship of a salesman or the zeal of a priest, all his efforts bent to one moment of plausibility for this thoroughly ridiculous proposition. "Change it. Give yourself a chance."

  "How?"

  "As a partner."

  "A partner? This gets better all the time."

  "But partnership demands trust," O'Brien said. "You understand what trust is, don't you, Arkady?"

  "Yes."

  "But you won't show it. For two days I've been waiting for you to be as open with George and me as we have been with you. Please don't piss on my back and tell me it's raining. Don't tell me about an old map. Sergeant Luna told us about the picture of the Havana Yacht Club. We know about it. A picture of a dead Russian at the Havana Yacht Club is exactly what we don't need now."

  "John would feel better if he had it," Walls said.

  "If I had it I wouldn't have to worry about it. And I'd know that you had extended your trust to us the way we have with you. Can you do that, Arkady, and trust me with that picture?" O'Brien put out his hand.

  Arkady felt the envelope with the photograph sticking to his back. "I don't know about business partnerships, I've always worked directly for the state. But what about this? If I accept your proposition and work for a year and have a villa and boat and a satisfying social life, at that point I will give you the photograph. Until then it's safe because we will be, as you say, partners."

  "Are you hearing this?" Walls asked. "The mother is bargaining."

  "Resisting." John O'Brien let his hand drop. He looked his age, suddenly a little spent, silver hair sticking to temples that were wet like sweat on the edge of greasepaint, like an actor who passionately acted a play for a dull, deaf audience. "Because you're Russian, Arkady, I'll make allowances. This is a new way of thinking for you, being part of a plan."

  "Remind me, what part would I be?" Arkady asked.

  "Security. George told you, in case any Mafia does show up."

  "I'd have to think about this. I'm not sure I'm that tough."

  "That's okay," Walls said. "People think you are."

  "Appearances go a long way," O'Brien said. "I'll tell you why the Capri is my favorit
e casino. You know, the Mafia hired an actor, George Raft, to front for the Capri. Raft acted a gangster so many times people thought he was. He thought he was. Comes the night of the Revolution crowds start looting casinos. One mob heads for the Capri. Who goes out on the steps but Raft himself and says in his gangster voice, 'No punks are busting up my casino.' And they went away. He chased them. America's last stand."

  Chapter Nineteen

  * * *

  The bodega was a warehouse with the dimmest light in Havana, and the fact that the lines were short and Ofelia was going to do the mule's work of carrying a sack of Vietnamese rice and a tin of cooking oil did nothing to improve her mother's mood.

  "You either come home late or you don't come home at all. Who is this man?"

  "He's not a man," Ofelia said.

  "He's not a man?" Her mother amplified her wonderment to include as many people as possible in the conversation.

  "Not a man like that."

  "Like the musicians? Great husbands. Where is the last one, massaging Swedes in Cayo Largo?"

  "I came home last night. Everything is okay."

  "Everything is wonderful. Here I am with the world's greatest work of fiction." She slapped her ration book. "What could be better? To know why you come home so late?"

  "It's a police matter."

  "With a Russian! Hija, maybe you haven't heard, the Russian boat has sailed. Gone. How did you even find one? I'd love to see this stranded Lothario."

  "Mama," Ofelia begged.

  "Oh, you're in your uniform, you're embarrassed to be seen with me. I can wait in line all day so you can run around and make the world safe for..." She indicated a beard.

  "We're almost there." Ofelia fixed her eye on the counter.

  "We're almost nowhere. This is nowhere, hija. Remember that boy you knew in school, the one with the fish tank?"

  "Aquarium."

  "Fish tank. Nothing but dirty water and two catfish that never moved. Take a look at those clerks."

  At a counter with a register and scale were two women with whiskers who looked so much like those catfish that it was difficult for Ofelia to keep a straight face. There were four counters in the gloom of the bodega, each with a chalkboard that listed goods, prices, ration per person or family, and date available, the "date available" clouded from many corrections.

  "Tomatoes next week," Ofelia said. "That's good news."

  Her mother exploded with a laugh. "My God, I've raised an idiot. There will be no tomatoes, no evaporated milk, no flour and maybe no beans or rice. This is a trap for morons. Hija, I know you are a brilliant detective, but thank God you have me to shop for you."

  A woman behind them hissed and warned, "I will report this counterrevolutionary propaganda."

  "Piss off," Ofelia's mother said. "I fought at Playa Giron. Where were you? Probably waving your tits at American bombers. I assume you had tits."

  Her mother was good at shutting people up. Playa Giron was what the rest of the world called the Bay of Pigs. Strangely enough, she actually had been in the army and shot an invader, although now she claimed she should have made him take her to Florida while she had a gun on him.

  "I have a question," Ofelia said.

  "Please, I'm reading the board. Two cans of green peas per family for the month. They will be delicious, I'm sure. Sugar is available. You will know the end is near when no sugar is available."

  "About pickles."

  "I don't see pickles."

  "Where would I find them?" The Eastern Bloc had tried to unload bottled pickles in Cuba, but Ofelia hadn't seen them for years.

  "Not here. In the free market you buy cucumbers and pickle them."

  "Different sizes?"

  "A cucumber is a cucumber. Why would anyone want a small cucumber?" At the counter her mother made a show of having her book properly marked and announcing, "You know, if you live on your rations you will enjoy a very balanced diet."

  "That's true," one of the clerks was stupid enough to agree.

  "Because you eat for two weeks and starve for two weeks." Having delivered her torpedo, Ofelia's mother turned and sailed for the exit, leaving Ofelia to follow with the heavy sack and can of oil the length of the bodega while everyone stared.

  When they reached the street her mother stumped toward home.

  "You are impossible," Ofelia said.

  "I hope so. This island is driving me crazy."

  "This island is driving you crazy? You've never been off this island."

  "And it's driving me crazy. And having a daughter who's one of them." Her mother had been stopped by the police for selling homemade cosmetics door to door. They'd let her go, of course, as soon as they learned Detective Osorio was her daughter. "Your uncle Manny wrote to say there is a rocking chair waiting on the porch for me in Miami."

  "With a drive-by shooting every night is what he wrote me."

  "In his new letter he says he could take Muriel and Marisol. He says they would love SouthBeach. We could all go and the girls could stay."

  "We are not going to talk about this."

  "They would knock Miami out. They're beautiful girls and they're light."

  That was always the insinuation her mother could twist like a knife, that Ofelia stood apart in the family by the deeper color of her skin, that Ofelia was different from her own daughters and, in reverse, a lifelong and bitter disappointment to her mother. And Ofelia knew her mother could see the red heat in her cheek.

  "They're staying with me. If you want to go to Miami, you can go."

  "I'm only saying, it's a new world. It probably doesn't involve a Russian."

  • • •

  Arkady had Walls and O'Brien drop him off a couple of blocks short of the Malecón. Because he had the sense that Luna could leap over the seawall any second with an ice pick or machete once Arkady reached the boulevard, he stayed in the shadows of building columns until he reached an address with the tricolored banner of the Committee for the Defense of the Revolution, knocked at Abuelita's door and entered.

  "Come in."

  Light squeezed through with him into the narrow confines of her room, to the statue of the shrouded, dark-skinned Virgin and her shimmering peacock feather. Scents of cigar and sandalwood tickled his nose. Abuelita sat before the Virgin and solemnly laid cards. Tarot? Arkady looked over the old woman's shoulder. Solitaire. Today she sported a pullover that said "New York Stock Exchange." Arkady noticed that the statue also wore something new, a yellow necklace like Osorio's.

  "May I?"

  "Go ahead." When he touched the necklace beads Abuelita said, "In Santeria this Virgin is also the spirit Oshun and her color is yellow, honey, gold. Oshun is a very sexy spirit."

  That hardly described Osorio, Arkady thought, but he didn't have time to delve into religious matters.

  "I saw you leave this morning in that big white car, that chariot with wings," Abuelita said. "The whole Malecón was looking at that."

  "Did you happen to notice any tall, black sergeant from Minint go in the building after I left?"

  "No."

  "No one fitting that description carrying a machete or a baseball bat?" He added five dollars to the crown at the Virgin's feet.

  Abuelita sighed and took the money out. "I know the man you mean. The one who arranged the Abakua. I was at my window like I always am, but the truth is, I fell asleep right there standing up. Sometimes my body gets old."

  Arkady put the money back. "Then I have another question. I still need a picture of Sergei Pribluda for the police and I'm looking for any close friends of his who might have one. No one here does, but the first time we met you mentioned that Sergei Pribluda was a man who shared his pickles. Yesterday I was at a market that sold vegetables, including cucumbers, but nothing like the homemade pickles in Pribluda's refrigerator. Because you're right, there's nothing like a Russian pickle. Did he have a special visitor?"

  Abuelita spread her hand wide as a fan and hid her grin. "Now you're talking. Th
ere was one woman, a Russian, who came sometimes with a basket, sometimes not."

  "Could you describe her?"

  "Oh, like a fat little dove. She came on Thursdays, sometimes alone, sometimes with a girl."

  Ofelia climbed a ladder to Hedy Infante's home, a platform built under the ceiling of a rococo foyer. The ten-by-ten loft held her cot, rack of dresses and stretch pants, electric bulb and candles, cosmetics and shoes, window with rope to a pail and view of the chandelier and, far below, a marble floor. The house had been built by a sugar magnate with a taste for froth, and the ceiling's swirls of white plasterwork evoked a sense of nesting in the clouds.

  Hedy's interior decoration was just as fantastic, an interior of pictures she had clipped from magazines and taped to her walls, a handmade wallpaper of Los Van Van, Julio Iglesias, Gloria Estefan singing soulfully to a microphone, bathed in strobe lights, reaching out to fans. On one singer she had superimposed her own face, which reminded Ofelia of the real condition of Hedy's neck. The loft wasn't the sort of room a prostitute took a client, it was more her true, private place.

  Private but violated by the little touches left by forensic technicians, police tape around the dresses, fingerprint powder on the mirror, the subtle disarray when men rather than women put things away. Hedy had collected hotel soaps, cutlery, coasters, made a seashell frame around a photograph of her quince, her fifteenth birthday party – the picture showed off the state – supplied frosted cake, beer and rum. In another photograph Hedy wore the blue ruffles and scarf of a devotee of Yemaya, the goddess of the seas, and, sure enough, on the wall was a statuette of Our Lady of Regla, spirit and saint being one and the same. A cigar box held snapshots of a variety of tourists with Hedy, toasting her with daiquiris or mojitos at cafes in the Plaza Vieja, Plaza de Armas, Plaza de la Catedral, the make-believe world of Old Havana. Hedy's favorites, though, seemed to be two photos pinned to a heart-shaped pillow of her and Luna. What had the techs made of that, the dead girl with the officer in charge? The photos had apparently been taken at different times because of a difference in clothes, but both in front of a building that bore in rusty stains the name Centro Russo-Cubano. On the underside of the pillow was pinned a third snapshot, this of Hedy, Luna and the little jinetera Teresa in the back of a white Chrysler Imperial. There were no names, telephone numbers or addresses around the bed, in the cigar box or on the wall.