Havana Best Friends (40 page)

Miranda frowned and shook his head. He was telling the truth; nobody had told him.

“The killer bit him on the neck to throw us off, make it appear like it was some sort of sex-related murder. Well, Truman killed your son, General. So whoever killed him avenged Pablo.”

Miranda shook a cigarette from Pena’s packet of Populares and lit it with trembling hands. Pena felt like giving him a hug. The ex-general stared at the ceiling and let out a stream of smoke. “If you ever catch the killer, give him my compliments, Major.” His face was bright red.
Blood pressure: probably 200 over 150
, Pena thought.

“I will, believe me. But you know something? I don’t think we’ll ever get the sonofabitch. Some incompetent cop inadvertently misplaced the only piece of evidence found in that little bedroom that didn’t belong to the stiffs or to your daughter: a hair. Apart from that, we only found fingerprints.”

Manuel Miranda smiled sadly. “You are quite the man, Pena.”

“Coming from you, that’s an honour,” the major said as he recovered his cigarettes and matches, then stood up.

On December 2, as soon as Manuel Miranda arrived home on his weekend pass, his third wife, Angela, handed him a letter postmarked Montclair, New Jersey. The sender was N. Pérez, and Mr. or Mrs. Pérez’s address was given as 355 Main Street, Waldwick, New Jersey. In the bathroom, the ex-general memorized a phone number, tore up the letter and the envelope, then flushed them. Angela was a model of discretion and didn’t ask what had been in the letter. She had been interrogated by Pena and Trujillo immediately after the double murder occurred and knew about Elena’s disappearance, but her attempts at sharing her husband’s grief and to learn more had been received with an affectionate yet firm refusal.

On December 31, Manuel Miranda stood among hundreds of shoppers waiting for the mall known to
habaneros
as Charlie III, on Avenue Salvador Allende, to open. Forming a semicircle, the crowd listened to a blind stand-up comedian telling jokes. Every minute or so an eruption of laughter drowned out the roar of traffic speeding along the eight-lane avenue. The temperature was around 18°C, but humidity and the wind factor made it feel like 10°C, freezing by Havana standards, and people were glad to put on the winter clothing they almost never got to wear. The overcast sky was a welcome break from the year-long blinding sunshine.

The comedian was white, short, in his late thirties or early forties. He looked well-cared for: plump, with close-cropped hair and a clean-shaven face. He wore a spotless grey bomber jacket over a white T-shirt, high-waisted grey khaki trousers, and gripped a white wooden cane in his left hand. He didn’t use the dark glasses that most blind people put on and kept his blue eyes wide open, staring into nothingness. Cynical bystanders wondered whether he actually suffered from impaired vision and deserved their compassion; he could be just a very good actor conning people out of some money. Miranda was reminded of another blind man, another cane, but couldn’t form a mental image of the unknown guy who was, supposedly, responsible for the death of three men. Was he real or had Marina invented him? If real, was he truly sightless or had he perfected an act that made it possible to manipulate others? He’d never know.

Miranda glanced at his watch: 9:48. The comedian was bringing to a close a performance that he delivered seven days a week, fifty-two weeks a year. The mall opened at 10:00 and he saved his best jests till 9:55, before wishing everybody a nice day. The blind man didn’t ask for contributions. He just stood there with a big smile, right hand extended.

That morning, as every other morning, people started giving him coins, some notes too, wishing him a happy new year. He kept shouting, “Thank you, thank you, thank you,” at the top of his voice. Benefiting from the magnanimous mood typical of New Year’s Eve, the comedian had pocketed three handfuls of money by the time Miranda gave him a one-peso coin.

The doors opened at 10:00 a.m. sharp. Younger shoppers shoved each other to get in, older people fell back. The mall was
packed by the time Miranda strolled in just after ten; it would have been extremely difficult to tail somebody in this crowd. He spent an hour window-shopping, going in and out of stores, admiring beautiful young women, wondering where people get so many dollars, and concluding that the Cuban diaspora sends tons of money home. The irony of it made him smile. Remittances from the reviled counter-revolutionaries, traitors and worms, the consummate consumerists seduced by capitalism, had become one of the most, if not
the
most, important revenue source for a government that preached the abolition of capitalism.

He stopped by a window to glance at some ridiculous sports clothing and suddenly turned and took the stairs down, two at a time. On the second floor, at a phone-company stand, Miranda bought a twenty-dollar card – at two dollars a minute, enough for a ten-minute call to anywhere in the United States. He walked over to where three phone booths were, five metres from the stand. All were occupied and four people stood waiting in line. That August morning, in the highly charged atmosphere of his daughter’s apartment, he had forgotten that the number of long-distance calls sky-rocket on holidays. His intention had been to provide an easy-to-remember date for Elena. He’d just have to wait his turn.

It was 11:19 when he closed the booth door, inserted the card, tapped out a number. There were a few clicks before a public phone rang in the lobby of the Pickwick Arms hotel, on 230 East 51st Street, Manhattan, New York.

“Oigo,” said an eager female voice in Spanish.

Miranda smiled. Just one word and he recognized her voice. “How are you, daughter?”

“Daddy!”

Miranda felt tears surfacing, his throat contracting. “Happy New Year,” he managed to say. Then shook his head, angry at himself. What was the matter with him? Becoming a softie?

“Oh, Daddy. Happy New Year to you too. How are you? How’s Mom?”

“I’m fine. But tell me, what the hell happened? Where are you? Your mother is worried sick, and so am I.”

“Well, what happened was that Marina – the friend of mine you met – offered me the opportunity to leave Cuba safely …” She was reading from a note. “And, to tell you the truth, Dad, I was sick and tired of the system. I knew you and Mom wouldn’t approve, so I decided not to tell you. I’m sorry. It was difficult for me, that last morning we spent together. Will you please forgive me?”

“Yes, I do. But you could’ve told me. I wouldn’t have stopped you.”

“Oh, Dad.”

“You know what happened in your apartment?”

“No. What happened?”

“Two dead tourists were found in the servant’s bedroom.”

“You’re kidding!”

Thinking she sounded too flippant, Miranda began a five-minute summary of what had happened after they parted. Elena didn’t interrupt once, didn’t even gasp. He hoped he was just being paranoid and the call wasn’t being recorded. “The police interviewed me on five occasions trying to find out if I knew something. Can you imagine? I suppose they’re finally persuaded I had nothing to do with it, but they would love to ask you how these men got into your place and what happened there. The police say one of them posed as Marina’s husband.”

“That’s ridiculous. Marina’s never been married.”

“It’s what the police said. You have any idea how these guys could get into the apartment?”

“You know I don’t. We left together. Nobody was in the apartment. I had never given the key to anyone. I can’t imagine how those guys managed to get in. Who killed them?”

Too unconcerned, too cool, Miranda was thinking. “The police don’t know, or if they do they’re not telling. Maybe it’s best if you don’t come to visit in the next few years, honey, or they’ll interrogate you.”

“Well, I’ve got nothing to hide. But I guess you’re right. I mean, after emigrating illegally and all that.”

“Right.” Miranda glanced at the phone’s LED display. He still had $4.80 to spend, a little over two minutes. “Tell me, how are you doing?” he demanded.

“Couldn’t be better, Dad. I found a job at a chic Manhattan jewellery store. A very nice place. The money is much more than I envisioned, and the owner says I can expect a raise if I keep working so hard.”

“Well. That’s great news.” He felt a wave of joy roll over him.

“Yes, it is. I’ll send you a little money.”

“There’s no need. Send it to your mother.”

“I’ll send money to both of you. How is Mom?”

“Worried, extremely worried. Listen, I’ll give her a call in a little while, to break the good news gently to her, then you try to call her this afternoon, or in the evening.”

“Okay, I’ll try. Tell her that if I don’t, it’s because the lines are busy. You know, New Year.”

“I know. How’s Marina?”

“Oh, she’s in Paris. Wanted to see the Eiffel Tower’s new lighting with her latest boyfriend, a Puerto Rican piano player.”

“So, are you going to some New Year’s Eve party?”

“Yes, with a friend. He’s blind, you know, but Dad, he’s the kindest, best-educated man I’ve ever met.”

Miranda froze. “Blind, you said?”

“Yes.”

The pause wasted forty cents. Elena waited patiently, a smile on her face. “Well, it seems as if you have this vocation for caring for the physically impaired,” her father said.

“He’s Cuban, Dad,” she added.

“Cuban?”

“Yes.”

The next pause wiped out sixty cents as Miranda made the right deduction.

“Elena, don’t trust anyone. You hear what I’m saying?”

“I hear you, Dad. Don’t fret. I’m as safe as can be.”

“Elena, listen up. Don’t trust anyone. Not this blind Cuban, not anyone.”

“Hey, wait a minute. I’m telling you. Carlos is the sweetest –”

“You don’t know, you hear me? You don’t know. Only seconds remain on this card, Elena.”

“I love you, Daddy,” her voice cracking.

“I love you, too. Be careful, don’t trust anyone. Let me know when I can –”

The connection broke before Miranda and Elena could agree on a date, time, and phone number for the next call. He replaced the receiver, removed the card, opened the door. He couldn’t believe it. Dating the son of an embezzler responsible for the murder of her brother. And he couldn’t warn her over the phone. In a daze, he shuffled down the ramp to the main entrance. The blind comedian was nowhere to be seen.

Of course, she would have met him when the diamonds were split. But why the hell was she dating the sonofabitch? How could he let her know that the man he’d had the pleasure of killing was her brother’s murderer? That he might’ve been following orders given by the blind man she was dating? The kindest, best-educated, sweetest bastard she would ever meet. Well, it was out of his hands. He couldn’t do a fucking thing for his daughter. His New Year’s Eve was totally ruined.

In complete silence, Elena Miranda and Carlos Consuegra were sipping glasses of red wine in the snack bar of the Pickwick Arms hotel. They had chosen a table for two and she was hunched over it, holding her arms, looking through the floor-to-ceiling window as pedestrians in heavy clothing hurried along the sidewalk, her mind picturing her father someplace in Havana. Carlos sat straight as a ramrod. Since his teenage years he had wondered why the majority of blind people lean forward, their heads slightly bowed as if in prayer. When he became one of them, he had made a point of joining the minority.