Hungry Ghosts (20 page)

39

SUNDAY, MARCH 4, 2007

When Inspector Ramirez entered the Major
Crimes Unit the next morning, Natasha Delgado was grinning. “I found Mama Loa, that
yerbera
whose address was on Antifona Conejo's ID card,” she said. “The block captain was right. Everyone in Cayo Hueyso knows her. Her last name is Adivino, but she's not in any of our records. I think maybe she made it up. She lives on the Isla del Polvo.”

“Adivino?” The word meant fortune-teller. “I thought she was supposed to be an herbalist.”

Delgado shrugged her shoulders. “The people I talked to say she's a psychic, that she can tell the future.”

“Where's Detective Espinoza?” asked Ramirez, glancing around the office. Espinoza's desk was empty.

“Out looking for women's nylons. I told him, if he finds some, to get me a pair.”

Ramirez smiled. “You want to come along and help me interview
Señora Adivino? We still need to find out why LaNeva had Antifona Conejo's identification in her purse. Maybe she knows.”

The Isla del Polvo—the Isle of Dust—was in the Marianao district. It was a kind of makeshift refugee camp. There were similar shanty­towns all over Havana, housing the thousands of migrants who streamed in from the countryside in search of jobs that didn't exist.

They built homes out of corrugated steel and bits of wood. Some looked like they were constructed by mud wasps. Thirty thousand people lived in roughly five square kilometres. But here, as in Cayo Hueso, everyone seemed to know Mama Loa. Ramirez and Delgado were directed to her shanty.

They found her sitting on a mildewed rocking chair in front of a lopsided shack on the edge of the shantytown.

Ramirez couldn't tell the old woman's age; she could have been sixty or eighty. She had long brown hair streaked with grey that wound down below her shoulders in coils. She wore a white bandana and a long red skirt. Somehow, she had managed to keep them clean.

A Taino tobacco idol with shell eyes sat on a wooden crate beside her chair, next to a metal can that held plastic flowers. Beside it rested a
guano
, a large green leaf blessed by a Catholic priest. Ramirez noticed the crucifix that hung around Mama Loa's neck. Whatever religion she believed in, thought Ramirez, she wasn't taking any chances.

“Señora Adivino?”

“Some call me that, yes.” The old woman opened her eyes slowly. They were clear, the irises and pupils as dark as her ebony skin. Her rocking chair slowly creaked back and forth. “But most call me Mama Loa.”

She spoke with a Creole accent, her
s
's soft and prolonged. She
was probably from Haiti, thought Ramirez. One of the waves of immigrants who came to Cuba in the thirties and forties.

“Señora, we're here about Antifona Conejo,” said Ramirez. “She listed your address in Cayo Hueso on her official papers.”

“I know that's why you're here. That police lady with you, I know why she's here too.” The old woman nodded her head towards Detective Delgado. “Because you think Antifona's dead.”

“We don't know that, Señora,” said Delgado. “We only know that, at the moment, we can't find her.”

“Oh, she's not dead
yet
.” The old woman sat in her chair, rocking silently, her eyes pressed shut. Finally, she nodded, resigned. “But she's going to be. Nothing you can do about it, neither. Nothing nobody can do.”

“Why do you say that?” said Delgado. “Did someone threaten her?”

The old woman shook her head. “I see the future. Just like his grandmother.” She nodded towards Ramirez. “I knew you was coming today before you got here.”

“You knew my grandmother?” said Ramirez.

The old woman smiled. “She's been dead for what, thirty years? She told me you'd come to see me someday when someone in my family goes missing. She say you be a big, tall policeman with a pretty lady. She give me this to give you. I've been keeping it all this time.”

She reached down, taking her time to find a smooth, round rock in the dirt. She handed it to him. “It's from when she made
santo
.”

“Making
santo
” was the process of converting to Santería. The initiate was bathed in water and shaved. Sacrificial blood was poured over sacred objects and stones. The stones were said to hold the
santos
, the gods, summoned during the ceremony.

Delgado rolled her eyes. The ground was dotted with almost identical stones.

Ramirez nodded slowly. Perhaps Mama Loa was crazy. But his grandmother had believed in the supernatural, a belief this old woman apparently shared. Whatever gift Mama Loa might have, though, it didn't seem to include seeing the ghost of Antifona Conejo. The dead woman stood off to the side, watching an airplane leave a clean white line in the blue sky. She looked completely bereft.

“My grandmother died when I was ten,” Ramirez explained to Delgado. He rolled the stone in his fingers. It was cool to the touch. “Are you sure you have the right person?”

The old woman smiled, her teeth flashing white. “Oh, I got the right boy all right. I see you running around the squares, playing pirate with your little brother. You got something red tied around your head. My memory, she's pretty good for ninety-one.”

Ramirez
did
remember playing with his younger brother in Old Havana. They had scrambled through the alleys around the Plaza de Armas, near the Castillo de la Real Fuerza. He wore a bright red handkerchief as a bandana, pretending to be Jacques de Sore, setting fire to the city, while his brother limped around on a pretend wooden leg as Peg Leg Leclerc. They would have murdered forty priests and thrown them in the ocean the way that Sores did—his grandmother said there were Jesuit crosses buried deep in the ocean floor—but none of the other boys felt like diving that day.

“That's very interesting, Señora,” said Delgado, “but we need to ask you some questions for our investigation.” She glanced at Ramirez, afraid she might have overstepped. He nodded, encouraging her to continue. “May I ask what your relationship is with Antifona Conejo?”

“She lives with me when she wants to get off the streets. And me, I know the pain of selling my body to feed my children, from when my own husband walked out on me. I tell her what to do. Make peace with the spirits, I say, or they be angry. Bring you bad luck.”

“She's not your daughter?” asked Ramirez.

“No. My goddaughter. I adopt her, but no papers.”

Delgado frowned. “How exactly did you tell her to make peace with the spirits, Mama Loa?”

“I tell her, you say goodbye to men, turn your soul over to your
lwa
. I say you try it; maybe it works. She say she needs the money. I tell her, you trust your
lwa
. Your
lwa
brings you what you need, not the same as what you want. When money comes too easy, you say no. Don't never sell your soul.”

“What is a
lwa
?” asked Delgado.

“Your
lwa
guides you when you get lost, helps you find your way home.”

“It's a spirit guide,” said Ramirez. “In Haitian Voudou. Did Antifona have a boyfriend, Mama Loa?”

The old woman nodded. “She say some foreign man wants to marry her, take her away. He got no children. He wants to get him some.”

“She wanted to leave Cuba?” said Ramirez, not really surprised. Most prostitutes hoped to find a foreign boyfriend. Few could afford to leave Cuba without one. It was six months' wages for an exit permit, and fifty convertible pesos—more than three months' wages—for the passport, more for the bribe.

The old woman nodded. “She say she's not going out with other men no more, only him. And I want to believe her, yes. But she looks sad when she say that. Like someone who wants to tell the truth but knows they can't.”

“Does she live with you here?” asked Delgado, motioning to the shack.

“No. Back in Cayo Hueso. The city say we got to move. No room here for either of my girls. No roof either.”

“When was the last time you saw her?” Ramirez asked.

“Maybe a week ago. She come to see me. She say, ‘Mama Loa, my heart's broke. My belly hurts, my boyfriend don't come.' I give her some pine oil and honey to make her feel better.”

“The boyfriend, what's his name?” asked Ramirez.

“I don't know. I only seen him once. He got an accent, I remember that. And lots of money.” She pointed to her neck. “You can tell by the gold chain.”

“You said ‘girls.' Do you have another daughter, or goddaughter?” asked Ramirez.

The woman nodded. “She gone now too. She got married last year, on February 14. Lovers' Day. She used to live with me in Cayo Hueso, but she's with her husband now. He's a strong boy, you know? From lifting rocks.”

40

The first time Maria Vasquez had
lived with Hector Apiro, she was fifteen and trapped in a body as foreign and uncomfortable to her as Apiro's was to him. Apiro had transformed her, and in doing so had changed her life. And now that she was back, his was changed too.

Apiro was happy for the first time that he could remember. He no longer felt like the ugly little dwarf that people stared at and whispered about. In Maria's eyes, he was a man.

And yet every day, he worried about losing her. Not to another man—it wasn't jealousy Apiro struggled with, but fear.

Maria could be arrested for prostitution and taken away to a rehabilitation camp, and even Ricardo might not be able to find out where she was. That kept Apiro on edge, as much as he tried not to think about it. And now, because of the cruel killer who hunted
jineteras
and strangled them to death in the woods, he worried even more.

Maria sat in Apiro's cramped office in the medical tower, sipping
a cup of his freshly brewed coffee. Apiro had decided to tell her about the murders. He didn't wish to frighten her, but she needed to know so she could protect herself, take precautions.

“I have something I need to tell you, Maria, and I'm afraid I'm not quite sure where to start.”

“You're not breaking up with me, are you?” she said, furrowing her smooth brow.

“No, of course not,” Apiro said. “Never be afraid of that.” He reached for her hand and held it tightly as he told her about the murders. “He seems to be targeting
jineteras
.”

“My God.” Maria gasped. She pulled her hand away and crossed herself. “Killing my sisters? But why?” Tears welled in her eyes.

“I don't know,” said Apiro. “There is no accounting for evil.” He reached into one of his pockets and handed her a clean handkerchief.

She accepted it and dabbed at her eyes. “The two girls that died, what are their names? Oh, my God, I hope I didn't know them.”

“Prima Verrier was the first victim, a year ago. Ricardo is reasonably sure that the second victim was named LaNeva Otero. Once I can get her health records, I can confirm if this is so. There's a third woman he can't find. Antifona Conejo. Her histological card was in LaNeva's purse when her body was found, but Antifona seems to have vanished.”

Maria widened her eyes. “But I saw Antifona a week ago. She was excited. She said she was leaving the country. She was involved with an
extranjero
she'd met online. He came to Havana once before to meet her in person, and he was returning on business. She was sure they were going to get married. He told her he wanted to have a family. Maybe she went somewhere with him?”

Apiro felt enormously relieved that one potential victim might have been accounted for. “Perhaps. I'll let Ricardo know. Did you know either of the other girls?”

Maria shook her head. “Prima Verrier, no. But LaNeva, I often saw her. She worked on the Malecón at night. Sometimes I saw her
walking to the highway to hitchhike. If we had time, we always chatted. I can't believe that she's dead.” She wiped her eyes again, streaking mascara across her lovely face.

“Did she ever mention receiving gifts from a client?” asked Apiro. “Perhaps nylons? Stockings seem to be this killer's trademark.”

“No,” said Maria. “But we're given such things all the time. I have a Canadian friend who gave me condoms yesterday. Good ones too.” She pointed to her tote bag resting on the floor. “A woman,” she smiled. She and Hector never talked about her clients, but she knew he worried for her safety. “The girls don't often talk about the things they receive; it can be embarrassing. After all, most of them would go out with a man for a bottle of aspirin or nail polish. The younger ones—boys and girls—are even worse. They'll settle for a few cigarettes or a bottle of pop.”

She paused for a moment. “There is one girl who mentioned something to me about nylons recently, though. Nevara. The last time I saw her, she told me a client promised to bring her some the next time he comes here. She told him not to worry about it; it's too hot to wear them anyway. I remember it because she said it was just like a man to think she wanted stockings when what she really would have liked was a steak.”

“What is her last name?”

“I'm sorry, Hector. I don't know.”

“Well, she needs to be careful,” said Apiro. “Her client could be extremely dangerous. Do you think she would be willing to talk to Ricardo about him?”

“I doubt it,” said Maria, shaking her head. “Forget the sex, she could be sent to a rehabilitation camp just for admitting she talked to a foreigner. And they don't give them new clothes when they go to those camps, not even overalls. They have to go into the barns with whatever they have on when they are arrested. It's horrible.” She shuddered.

Apiro thought for a moment. Maria had a point. In such
circumstances, none of the
jineteras
were likely to be forthcoming to the police. They would consider the police a far greater threat than any client.

“Maybe you can ask her more about him when you see her? Any information she could provide would be extremely helpful.”

“Yes, of course,” Maria nodded. “I'll do whatever I can.” She wiped her eyes again before folding the handkerchief neatly and handing it back to him.

Apiro smiled. “I appreciate it, Maria. Ricardo needs to narrow down the search before more women are killed.”

He thought for a minute. Part of his inability to help Ricardo was that he had so little knowledge of Maria's world. In part, his ignorance was deliberate. But he could hardly protect Maria if he knew nothing about her business. He took a deep breath. “Forgive me for asking, Maria, but how do these girls meet their clients?”

“Since the crackdown? Mostly online. Some hitchhike, but it's dangerous. It's too easy for the police to spot them on the Malecón or the Autopista. The ones who do that are younger, more desperate for money. They take chances. LaNeva is one of those.” Another tear rolled down her face. “Or was. We call girls like that
chupa-chupas
.”

“Lollipops?” said Apiro, raising his bushy eyebrows.

“Oh, Hector. I keep forgetting how new all this is to you. It's slang for someone who provides oral sex.”