Red Angel (12 page)

Five minutes later Martínez pulled the car to a stop in front of a small blue cinderblock house, with a matching high wall that enclosed a small courtyard.

The major let out a long breath. “We are here,” he said as he climbed out and walked to the rear of the car. Devlin heard him utter a curse as he viewed the damage to his left rear fender.

“We are here,” Pitts mimicked. His eyes roamed the darkened street, taking in a small group of black youths gathered a short distance down the street. “We’re in fucking Harlem and Señor Major’s got the only heat, which, if you ask me, he probably forgot to load.”

“Shut up, Ollie,” Devlin snapped. “In case you didn’t notice, Señor Major kept us from being roadkill back there. So cut him some slack.”

Pitts pushed open his door and heaved his bulk onto the sidewalk. “I hope that’s the only thing that gets cut around here.” He walked to the rear of the car. “Hey, Major, nice neighborhood. You got any baseball bats in the trunk.”

Martínez ignored him. He was still staring at the crumpled rear fender. Even with the lack of light, Pitts could see his face was glowing with rage.

“I’m sorry about your car,” Devlin said as he and Adrianna joined him. “It seems the colonel wants our visit postponed a little longer than he said.”

Martínez nodded. “So it would seem.” He looked up at Pitts, his eyes still angry. “And you do not have to fear our Negroes, Detective. Here in Cuba, they have no need to attack an oppressor. Here we all share misery together.”

Martínez took a bottle of rum from the Chevy’s oversized glove box and led them to a solid iron gate set in the high blue wall. He pulled a chain that rang a small bell inside. Moments later the gate was opened by a thirtyish brown-skinned man, dressed only in a pair of shorts and rubber shower sandals. He greeted Martínez in rapid Spanish, then led them into the small courtyard.

“This is Plante Firme’s son,” Martínez explained. “He asks that we be seated while he gets his father.” The major turned to Devlin and Pitts. “The
palero
speaks only Spanish
and Bantu. If you will permit me, I will translate for you. Señorita Adrianna, of course, will be able to converse with the
palero
in Spanish.”

The courtyard was small and sparsely furnished. There were four kitchen chairs arranged in a line so they faced a larger, solitary chair that sat with its back to the house. A small pen stood off in one corner, and they could see a half-grown pig snuffling about in the dirt. Martínez pointed to two cast-iron pots off to one side, one slightly larger than the other.

“These are
ngangas
being prepared for believers,” he said. “Please do not touch them.”

“They got the bones of some stiff in them?” Pitts asked.

Martínez nodded. “Among other things.”

They seated themselves in the four chairs. Devlin noticed bunches of feathers hanging from an arbor, along with bundles of sticks. The skull of what he thought was a dog sat on a small table off to his right, and, inexplicably, there were posters of American cowboys hanging on the exterior wall of the house.

A large black man came around a corner of the house and entered the courtyard. He stopped at the pen that housed the pig, picked up a bucket, and threw feed to the grunting animal. Finished, he walked slowly—majestically, Devlin thought—to where they were seated. He was naked to the waist, ballooning pants hanging from surprisingly narrow hips. From the waist up he was immense, with a wide chest, thick arms, and a protruding belly; well over six feet and easily two hundred and forty pounds. He was in his late sixties, or early seventies, but still gave off a sense of physical power. The only hair on his head was a closely cropped gray beard. He wore a necklace of green beads around his neck, and a length of rope surrounded his waist, from which hung a woven straw pouch.

Martínez leaned into Devlin and nodded toward the
pouch. “His
macuto,
” he whispered. “Inside is his
mpaca
, the horn which contains all the elements of his
nganga.
”

“Including …?” Devlin whispered.

“Yes. Inside are small parts of the dead man.”

They all stood as Plante Firme stopped in front of them. His eyes were curious, but not in any way threatening. He extended a massive hand to each of them. He was the only man Devlin had ever met with hands even larger than those of Ollie Pitts.

“Npele nganga vamo cota. Npelo nganga ndele que cota.”

“He welcomes us to speak with and to consult his
nganga
,” Martínez said.

With that, Plante Firme turned and walked to the large chair opposite. He sat, placing his massive hands on his knees. Equally large feet, with gnarled, twisted toes protruded from well-worn shower sandals. Everything about the man looked impoverished. Everything except his demeanor, Devlin thought. There was an aura of power about the man, and it was reflected in his son’s eyes as he took a subservient position behind the
palero
‘s thronelike chair.

Plante Firme uttered a stream of Spanish in a low, soft, rumbling voice.

“He says he has consulted his
nganga
before we arrive,” Martínez said. “So he can know about us.”

Plante Firme’s eyes fixed on Adrianna. He shook his head as he spoke again.
“No es amarillo. No es Oshun. Yemaya. Madre de la vida. Madre de todos los orishas. Es la dueña de las aguas y representa el mar, fuente fundamental de la vida. Le gusta casar, chapear y manejar el machete. Es indomable y astuta. Sus castigos son duros y su cólera es temible pero justiciera. Sus colores son azul y blanco.”

Adrianna turned to Devlin. “He says I’m wearing the
wrong color. That I am not a daughter of Oshun. He says I must wear blue and white for Yemaya. He explained why, and who Yemaya is.”

Plante Firme turned to Devlin, and again his voice rumbled forth.
“Oggun. Sí, Oggun.”
He continued rapidly, in what to Devlin became a jumble of words.

Martínez leaned in again. “He says you are a son of Oggun, which pleases him, because he is also Oggun’s son, and has dedicated his
nganga
to him. But he also says you are in conflict. Oggun is a warrior who fears nothing. He says you fear your own power, and wish to avoid violence. This, he says, is because you have been forced to kill, and this has caused peace to flee your heart. He says this is wrong for you, that you lose Oggun’s power by believing this way.” Martínez hesitated as Plante Firme spoke again, then quickly translated. “He also says you have a child who is very self-willed. That you must care for this child around water, which is a danger for her. He says Adrianna, a daughter of Yemaya, can help you in this.”

Devlin sat stunned as Plante Firme turned to Pitts. The
palero
‘s face hardened.

“Chango.”
The word came from his mouth in a low growl. He shook his head and turned quickly away.

Martínez fought back a smile as he turned to Pitts. “I am afraid you will receive no help here,” he said. “The
nganga
, which is dedicated to Oggun, has identified you as a true son of Chango, the great enemy of Oggun. The
nganga
would not speak of you.”

“I’m fucking crushed,” Pitts said.

Devlin stared at the voodoo priest. He turned to Martínez. “How did he know those things about me? You have a dossier on me, Martínez?”

Martínez nodded. “I know much about you, my friend. It is part of my job. But I assure you I have not shared my
knowledge. This is the first time I have met with Plante Firme. But, as I have told you, he is a great
palero.
Perhaps the greatest in all Cuba.”

Adrianna had ignored them, and was now speaking to Plante Firme in rapid Spanish. Martínez leaned in close again, his voice just above a whisper.

“The señorita is telling the
palero
about her aunt, and her need to find the Red Angel’s body so it can be buried and give peace to her family.”

Devlin heard Adrianna say the word “Abakua,” and saw Plante Firme’s body stiffen. The old witch doctor’s eyes became hard and he leaned farther forward as if preparing to leap from his thronelike chair. He began to speak, and Martínez translated again.

“Plante Firme says we must go to the cemetery where the Red Angel was to be buried, and look for earth taken from the four corners where her body was to rest. He says if Palo Monte is involved, it is the work of a
palero
he knows well, a man of great evil who has joined with the Abakua. He says if this is true, we must go to this man, for only through him will we find the bones of the dead one who was once María Méndez.”

Devlin listened to the rumble of Plante Firme’s voice. Standing beside him, the man’s son seemed to shiver uncontrollably. “What’s he saying now?” Devlin asked.

“He is warning us about the danger ahead,” Martínez said. “He says we must be cautious if parts of María Mendez’s body have already been placed in a
nganga.
We must not just try to take them back. He says we must now consult his
nganga
to see if we should abandon our efforts, or if seeking her body is the right path to follow.”

Plante Firme rose from his chair and started back toward the house. Martínez beckoned the others to follow. As they passed the pigsty, the animal began to snort and squeal. The
palero
stopped and snapped out a string of Spanish epithets, then reached down and removed one of his shower sandals and gave the pig several slaps on its snout.

Out of the corner of his eye, Devlin saw Ollie Pitts take an angry step forward, and he reached out and grabbed his arm. As brutal as Pitts could be to fellow humans, he had an inexplicable affection for dumb animals, to the point of keeping five stray cats in his three-room Manhattan apartment. Devlin’s second in command, Sharon Levy, claimed Pitts liked animals because they bit people.

“Leave it,” Devlin whispered. “We need the man’s help. And remember, this guy makes a living laying curses on people.”

Pitts started to say something, then stopped himself, and Devlin wondered if it was the threat of a voodoo curse that silenced him. He momentarily considered asking Plante Firme for some mojo that would keep Pitts under control for the remainder of his cop career.

They followed the
palero
into a small room. A cast-iron pot stood near its center, this one at least three feet in diameter, and rising from it was an aggregation of items so vast that the entire mass stood over six feet high.

“This is said to be the most powerful
nganga
in all Cuba,” Martínez whispered as they followed the
palero
‘s instructions and sat on four small stools placed before it.

Devlin couldn’t quite grasp what he was looking at. An assortment of small bones had been hung around the rim of the pot. They could be animal, or human—there was no way to be certain. Rising from within the pot and its necklace of bones was a collection of objects so eclectic it seemed overwhelming. Spears, swords, and axes mixed together with chains of various lengths and thicknesses, military medals, an old revolver, several religious crosses and medallions. There were numerous lengths of wood, and from deep within, Devlin could see the skull of what appeared to be a
goat, horns still attached. Hanging beneath the skull, just barely visible, were the skeletal remains of what could only be human fingers, each joint held together by small wires. Sitting on top of the entire mass was a cloth, black-faced doll, dressed in a brightly patterned shirt and wearing a straw hat. An unlit candle in a long metal holder stood before the
nganga
, its base surrounded by small statues and vases, an ornate, cast-iron bell, and a large wooden bowl filled with water.

Hanging on a wall next to the
nganga
was a portrait depicting in profile a white-haired black man dressed in a white shirt. Martínez leaned in close to Devlin and nodded toward the picture.

“It is a picture of Plante Firme’s teacher,” he whispered. “Before Plante Firme he was the greatest
palero
ever to have lived, a holder of great magical power. It is said that his bones are the dead one in Plante Firme’s
nganga
, and that when he dies, Plante Firme has decreed that his own bones will join those of his teacher to create the most powerful
nganga
that has ever existed.”

Using a long taper, Plante Firme ignited the candle, then took up a seven-foot stick, forked at the top into five branches, each at least a foot long. He placed a straw hat, festooned with green feathers, on his bald head, so he now resembled the cloth doll atop the
nganga.
Slowly, he lowered his bulky body onto a wide stool, wooden staff in hand, like some primitive potentate.

Martínez handed Adrianna the bottle of rum he had taken from his car. “This is an offering to Oggun, the god of the
nganga,”
he whispered.

Adrianna seemed momentarily confused, then bent forward and placed the bottle before the candle.

Plante Firme pointed to the cast-iron bell.

“You must ring the bell to awaken Oggun,” Martínez whispered.

Adrianna did so, the loud clanging sound almost deafening in the small room.

Plante Firme’s voice rumbled, low and sonorous, in a mixture of Spanish and Bantu.

“
Vamo a hacer un registro con los obis. Y creo que le oi a Planta Firme también decir parte do esto a continuacíon.
”

“He is informing us that he wishes to make a
consulta
with the coconuts,” Martínez explained. “But first he must pray to the god Eleggua, because nothing can happen unless you first ask Eleggua, who opens and closes all roads.”

The
palero
ignited a second, smaller candle, set on a white saucer before a statue of the god Eleggua, and his voice rumbled forth again.

“Omi tutu Eleggua.”
He dipped a hand into the bowl of water and sprinkled the statue.

“He gives fresh water to Eleggua,” Martínez whispered.

“Ana tutu. Tutu Alaroye.”

“In his
moyurbaciones
, his prayers, he asks for fresh relations with the dead one, if Eleggua will remove all disagreements.”