The information he then found confirmed the police silence initiated in 1954, indicating that Lotus Flower must have made a qualitative leap around the time enabling her to immunize herself against – at least visible – harassment, that was the fate of defenceless street walkers who were always at the mercy of pimps and police alike. To make that leap, coveted by the hundreds of whores swarming through the streets of fifties Havana, she’d have needed a special boost, more so – according to Silvano Quintero – if the business she would soon head dealt in exclusive escorts and not bog-standard brothels in the barrios of Pajarito and Colón. And that kind of trade, in the Cuba of the time, usually had one visible face, the famous Madame known as Marina, who lorded it over twenty whorehouses, and an owner concealed in the shadows of his new respectability: the Jewish Meyer Lansky.
Driven by a hunch, Conde asked the sergeant to track down the file on Alcides Montes de Oca, and wasn’t too surprised by the negative response he received: nobody with that name appeared on the police books. He wondered if it might be useful to check the Lansky dossier, but decided it would be a wasted effort, because the Jew didn’t appear in Cuba as the legal owner of very many concerns, which he put in the care of his Cuban acolytes or rogues recently imported from the United States, where they were no longer smiled upon.
They telephoned the Office for the Registration of Addresses and requested the names of the occupants of the house at Apodaca 195, and the reply couldn’t have been more finaclass="underline" the building had collapsed during a storm in 1971, and its occupants moved to temporary accommodation. But nobody by the name of Elsa Contreras Villafaña figured on the list of those who received compensation as a result of the demolition. His curiosity aroused, Estévañez, called the identification department at the Central Office for Identity Cards and Population Registration, and requested information on the woman. They gave her permanent address as being Apodaca, 195, flat 6, according to data obtained in 1972.
Conde smiled at the shocked expression on the face of Sergeant Estévañez who couldn’t explain how Elsa Contreras had managed to perpetrate such a blatant deception. How could she have fooled the police and Registry for Addresses and Consumers, who constantly collaborated in respect of deaths, house-moves or any other physical shift made by the island’s eleven million Cuban residents easily monitored by the beds they slept in and the food they received? For the Count this gave the mystery a more disturbing dimension: why had she done it?
“We must find out if she is dead first of all,” said the Count. “Have you any men available to check cemetery records?”
“Every single cemetery?” asked the terrified sergeant.
‘At least those in Havana. Two men could sort that in a day.’
“Let me see what I can do,” agreed Estévañez, “but I still don’t see how one thing relates to the other.”
“Nor do I, but there may be a connection with the Catalina who was known as Violeta del Rio, and she’s the person I’m really interested in… And what did you find out about this mysterious black guy?” the Count now enquired. Estévanez shook his head: “I can’t say…”
“Hey, it’s not that important. I only wanted to know whether you’d identified him.”
The sergeant grumbled, too loudly.
“The prints found in the library aren’t on file.”
“And what did the autopsy reveal about Dionisio Ferrero?”
“He was killed around 1 a.m. There are no other signs of violence, nothing on his nails, so he was caught by surprise and killed by a single blow.”
“And what about the books missing from that last bookcase?”
“They walked the same day as they killed Dionisio. The only other thing we know is that Amalia can’t find the knife that Dionisio used in the garden. We think that may be the murder weapon…”
“Too many mysteries all told,” whispered the Count. “It’s like it’s a put-up job.”
“Just what Captain Palacios says. He thinks it was all set up by someone who knows only too well how to make life difficult for detectives.”
Conde smiled, imagining what Manolo might be imagining.
“When you see your captain, remind him on my behalf that what’s most hidden is always visible. And also tell him from me not to be such an asshole. If he starts hiding things from me, you can bet he’s only making it harder for himself to get to the bottom of this heap of shit.”
The Count tired of banging on Juan the African’s door and quickly concluded he’d scarpered from callejón Alambique with net earnings of thirteen hundred pesos and a sarcastic smile of satisfaction on his yellowy teeth. The risks implicit in the situation, that sooner or later the identity of that supposed cousin of his ex would get out, must have persuaded the African that his best option was to extract money from the former policeman – revenge is sweet – placate his creditors and disappear from the barrio or hide in its deepest catacombs.
To help weigh up his options, the Count walked the shaky planks again and reached the bright light and less fetid air on the roof terrace. The African’s absence put him in a delicate situation, because it was more than likely that, before vanishing into thin air, his old informant had explained, in the appropriate quarters, how he’d acted under pressure from a policeman. If that were the case, the Count was completely exposed, in real physical danger, transformed into a pale-face in Apache territory, with all the connotations such intrusions brought. Leaning back on one of the water tanks, where the African had smoked his joint the previous evening, the Count decided the most rational option would be to leave the barrio immediately. He wouldn’t be very welcome in Michael Jordan’s beer shop or Veneno’s chop shop, and it now seemed obvious that his stroll through the barrio and chats on various street corners might have been part of the African’s plan to show him to all those who ought to register him in their mental files, in a more subtle, no less efficient way than the police grilling his former colleagues had subjected him to. If his speculations were at all on target, that venture had shut off any avenue to the possible whereabouts of the volatile Lotus Flower, and right now he couldn’t see any practical way to make a breakthrough. His investigative foray had just set him up to be blatantly doublecrossed.
“You fucking idiot…”
A cigarette on his lips, the Count smiled, laughing at himself and his incredible naivety that had included an invitation to beers and a lobster and beefsteak lunch. He gazed up at the cloudless sky and felt oppressed by the relentless midday sun: he’d been left empty-handed, devoid of hope, and even more burdened by the mysteries harassing him. He coughed, cleared his throat and spat to his right. He puffed twice on his butt and dropped it down the air vent next to him and only then recalled it was the African’s little hidey hole. Kneeling down, taking care not to burn himself on his still-glowing cigarette butt, he put his arm down the cast-iron pipe and felt in a bend a smooth surface his touch recognized as a piece of plastic. A two-finger pincer-like movement enabled him to extract a small transparent envelope containing a poorly rolled joint and a scrap of paper, where round, unsteady writing, allergic to apostrophes and commas, informed him: Her names Carmen and she lives in the tenement at Factoria 58. Leave what you owe me and lets call it a day. Fella you don’t know what you missed and I boned the mulatta on behalf of us both. Watch it.