Havana Best Friends

situations included anything from aggravated battery to homicide.

Had Pablo Miranda been an underachiever? A kid spoiled by a powerful father who felt relegated after his well-connected daddy lost all his privileges? The tiny bell pealed again. Manuel Miranda. Trujillo tried to recall who the man had been. Certainly one of the few who years earlier held all the cards and wrote all the rules, considering where he was serving time. A former polit-buro member or general or minister, for sure. A sacred cow, even in jail. Early the following morning he would have to find out whose duty it was to call the General Directorate of Prisons, report the murder of an inmate’s son, and ask to notify the father. They would probably let him come to the wake, a few hours before burial time, with two escorts, no handcuffs, maybe wearing civilian clothes.

Suddenly, Trujillo sat up in bed. His wife stirred by his side. A politically motivated crime? Someone who had been screwed by the father and killed the son for revenge? Slowly, Trujillo lay back. Too far-fetched. No precedent as far as he knew. No, it couldn’t be. He yawned. It was the kind of case that wins kudos, back-slapping, and an instantaneous promotion for the officer who solves it. And to a lesser extent, the ill will of his equals. He decided that he would take a stab at it. But there was a lot of spadework to do.

As Captain Trujillo drifted off to sleep, Pablo’s killer was boarding a plane bound for Cancún, México.

‘If they’re all dirty movies, you’ve hit a fucking mine,’ was Major Pena’s exclamation when he learned, at 7.15 the next morning, that Captain Trujillo had deposited forty-three suspected pornographic videos in the storeroom. Trujillo explained his findings and what he had inferred before outlining his theories. The major was fifty-six, grey-haired, overweight, and most of the time had the frigid, uninterested gaze shared by those who pride themselves on their realism and who no longer believe in the theory of inherent human kindness. But he was respected and secretly admired by superiors and subordinates alike.

‘Tell me the receipt number.’ Major Pena beckoned Trujillo over with his right hand and left his uncomfortable wooden chair. ‘I want to start seeing them right now.’

‘You dirty old man,’ Captain Trujillo said as he dipped two fingers into the back pocket of his pants and drew out his wallet. He produced a pink slip and read out the number, 977.

‘Got it. See you later.’

‘Hold your horses,’ Trujillo cautioned as he returned the wallet to its pocket. ‘The victim’s name is Pablo Miranda, and his father, Manuel Miranda, is serving a prison sent—’

‘The father’s Manuel Miranda?’ the major cut in, eyes rounded in surprise, bushy eyebrows lifted.

Trujillo had never before seen Pena flabbergasted. In fact, the major bragged that nothing surprised him any more. Pena did a second extraordinary thing. He plopped on to his chair and stared vacantly at a wall. To top it all he said, ‘Oh my God.’

The captain arched an eyebrow and kept his smile in check. Before communist Europe went up in smoke, for Party members – state security and senior police officers in particular – religious terminology just didn’t exist. Then, all of a sudden pro-government believers were invited to join a political organization which denied the existence of God; cynics had a field day. Trujillo and Pena, in common with many Cubans, were not religious. But now they used expressions like ‘Praised be the Lord’ to mock the leadership’s sudden turnabout.

‘So you know the guy. C’mon, out with it. C’mon, Chief, c’mon. I have to be at the IML at eight.’

Pena snapped out of his reverie and lit a cigarette. ‘The stories I’ve heard about this guy…it’s like one of those incredible Hollywood movies. Only it’s no movie. The guy’s fucking crazy. I mean, no man in his right mind would do the things this guy is presumed to have done.’

‘Done where?’

‘Everywhere. You name a place where Cubans went into battle from – let me see…’58 to…what, ‘81? –he was there. A brigadier general calling names to the enemy from front-line trenches, letting them have it with all he’d got. Short guy, not an ounce over 130 pounds. Can you believe it? At the last count he had been wounded six or seven times, I don’t know exactly. The man is a born fighter.’

‘So, why is he at Tinguaro?’

Pena told the story in a sad tone. As it unfolded, the captain felt a certain amount of sympathy for the ex-general. In the last two years Trujillo had seen his suspicions that his own wife was cheating on him grow. There had been too many blanks in her explanations about why she was late, an ever increasing sexual indifference, frequent disagreements. Would he do what Miranda had done? No way. No woman was worth a day in prison. It was a problem he had postponed for too long; he would have to tackle it soon.

‘Well, you think you could call Prisons and explain things to them?’

‘Right away.’

‘I’m going to meet Miranda’s daughter at the IML in a little while. Once she IDs her brother we should let Prisons know where the wake is taking place so Miranda can attend.’

‘No problem. Even counter-revolutionaries are permitted to attend the wake of a close relative.’

‘Counters too? That a fact?’

‘You bet.’

‘That’s decent. See you in a while.’

‘Wait. You said the victim had shit on him?’

‘Four fixes.’

‘No chance the guy OD’d before he was killed?’

‘Barbara didn’t mention that.’

‘Oh, it’s Bárbara now,’ quipped the beaming major.

‘Quit busting my balls, Chief.’

‘Okay. Take it easy.’ Pena held up his hands, successfully fighting off a laugh. ‘Everybody knows you have a weakness for the Chocolate Queen.’

‘I’m getting outta here.’

‘When the LCC sends its report, let me know if it’s good or bad.’

‘Good or bad what?’

‘The shit, man, the shit. Go see her, go, go.’

The captain strolled leisurely along Boyeros, his diary under his left arm. The twelve-lane avenue was congested with heavy traffic in both directions, a fact which never ceased to amaze him. In a country where most people made less than twenty-five dollars a month and the cheapest gas cost three dollars a gallon, thousands of ancient, privately owned American gas-guzzlers congest the streets, the majority financed by unmentionable sources. He lifted his gaze to the sky. The cloudy, strangely cool morning made him feel certain it had rained heavily to the south of the city the night before.

Trujillo covered the nine blocks to the IML in twelve minutes. He sat on a granite bench in the foyer, then lit his second cigarette of the day. The captain felt clean and fresh in the uniform laundered and impeccably ironed by his mother. He had shaved carefully too. Just in case he bumped into Barbara (who had been curious enough to check up on him and find out he was married), and to lessen the impression of untidiness that Elena Miranda must have formed of him the night before, assuming she had registered such details when confronted with the news of her brother’s murder.

Elena arrived at 8.19 looking sad, exhausted, and frustrated by a ride in a jam-packed bus. Her face was sucked-in, with dark crescents under her eyes. The aftershock, Trujillo realized, then registered approvingly her beige blouse, black mid-calf skirt, black pumps, black purse. At wakes and burials he had seen weeping young women wearing Lycra shorts and boob-tubes. And he recalled a recent TV documentary on the remarkable mausoleums of the Colón Cemetery which had been presented by a curvaceous hostess wearing a see-through white dress and minuscule black underwear. Maybe the producer was trying to resurrect the dead, the captain’s father had wryly commented from his rocking chair.

‘Good morning,’ said Trujillo, getting to his feet, extending his hand, and dropping the ‘comrade’. He thought once again how inappropriate formal greetings can be on certain occasions.

‘Good morning.’

‘This way, please.’

At the desk they learned that Dr Valverde was off duty. An assistant led them to the cold room and Elena identified Pablo, then retched repeatedly and vomited nothing. Trujillo steered her back to the main entrance, his arm protectively around her shoulders, then made her sit on a bench. He lit up, inhaled, and blew out smoke.

‘We are notifying the General Directorate of Prisons, they will inform your father.’

Elena assented as she dabbed at her lips with a tiny handkerchief.

‘If he wants to attend the wake, they’ll probably give him a pass. A guard might accompany him.’

‘A guard?’

‘I believe it’s standard procedure.’

‘I see.’

‘The body will be sent to the funeral home on 70th and 29B before noon. They’ll make all the funeral arrangements. Did you call your mother?’

Elena sobbed, then repressed her desire to cry. ‘Yes, I did. Early this morning. She’s coming as soon as she can.’

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