Hungry Ghosts Page 4

  “God willing. And of course, the trains. Here, Estella wants to say hello. I’ll go get Edel; he’s outside with his grandfather playing catch. I let the children stay up late; we were hoping you’d call.”

  “Papi,” his little girl said moments later. “I miss you. Grandpa scares me a little. He keeps pinching my face and laughing.”

  Ramirez smiled broadly, careful not to laugh. “I miss you too, sweetheart.”

  “When can we come home?”

  8

  After a lengthy search for a bed suitable for a tall woman and a short man, Maria Vasquez had finally moved into Hector Apiro’s apartment. They quickly eased into old routines: Apiro did the cooking, Maria cleaned.

  Unlike in other Cuban homes, the green-tinged black-and-white television was rarely on. Instead, most evenings, before Maria went out to meet clients, Apiro retaught her chess moves she’d almost forgotten in the nine years that had passed since she’d lived with him during her treatment.

  Sometimes they read to each other from Russian literature, so that Apiro could tutor Maria in the language he’d learned in Moscow and still loved. But after they shared their precious time together, Maria always went off to work, and Apiro tried not to think too much about what she was doing or who she was with. “I’ve discovered that sex relieves tension,” Apiro told Ramirez after Maria moved in. “But love causes it.”

  “Now look at this,” Apiro said to Maria, placing the worn chess pieces on the board carefully. “Although it’s more often used as a defence, the King’s Indian can also be an attack.”

  Apiro arranged the pieces until he was satisfied. “The Sämisch variation involves players attacking each other’s kings,” he explained. “What do you think?”

  Maria wrinkled her forehead as she concentrated on the sequence. “It’s hard to imagine that you can defeat your opponent with only a pawn, and without even a rook, until you see it.”

  “Rooks are powerful, but so are pawns,” Apiro smiled. “You know, a rook means a crow in English. That’s the only bird I know of that has learned how to use tools. Imagine!”

  After that evening’s chess lesson, Maria brought out a surprise. It was a chunk of dark chocolate and a bowl of thick cream she had whipped into peaks and tucked into the small refrigerator before Apiro got home.

  “Maria, this is incredible,” Apiro exclaimed. He hadn’t tasted chocolate in years. It was as uncommon in Havana as a cell phone, a thing so rare that Cubans had nicknamed them “chocolates.” There was no chocolate to be found on the black market, but even if there had been, he couldn’t afford it on his monthly salary of twenty pesos.

  And as for milk, except for the frozen cones at the Coppolia and other kioskos, it was nearly impossible to find any. Only very young children and the elderly were entitled to a few ounces in their monthly rations.

  Apiro pushed away any thought of how Maria had acquired the money to purchase these delicacies. He was all too aware that, if not for Maria’s earnings, they wouldn’t have been able to afford the used queen-size bed that had replaced Apiro’s small one.

  “Please, Maria, sit. I’ll get the bowls and the cutlery.”

  Apiro began to get up, but she pushed him back on the sofa. Her eyes sparkled with mischief. “You misunderstand how we will eat this, Hector,” Maria grinned. “No bowls. No spoons. Trust me, after this, you will never want dessert any other way.”

  He looked at her, confused. As she unbuttoned his shirt, he was still trying to imagine what she meant. It wasn’t long, however, before he figured it out.

  Later on, the metal tub in the bathroom turned out to be just big enough for two people to wash each other off. Or perhaps one and a half, given his size and the contortions required.

  While they snuggled in bed, Apiro told Maria about the vandalism at the museum. “Ricardo says there are political slogans popping up on buildings throughout the city. I have to say, Maria, that I’ve never really paid much attention to such things.”

  “No, you wouldn’t,” said Maria fondly. Apiro usually kept his eyes on the ground when he walked, alert for obstacles that a normal-size person might not notice, like high curbs and steep steps. She stroked his damp hair. “I’ve seen them too. But it’s festival week; there are raperos everywhere. And he’s right; there’s a lot more graffiti.”

  Apiro turned his head to look at her. He marvelled at her face, at how well she’d healed after the surgery. “Are raperos involved with graffiti?”

  “Rap and graffiti are part of the same culture, Hector,” said Maria. “And ‘bombing’ is what graffiti artists call it when they go out tagging.”

  “Tagging?” Apiro suddenly felt old and out of touch.

  “That’s what they call the signatures they leave behind on walls and underpasses. Maybe the image the vandal left on the wall at the museum was his tag.”

  Apiro nodded thoughtfully. He didn’t really understand rap music. He loved classical music and the opera—the original basis of his friendship with Ramirez.

  The two men had been seated next to each other a decade before in the Gran Teatro during an afternoon performance of Meyerbeer’s L’Africaine. Although strangers, they chatted at the end of the opera about whether Selika could really commit suicide by lying under a manzanilla tree and breathing in the toxic perfume of its leaves as she sang her operatic farewell.

  “Highly unlikely,” Apiro scoffed. “She might get blisters from the sap, but only if it was raining. I wouldn’t recommend eating the fruit, but I doubt very much that someone could die simply by inhaling near it.”

  “I always thought it was the failure to inhale that caused death,” said Ramirez. “With the possible exception of tobacco.”

  Apiro laughed like a creaky door. “Have you heard? Castro has quit smoking. He’s decided that tobacco is a poison. One can’t blame him, really, after all the times his Montecristos were poisoned by the CIA. And yet he signed hundreds of humidors full of cigars to sell at the Habanos festival this week.”

  Every year, Castro autographed humidors filled with cigars for sale at a fundraising auction attended by foreigners with deep pockets.

  Ramirez smiled. “I’ve heard that he’s hoping our enemies will bid on them.”

  Apiro roared with laughter. “He’s said the proceeds will go to cancer research. Perhaps that will be our next major industry.” The smile left his face. “These days, with the lack of supplies, we can only research the disease, but not treat it. And now we’re running short of medical specialists too. Castro has exported thousands of doctors all over the world in exchange for oil.” He lowered his voice. “He won’t let them take their children with them, though. To make sure they’ll come back.”

  “You’re a physician?”

  “A plastic surgeon. I was trained to deal primarily with those who are deformed because of congenital defect or injury. I did my post-doctoral studies in Russia. El Comandante asked me to cut my studies short, to help develop a tourist industry in cosmetic surgery.”

  “You know Fidel Castro personally?”

  Apiro smiled. “We’ve met a few times, yes.”

  It was only when the two stood up to shake hands and say goodbye that Ramirez realized his seatmate was a dwarf. But after that, the only size that mattered was heart, and Apiro had a big one.

  Apiro turned his head to look at Maria. From what Ramirez had said, the vandalism was well thought out. But then, with so much security in the museum, it had to be. “What I don’t understand is how a political protest can be effective if no one sees it.”

  “But people did see it, Hector,” said Maria. “Museum officials, the police, the Italian curator and his staff, the firemen who went to the scene. And of course, the vandal himself. Word will get around quickly.”

  “Poor Ricardo. It’s the last thing he needs right now. He’s under a lot of pressure at work.”

&nbs
p; Apiro hadn’t told Maria that with his help Ramirez had blackmailed the Minister of the Interior in order to get charges laid against a priest for child abuse without political interference. From the moment Apiro and Ramirez had hatched the plot, Apiro was afraid the minister would retaliate against his friend. He hoped nothing would happen, but he could see how Ramirez’s stress levels had gone up.

  “I think he may be having problems at home as well,” Apiro said. “Francesca packed up the children and left for a week without any warning. He says Edel has some kind of baseball tournament, but I know it caught him off-guard.”

  “Is there anything you can do to help?”

  “I’ve thought about suggesting he talk to someone, perhaps a family counsellor, but I don’t really know how to approach it.”

  Maria nodded thoughtfully. “I’ve only met him that one time,” she said. “In your office. But I thought he seemed preoccupied. He kept looking behind me as if there was someone else in the room. He seemed almost haunted.”

  9

  FRIDAY, MARCH 2, 2007

  Inspector Ramirez opened his eyes slowly, letting his eyes adjust to the darkness. The phone rang again. Groaning at how much añejo he’d consumed, Ramirez kicked off the worn sheet and crawled out of bed. As he passed by the tiny bathroom, he reached for a thin towel and wrapped it around his waist.

  After hearing the joy in his son’s voice about a baseball game he couldn’t attend, Ramirez had felt unbearably lonely. He’d tucked a bottle of rum from the exhibit room under his arm and driven his small car to la Moña, the site of the hip-hop festival.

  The festival was one of the few public venues open to ordinary habaneros. The raperos and their followers, moñeros, were mostly black. Young women swayed their bodies to the sexually suggestive lyrics, holding their arms high above their heads. Ramirez enjoyed their energy more than the music, and drank too much rum. It reminded him of what life was like when he was single. He joined in the clapping and cheering at the end of the last performance. It was exhilarating and fun, but more exhausting than he’d remembered. He’d walked back to his car reluctantly, not looking forward to sleeping alone.

  He stumbled to the kitchen to answer the insistent phone. He was careful to step around scattered children’s shoes, and in doing so almost collided with a dead woman. The ghost leaned lazily against the wall, a black scarf tied around her neck.

  Ramirez grabbed for the telephone and knocked it from its cradle. As he scrambled to pick it up, his towel fell to the ground. He retrieved the receiver and shook it gently. Luckily, nothing rattled. Relieved, he tucked the receiver between his shoulder and ear and rewrapped the faded towel tightly around his waist. A towel he could replace, but not a telephone. The dead woman’s eyes crinkled with amusement.

  “Good morning, Inspector Ramirez,” said Sophia, the night dispatcher. “I am sorry to wake you up, but there is a woman’s body.”

  “I thought there might be,” said Ramirez. His mouth was dry and full of grit. He swallowed and took a closer look at the apparition.

  She wore high heels and an extremely low-cut top. Her short white skirt was embellished with yellow flowers. One bare-skinned leg was braced against the wall. She held a cigarette loosely in her fingers.

  Ramirez tried to concentrate on the call, but it wasn’t easy. He wondered where his pants were and how long it would be before he could comfortably zip them up. He pulled the towel even more tightly around his waist.

  “Dr. Apiro is already at the crime scene,” said Sophia. “He said to tell you it looks like the Verrier murder. From last year.”

  Ramirez nodded slowly. If Apiro thought the two cases looked similar, they were undoubtedly related. A serial killer in Havana? The only serial murderers Ramirez knew of worked for the government.

  The dead woman held the cigarette to her lips and waited for him to light it. She’ll be waiting forever, he thought. It was one of the implicit rules of the spirit world, from what he’d gleaned through his experience—no physical contact. She ran her tongue around her lips, removing bits of loose tobacco that clung to her bright red lipstick.

  “Where was she found?”

  “In the woods beside the Calzada de Bejucal,” said Sophia. “Three kilometres north of the airport.”

  “I’m on my way. Get hold of Detective Espinoza, will you? Tell him I’ll pick him up in half an hour.”

  Ramirez walked around the small apartment looking for his pants. He found them hanging on the wrought iron balcony where Francesca had left them to dry. Seeing how carefully she’d arranged them made him feel ashamed of himself for looking at another woman, even a dead one. He glanced at the ghost to let her know things would go faster if he dressed alone. She shrugged and swayed languidly back to the kitchen.

  Ramirez buttoned up his shirt and snapped on his belt and shoulder holster. He unlocked the drawer to the side table that held his gun. He picked up his hat and tucked his notebook in his shirt pocket, then opened the door to the hallway.

  The dead woman swiveled her hips as she meandered down the sagging stairs. Ramirez put on his hat and straightened the brim. He followed her down towards the morning light, admiring her ass.

  10

  Keeping track of time wasn’t something Charlie Pike considered all that important. But from what he could see through the cracks in the curtains, it was still pitch black outside.

  Miles O’Malley’s Irish brogue boomed on the other end of the line. “I hope I didn’t wake you up, Charlie.”

  Pike pulled the sheets aside, shaking the dream from his head. Snarling dogs fought while a fox quietly watched. He envisaged his mishomis frowning at the bad omens. His grandfather, a trapper, had relied on signs like these to get him through winter safely. It worked pretty well, until the waters of Manomin Bay dragged him back to the Creator.

  “I’m sorry, lad,” said O’Malley, “but there’s another victim. She was dumped on an Indian reserve this time, way up in Northern Ontario. It’s created a helluva mess.”

  Pike had a pretty good idea of the kind of complications that could cause. “Let me guess. The OPP won’t go in to investigate.”

  “Ah, now, Charlie, that’s why I called you,” said O’Malley. “You understand these things, whereas they simply bedevil me. I’m told they can’t. Not without a native police officer to accompany them.”

  Most Canadian police forces introduced that policy after the 1990 Oka crisis, when a Sureté du Québec officer was shot to death at a Mohawk blockade, even though ballistics later established it was police fire that killed him.

  “The APF can escort them in.” Pike sat up, tucking the phone between his neck and ear as he reached for a rubber band on the bedside table. “It should be their lead anyway.” He pulled his long hair into a ponytail.

  In 2003, the Anishnabeg Peacekeeping Force, or APF, was created. After that, the Ontario Provincial Police wouldn’t enter any First Nation reserve covered by the APF funding agreement unless an APF member was with them. They were afraid of another Oka crisis, thought Pike. The First Nations wouldn’t let the OPP in their territories without one either, but that was because they were afraid of the police.

  “Normally, yes,” O’Malley said. He sounded exasperated. “But the funding agreement expired last Friday. And now the province and the feds are fighting over who’s going to pay the tab. Until they sort it out, the APF can’t do anything.”

  Pike wasn’t surprised at the political paralysis. The two levels of government—federal and provincial—always pointed fingers at each other when it came to Aboriginal peoples. Whatever the obligation, each said the other government was responsible for it. Ontario probably wanted Canada to pay up because Indians and lands reserved for them fell under federal jurisdiction. Canada would want Ontario to foot the bill because policing was supposed to be provincial.

  Until things were worked out, no police offic
er from any federal or provincial force would enter the reserve. The government lawyers would claim that if they did, they’d be admitting liability.

  “The horsemen are staying out of it,” O’Malley confirmed, referring to the Royal Canadian Mounted Police. “But the feds and Ontario are at the negotiating table. They hope to get this settled quickly.”

  Pike snorted. “With their track record on land claims, I guess they might be able to resolve a simple funding dispute. In a couple of decades.”

  O’Malley chuckled. “Well, Charlie, the long and the short of it is that we’ve been asked to step in for a few days to help out. Since we’re a regional police force, they’re hoping that will get around the political sensitivities. I want you to go up there and handle things. Adam Neville is on his way from Winnipeg.”

  “You said the body was found up north? Whereabouts?”

  “Not far from the blockade.”

  Pike shifted uneasily. The only blockade he knew about in Northern Ontario was at the pulp mill near Manomin Bay. “That’s a long way outside our jurisdiction.”

  “I know that, Charlie. But the minister thinks it could be hard to explain to the voting public why he can have dozens of OPP officers standing by twenty minutes from a crime scene without sending a single one of them onto an Indian reserve to investigate a woman’s death.”

  “How is the First Nation going to feel about an outsider coming in?”

  “Well, that’s the thing, Charlie. You won’t be an outsider. I spoke to the chief up there a few minutes ago. It’s a man named Bill Wabigoon. He says you two know each other. That should help move this along.”

  Pike wasn’t so sure. He looked at the tattoos on his knuckles and between his thumb and index finger. Billy Wabigoon had scratched them in with a pin and blue ink when they were in jail.

  11

  Celia Jones picked up the phone, keeping a wary eye on her mother. There was no door in this house an elderly woman couldn’t open, no deadbolt she couldn’t turn. It was like babysitting an adult-size toddler.