asked.
The man fidgeted with the pages of the register, his eyes evading the cop’s. In his eleven years in the force, Trujillo had seen this body language time and time again. Men and women who don’t want to rat on neighbours, stumped for a reply.
Then why do they accept the position?
he used to ask himself when he was a rookie. Now he knew the answer: it was for fear that declining would be taken as unwillingness to fulfill revolutionary duties, something with adverse implications.
“Well, actually I don’t know him very well, you know. He doesn’t mix much with the neighbourhood crowd. I guess he works a lot.”
“You know the kind of company he keeps? People he goes out with?”
“No. I’m afraid I can’t help you with that.”
“Does he have a car?”
“Not that I know of.”
“Goes out a lot?”
“I wouldn’t know.”
“What about his sister?”
Relief spread across the man’s face. “She’s a very nice person.”
“Different from her brother?”
“No, no, that’s not what I meant.” He looked flustered. “But she is sweet. Always polite, gentle, and beautiful too.”
Trujillo nodded and repressed a smile. Was the man attracted to the sister? Well, he had a very pretty
mulata
all for himself. What more could a man hope for? Then he remembered that human aspirations are unlimited.
“Well, Comrade Kuan, there’s something I should tell you. Pablo Miranda was found dead this morning in Guanabo.”
The news left the man speechless.
“I have to notify his sister now and conduct a search of his apartment. As you know, witnesses from the CDR must be present. I need you to come with me, please. The president too, if possible.”
The president of the CDR, Zoila Pérez – a.k.a. “Day-and-Night,” after a TV series sponsored by the Ministry of Interior – was a fifty-eight-year-old bookstore saleswoman who lived on the second floor of the dead man’s building, front apartment. Zoila had earned her sobriquet and the position of CDR president after trying to persuade neighbours that an American invasion was imminent. She never missed her citizen’s watch and was always willing to stand in for sick (or allegedly sick, or sick and tired)
cederistas
.
To Zoila, every stranger was a suspect, especially at night, and she reported enemy activity at the drop of a hat. In her wild imagination, couples necking in the Parque de la Quinta were camouflaged soldiers from the expeditionary force’s vanguard, so no less than two or three nights a week she picked up her phone and called the nearest police precinct. Desk sergeants familiar with her paranoia thanked her politely, hung up, then chuckled before bellowing to other cops in the squad room, “Hey, guys, that was Day-and-Night. Chick giving her boyfriend a handjob in thepark is a marine getting ready to open mortar fire on Day-and-Night’s apartment building.”
Now, having learned what happened to Pablo, she was wringing her hands in desperation when Trujillo pressed the buzzer of Elena Miranda’s apartment. It was the kind of news Zoila hated. A full-scale imaginary invasion she could live with; the real murder of a neighbour was too unnerving.
Nearly a minute later, Elena opened the door, wearing only a robe and flipflops. Wow, Trujillo thought. She saw the pained expression on Zoila’s face, an embarrassed Kuan, a poker-faced police officer. Bad news, she thought, and asked, “What happened?”
“Elena, this is Captain Trujillo, from the Department of Technical Investigations of the police,” Zoila said.
“What’s the problem, Captain?”
“Can we come in, Comrade Elena?” Trujillo, trying to sound casual, flashed his ID.
“Sure, excuse me, come right in. Have a seat.”
Elena eased herself on to the edge of a club chair, Trujillo sat across from her, Kuan and Zoila on the chesterfield.
“I’m afraid I have bad news for you, Comrade Elena,” Trujillo began. “Your brother, Pablo, was found dead this
The man fidgeted with the pages of the register, his eyes evading the cop’s. In his eleven years in the force, Trujillo had seen this body language time and time again. Men and women who don’t want to rat on neighbours, stumped for a reply.
Then why do they accept the position?
he used to ask himself when he was a rookie. Now he knew the answer: it was for fear that declining would be taken as unwillingness to fulfill revolutionary duties, something with adverse implications.
“Well, actually I don’t know him very well, you know. He doesn’t mix much with the neighbourhood crowd. I guess he works a lot.”
“You know the kind of company he keeps? People he goes out with?”
“No. I’m afraid I can’t help you with that.”
“Does he have a car?”
“Not that I know of.”
“Goes out a lot?”
“I wouldn’t know.”
“What about his sister?”
Relief spread across the man’s face. “She’s a very nice person.”
“Different from her brother?”
“No, no, that’s not what I meant.” He looked flustered. “But she is sweet. Always polite, gentle, and beautiful too.”
Trujillo nodded and repressed a smile. Was the man attracted to the sister? Well, he had a very pretty
mulata
all for himself. What more could a man hope for? Then he remembered that human aspirations are unlimited.
“Well, Comrade Kuan, there’s something I should tell you. Pablo Miranda was found dead this morning in Guanabo.”
The news left the man speechless.
“I have to notify his sister now and conduct a search of his apartment. As you know, witnesses from the CDR must be present. I need you to come with me, please. The president too, if possible.”
The president of the CDR, Zoila Pérez – a.k.a. “Day-and-Night,” after a TV series sponsored by the Ministry of Interior – was a fifty-eight-year-old bookstore saleswoman who lived on the second floor of the dead man’s building, front apartment. Zoila had earned her sobriquet and the position of CDR president after trying to persuade neighbours that an American invasion was imminent. She never missed her citizen’s watch and was always willing to stand in for sick (or allegedly sick, or sick and tired)
cederistas
.
To Zoila, every stranger was a suspect, especially at night, and she reported enemy activity at the drop of a hat. In her wild imagination, couples necking in the Parque de la Quinta were camouflaged soldiers from the expeditionary force’s vanguard, so no less than two or three nights a week she picked up her phone and called the nearest police precinct. Desk sergeants familiar with her paranoia thanked her politely, hung up, then chuckled before bellowing to other cops in the squad room, “Hey, guys, that was Day-and-Night. Chick giving her boyfriend a handjob in thepark is a marine getting ready to open mortar fire on Day-and-Night’s apartment building.”
Now, having learned what happened to Pablo, she was wringing her hands in desperation when Trujillo pressed the buzzer of Elena Miranda’s apartment. It was the kind of news Zoila hated. A full-scale imaginary invasion she could live with; the real murder of a neighbour was too unnerving.
Nearly a minute later, Elena opened the door, wearing only a robe and flipflops. Wow, Trujillo thought. She saw the pained expression on Zoila’s face, an embarrassed Kuan, a poker-faced police officer. Bad news, she thought, and asked, “What happened?”
“Elena, this is Captain Trujillo, from the Department of Technical Investigations of the police,” Zoila said.
“What’s the problem, Captain?”
“Can we come in, Comrade Elena?” Trujillo, trying to sound casual, flashed his ID.
“Sure, excuse me, come right in. Have a seat.”
Elena eased herself on to the edge of a club chair, Trujillo sat across from her, Kuan and Zoila on the chesterfield.
“I’m afraid I have bad news for you, Comrade Elena,” Trujillo began. “Your brother, Pablo, was found dead this
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