The Beggar's Opera by Peggy Blair

deal of money. But Miguel had been helpful to Ellis and his wife throughout their stay. He arranged their tour for them, cautioned them about jineteros , the street hustlers who would try to scam them, even taught them a little Spanish.
    “You are too generous, Señor Ellis. I am truly sorry about your wallet. But our police are very efficient. Do not worry, I am sure they will find it for you.”
    “Is there somewhere nearby that I can get breakfast?”
    “The Hotel Machado is quite good, Señor. Through the park, on the right-hand side.”
    Outside, a cluster of horse-drawn carts sheltered in the cool shade of the Parque Ciudad, City Park, trees. The browbeaten, blinkered horses flicked their manes in the heat, shaking their large heads back and forth. They looked as miserable as Ellis felt.
    A row of taxis lined the street. Three or four drivers called out, asking if he wanted a ride. He declined.
    The Hotel Machado was easily identified by the distinctive large blue letters on the second level that announced its name. The outdoor café faced away from the sun, fronting the park.
    Ellis ordered black coffee and gulped it down. It went down smoothly and helped to soothe his jangled nerves. He caught the waiter’s eye and ordered brown rice, eggs, and beans.
    It was getting hot out already. He watched some boys play in the park. They had a plastic bottle and kicked it around like a soccer ball. One boy wore running shoes without laces that were far too big for him. The others were barefoot.
    Despite being in Havana for a week, Ellis was still startled by the poverty.
    The taxi driver explained to them on the ride in from the airport how anxious the Cuban people were for Fidel Castro’s death, how tired they were of living in Third World conditions. Thanks to free public education, most of the service workers, even the prostitutes, had graduate degrees. Some were doctors, engineers. They wanted more from their lives than this .
    “Have you heard the joke?” the cab driver said. “A Cuban woman is happy that her new boyfriend is a taxi driver, but heartbroken when she finds out he is only a neurologist.” He laughed, hit his steering wheel with his hand. “Look at me. I have a degree in particle physics and I drive a taxi because we have no laboratories in Cuba. Nothing is simple here, believe me. Nothing.”
    “How safe is it in Havana?” Hillary asked. “Can we walk around at night?”
    “Of course, but be careful to keep your hands on your purse, Señora. There are pickpockets everywhere. But don’t worry,” the cabbie assured her. “Apart from that, this is the safest country on earth. Look at all the police. They come here to work from all over the island. We call them palestinos , because they never leave. They have the most boring job in Cuba. Believe me, they have to invent crimes just to have something to do.”
    The taxi driver was right, Ellis realized, as the waiter refilled his cup. There were young policemen with blue pants and berets on every corner, sometimes more than one. They looked like restless children carrying guns. It wasn’t reassuring.

THIRTEEN
    Inspector Ramirez and his apparition watched sadly as the small remains were loaded into the white van that carried bodies to the morgue.
    Ramirez sighed. Cases involving children were the hardest. The file would be difficult for everyone in the unit, especially those with children. Including himself. His son, Edel, was around the same age as the boy.
    Sometime later that day, Ramirez would have to explain to grieving parents that their son had died. He wanted to be able to tell them he had a suspect under arrest and en route to the firing squad. He glanced at the dead man, surprised to see him wipe away tears.
    A patrol car pulled up. Detective Rodriguez Sanchez stepped out. He looked tired; his complexion rougher than usual. He handed Ramirez the surveillance tapes he had requested. As the two men spoke, the technicians began to brush the