Cubop City Blues by Pablo Medina Read Free Book Online Page B

the floors of a soap factory at fourteen, and his uncle was so traumatized by the absence of a father that he started drinking at sixteen, and by the time he was twenty-five he was a hopeless dipsomaniac. Angel’s grandmother, Zoila, became a recluse, embittered by what Pedro had done yet unable to forget the only man who had brought any kind of happiness to her life. As she drew her last breath she called out: Pedro, ven a mí. Come to me.
    How is your grandmother? Pedro asked, looking at Angel intently.
    She’s fine, Angel lied and quickly changed the conversation. Manolito Rivas, the famous murderer. You found him?
    Yes, he said and then remained silent for some time. His eyes were frozen and unmoored. His jaw dropped open.
    If the old man dies now, Angel thought, I won’t get my story, and so he called out to him several times until he awoke.
    Did you hear the one about Mr. Pérez and Mr. Brown at a bar in South Miami? Pedro asked.
    Angel listened to the joke and this time he laughed heartily. He waited a few minutes before asking Pedro again to tell him about his pursuit of Manolito Rivas.
    Pedro smiled, his eyes fixed on the wall by the door, then shook his head slowly as if remembering something fanciful, a story he had once invented to entertain friends but which had now become more real than the rest of his life. He opened a fresh can of Orange Crush and began to speak.
    Manolito Rivas was a dandy, always dressed impeccably in the latest styles. His hair was slicked back and shiny, and his fingernails were perfectly manicured. To see him walking down the street you’d think he was a successful actor or musician or a child of privilege. In reality he was a brutal killer, murdering women with impunity and then boasting about his exploits in the barrios of the city. Despite his life of crime, maybe because of it—you never know about these things—Manolito Rivas had become a legend in Havana. Newspapers carried front-page stories about his antics—how he’d set a woman on fire after raping her; how he’d enamored the scion of a wealthy banking family, then drowned her in the bathtub and distributed her money among the poor who lived in La Plaza del Vapor. His last victim was the widow of a government retiree whom he’d suffocated and then shoved her dentures down her throat. What a way to die, devoured by your own mouth!
    At this point Pedro had a coughing fit and he had to stop. When Angel asked him if he should get the nurse, Pedro waved his hand dismissively and took several sips of his Orange Crush until he settled down.
    All the city newspapers fulminated against police incompetence. Politicians’ switchboards lit up with calls from worried citizens. Finally, at the urging of the First Lady, who became convinced no woman was safe as long as Manolito Rivas roamed the streets, the president himself demanded immediate action. That’s when the police chief called Pedro, whose honesty and peculiar adherence to the law had won him the respect of his peers. Pedro had been whiling away his time in Vedado, an upper-class neighborhood of Havana, where he arrested petty thieves, gave them a good beating, and sent them home with the warning that next time he would not be so lenient. Vedado was a highly coveted assignment in those days as the residents were fond of tipping the police generously to take special care of their properties. Pedro came home every night with wads of cash stuffed in his pockets, making Zoila the happiest woman on her block. Pedro, however, had not joined the police force to be rich but to be respected. And so, when the police chief offered him the Manolito Rivas case, he jumped at the opportunity.
    At this point Pedro pointed at his throat and made a grimace. He got up from his chair, lay down on the bed, and promptly fell asleep. Not wanting to return to the nursing home, Angel waited for a while hoping that he would wake, rested and ready to continue