The Beggar's Opera by Peggy Blair Read Free Book Online

his sleepy wife goodbye and apologized for having to leave. “I will be home as soon as I can. I promise to make this up to you when this case is completed. Please put aside some chicken for me if any is left, will you?”
    His daughter and young son were asleep, arms splayed out across each other in their bed. He kissed each of them lightly, afraid of waking them up. They would have to open their gifts without him. He hoped they enjoyed their small presents. He had done his best to find them toys, never easy with the embargo.

ELEVEN
    Inspector Ramirez arrived on the Malecón to find Hector Apiro kneeling beside a small body on a plastic tarp. The dead man walked closely behind him, a worried look on his face, perhaps concerned that the investigation of his own death would be delayed by this tragedy. Ramirez gave him a look to let him know that, yes, the child was his immediate priority.
    The dead man backed away, twisting his hat in his hands, but he lingered, nervous and expectant, the way a teenage girl might wait by the phone.
    “Merry Christmas, Hector,” Ramirez said to the pathologist. He wondered how Apiro had celebrated Christmas Eve.
    Even though Apiro was Ramirez’s closest friend, Ramirez had never been to his apartment and Apiro had never accepted an invitation to his, not even to join them for last night’s festivities. The small man lived alone. He once told Ramirez he never expected to marry.
    “I allowed myself to imagine, years ago, that I might find love someday. I got over that illusion quickly. There was a patient. It was stupid of me. You can imagine the ethical complications, Ricardo, even if she had felt the same way. That’s the only realproblem with being a dwarf, you know, once you get past the height issues. One’s dreams, even shattered, aren’t as small as others might think.”
    Ramirez knew Apiro would spend all Christmas Day processing the crime scene and the child’s remains, making sure the evidence was rock solid.
    The small man looked up and smiled. “And Merry Christmas to you, Ricardo. How was your dinner last night?”
    “Very good. I had almost forgotten what chicken tasted like.”
    “Ah, chicken. I remember 1998, when the Pope came to Havana. Castro found everyone a chicken that Christmas. I wondered if Castro was a babalao . Because there were no chickens anywhere before the Pope’s visit, yet Castro found thousands.”
    Ramirez chuckled. A babalao was a high-ranking Santería priest, a magician who offered animal sacrifices as part of his dark magic. Castro had indeed pulled chickens from thin air.
    “Tell me, Hector, which one of those men is Espinoza? I put him in charge of the crime scene this morning.”
    “He’s the young one over there.” Apiro pointed towards a policeman, hardly more than twenty, who looked both proud and apprehensive at the same time.
    “I’ll be back in a few minutes.”
    Ramirez walked over to the stocky patrolman, who was attempting to make himself look taller by standing on the balls of his feet. “Officer Espinoza? You did well today.”
    “Thank you, Inspector.” The young man blushed. He handed Ramirez a clear plastic exhibit bag containing the wallet and the Canadian passport. “Inspector Ramirez,” Espinoza added, an undercurrent of excitement in his voice, “I believe I have identified the deceased.”
    Ramirez smiled somewhat to himself. Calling victims “the deceased” was the way that new officers distanced themselvesfrom the dead. But in his world, the dead were not distant at all. He glanced at the seawall, where the dead man lifted his hand in the air hesitantly, trying to catch the inspector’s attention.
    Espinoza explained that he had radioed the other officers who worked foot patrol in Old Havana while he waited for Ramirez to arrive.
    “I asked if any of them saw a Cuban boy of eight or nine years, dressed in red shorts with a small pattern, either this morning or last night. Officer Lopez said he would