That Time in Havana: A Valáiria Hernández Mystery

By Carolina Cositore

A slice of the Cuban capital and its beaches in the summer of 2005 told from a revolutionary perspective through the experiences and voices of the characters as they become embroiled in a murder. The incident that sparks That Time in Havana is a people smuggling murder. It is told through four frames of reference that soon intertwine, that of: the divorced Cuban social worker protagonist Laira (Válairia Hernández) and her family, U.S. tourist Bill Richards and two fellow travelers, Cuban reporter Paco Valdes and his family and a few Cubans who often live outside the law, Mongo Perez, Estrella Gonzalez and their familiars.
Laira's detecting assistance is initially requested by her older and over-weaning detective brother Camilo while she is working therapeutically with the bereaved families, but he very soon repents of involving his independent minded sister. She is emotionally supported by her twin physician brother Ladi, her father Juan and her twelve-year-old son Miguel, meanwhile reluctantly meeting her first foreign tourists and becoming entangled in another murder or two.
Aside from the political perspective, the plot and characters will hold your interest, and you'll learn a bit about Cuba.

• Language: English
• Publisher: BookBaby
• Release date: Aug 17, 2020
• ISBN: 9781098324223

Book preview

By Carolina Cositore

Valáiria Hernández Mysteries

THAT TIME IN HAVANA

ESO TIEMPO EN LA HABANA

(Spanish version)

ЭТО ВРЕМЯ В ГАВАНЕ

(Russian version)

THAT TIME IN NEW YORK

THAT TIME IN CARACAS

CAONAO AND JAGUA/CAONAO Y JAGUA

(A bilingual retelling of a Cuban myth)

This book is dedicated to my family

of whom I am truly very proud

and as always,

to Cuba,

the homeland of my heart.

©2010 United States

Although copyrighted, this is a copy left work

– use as you will, but please acknowledge the source.

ISBN: 978-1-0983242-2-3

ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

First, I express my gratitude to the nation of Cuba for being, and especially for being my country of work and residence from 1998 through 2008, when El Comandante Fidel Castro was president, the period in which this story is set.

Secondly, I would like to thank the companer@s and employees of the places named in this book – those in Náutico and Humboldt 7 and especially at the Hotel Nacional, Prensa Latina and Blau Arenal.

Next, thank you to my family and friends for their continuous support in encouraging me, particularly Marge Marquette, mystery readers Marina and Samantha Sitrin, Ana Portela and Aviva Katz, as well as Sherman Sitrin and Yarisa Dominguez.

Thank you all and, to anyone whom I have inadvertently left out, it is truly an error of the mind not of the heart.

Remember, this is a work of fiction and all characters, unless public figures so identified, are creations of my imagination and not based on anyone living.

THAT TIME IN HAVANA

Summer 2005

Major Characters in order of introduction

Bill Richards - 54-year-old us citizen and twice divorced political science professor with custody of 12-year-old daughter, reese. He is on a return visit to Cuba.

Mark Williams -36, recently divorced Afro-American, colleague of Bill, on his first visit to Cuba.

Willy Mendez - 40-something US resident of Cuban origin, visiting family in Havana.

Valáiria Hernández (Láira) - 39-year-old divorced Cuban social worker from a revolutionary family. Lives in a Havana suburb with son Miguel, 12, and father José. Two married brothers, Col. Camilo (Mio), 46, a detective, and younger twin (by two minutes) Ladi, a physician.

Francisco (Paco) Valdes - 47-year-old Cuban reporter, wife Mariluisa Sosa 39, a nurse, Kiko, son of Mari’s first husband, baby daughter Reina, and mother-in-law Sonia.

Ramon (Mongo) Perez - 37, lives on the dark side of the law with ex-prostitute Estrella Gonzalez de Lorenzo 27, her baby Junior, and her sister Soledad Gonzalez 18, a university student.

Minor Characters or Are They?

Julia, Caridad, Lourdes, Ivette social workers

Felicia Gomez - 40-year-old renter to tourists, with more interest in her guests than keeping their rooms clean.

Adina, Gladys, Lili, Barbara, Jorge, family members of victims

Lt. Col. Felix Espinoza – married detective, a history with Laira.

China – a prostitute

Tiago Rodriguez - a cohort of Mongo

Roxana – Tiago’s girlfriend

CONTENTS

Acknowledgements

Prologue Summer 2005

Chapter 1 Summer 2005, Friday Morning Early

Chapter 2 Later Friday

Chapter 3 Saturday

Chapter 4 Saturday Night

Chapter 5 Sunday Morning

Chapter 6 Sunday Night

Chapter 7 Monday

Chapter 8 Monday Evening

Chapter 9 Tuesday

Chapter 10 Tuesday Evening

Chapter 11 Wednesday

Chapter 12 Later Wednesday, Succeeding Events

Chapter 13 Thursday

Epilogue October 2005

About the Author

PROLOGUE

SUMMER 2005

Put out that flashlight, stupid! The abrasive hiss came from a stand of pine trees near the dirt path. Restraining an urge to aim the light at the speaker, Guille obediently shut it off; he’d already let his temper get them in trouble once tonight. Immediately the drumming of the waves became louder, merging with the darkness surrounding him so that his fear of the ocean stopped him involuntarily. He got bumped from behind and stumbled over a rock, his small frame weighed down by the heavy backpack. Guille hated every minute of this: not being able to see, the long walk down the dirt road from the highway, the underhanded way of it, the salt smell and sea thunder in the air and now the chill breeze coming from the North, a sign? He felt cold and the unaccustomed alcohol that for only a fateful moment had made this seem a reasonable, even good, idea had completely worn off.

Why am I doing this? The only answer pulled him up and held him close. Kiko. His brother was set on this; he wouldn't listen; Big Guillermo - he couldn’t think of him as his father, he didn’t even remember him – had filled his head with crazy ideas like getting rich. Guille didn't care anything about that or him, but he did care about his brother, and he couldn't let him go off alone. He was younger, but was always the one who thought things through, who made decisions. Except this time. He had a few dollars in his pocket, enough to call his mother when they got to La Florida or wherever they landed. She and Paco'd be mad, but they would forgive him. Would the authorities let him come back? He was pretty sure they would.

Without the flashlight, he could only make out indistinct forms under the trees, there seemed a lot of people, but he couldn't be sure because no one was talking. He heard a new sound now under the drumming of the waves, a motor. The boat was here. They made their way single-file through the tall grass down to the water’s edge in silence. They were in a cove, partially hidden, but he felt exposed once on the beach. What would happen if the Coast Guard came? What would his parents do?

Kiko brushed his lips against his ear and reminded him to keep quiet, that he’d handle everything. Seeing all the people clambering into the small craft, and remembering the money Kiko had handed over to those slimy characters at the bar earlier tonight to get directions and a ride to the meeting place and Guille thought, Somebody is making a fortune. The man in the bar looked like a cretin and Guille, even full of the unfamiliar alcohol or maybe because of it, didn’t trust him, had yelled at him and had wanted to back out right then, and the guy said Fine, but Kiko wouldn’t go without him, so they went over to another guy, this one had hustler written all over him, and between him and Kiko they’d talked him back into it, that it would be okay. But Guille had hoped the whole thing had been a con that they'd cheated them out of the money, that there would be no boat.

The boat was rocking and Guille automatically apologized to somebody for stepping on him as he tried to make his way to the middle, afraid to be too near the edge. He stepped on somebody else and was shoved to the side after all. Just as well, he felt queasy from all the rum Kiko’d fed him so he should be near the side in case he vomited. He twisted around trying to see where Kiko was. His brother moved to sit next to him then, climbing over a fat guy and putting his hand on Guille’s shoulder.

The over laden boat took off without lights and pitched him back. Some people started to babble happily about getting away, but someone whispered for everyone to shut up or the border patrol would hear them. After awhile the boat headlights went on and Guille wished they hadn't. In the dark, even getting splashed, he could imagine he was on his bike in the rain, but the low-riding boat’s lights showed the deep dark water and he didn't like that at all. They seemed to be going fast he thought, and then his stomach turned over and he hung his head over the side and threw up.

Two guys, the cretin from the bar and another one, were standing up near the front, Guille couldn’t imagine why they would or could do that, then they started moving, treading on people, and started coming this way. When they got close, the old fat guy sitting next to him wobbled almost to his feet. Guille remembered him now; he’d been in the bar too. He didn’t see what happened next, but all of a sudden there was movement and the two of them pitched the fat guy off the side of the boat. Just like that, they just pitched him off. The boat rocked but kept going and a woman screamed, everybody else was quiet, either too scared or stunned to do anything. Then the two guys turned toward him and he held tight to the edge with both hands. What was the matter with these guys? He saw a gleam of some kind and Kiko stood up and staggered in front of Guille. The three of them started scuffling and the boat began rocking like crazy. They were just shoving and grappling, no real punches, but Kiko was trying to keep Guille behind him. No way, I’ve got to help my brother.

Then everything happened at once. He didn’t even get to do anything when he felt a poke in his stomach and doubled over. Before he could straighten up, the boat lit up, he could see everybody like it was daytime. People started crawling around yelling. One of the guys who’d been wrestling with Kiko toppled off; the lopsided boat swung around and picked up speed, starting to rise up out of the water and then slam down again hard. What was happening? Everybody was falling over everybody else. Somebody was crying, was it him?

The lifting out of the water and thumping down was happening faster and faster. Suddenly the imbalanced boat tipped way high out of the water and crashed down really hard. Lots of people were hurled overboard. Guille flew spread-eagled into the water and in a panic, managed to kick up sputtering. He floundered in terror, not able to hear anything except his own gasping - the lights came from a pursuing boat that seemed far away. Where was Kiko?

His stomach really hurt now and he couldn’t keep his head out of the water. Where was Kiko? He couldn’t see anything for the splashing water. Guille went under again and this time he felt a huge pressure in his chest. He began kicking and flailing frantically, trying to grab something, anything. He couldn’t swim. There was nothing to grab.

CHAPTER 1

SUMMER 2005

FRIDAY MORNING EARLY

Bill

The adrenaline rush was starting to wear off. The morning departure from Nassau following the late night flight from New York had his body confused; he didn't know whether to try to sleep or give it up and consider his day begun. Eleven hours to go to a place 90 miles off shore, ludicrous legislators. Bill squirmed in his seat trying to get comfortable and realized it wouldn’t tilt back; no way could he stretch his legs out. He stood up and looked around at the rapidly filling plane, not too many seats left. Mark looked at him askance as he climbed over the guy stretched out in the next seat with his eyes closed and decked in enough gold to sink the small charter. His seat works, Bill grumbled to himself. He moved quickly up the aisle to where he spotted a vacancy, got in the seat, leaned back, Ah this is better, and shut his eyes in case someone wanted to make a federal case out of his being in the wrong seat.

The plane was full, more than half of them Cubans, chatting excitedly and nervously about going home. There had been a surprising number of Anglos – US and Canadian - waiting with them in Nassau for the ridiculously illegal flight. A couple of groups of noisy college kids, one of which was going on a volunteer work brigade. Bill remembered doing that years ago, only his brigade had labored cutting sugarcane in the sweltering fields, and from what this troupe was saying they were going to be working on one of Cuba’s sustainable alternative energy projects, wind energy in a central province; times change. There were a few middle aged business-types, complete with briefcases, undoubtedly trying to oil the wheels for the eventuality that US farmers and industry could go into partnerships with Cuba before all the best deals were made by European and Asian companies that didn’t have the bizarre US restrictions. Thinking that, geographically so close, it made no sense at all for Cuba to be importing from across oceans while US workers are out of jobs, Bill had shaken his head ruefully, earning quizzical glances from one or two of the women who’d been giving him the once-over.

When the stewardess came by with hard candies, Bill figured it was safe to open his eyes; no one was going to want his seat just before takeoff. He glanced around and saw his protégé, Mark, in animated conversation with his erstwhile seat companion, so he guessed the guy spoke passable English and wasn’t one of those prejudiced Cuban-Americans. Mark was an assistant professor in Bill’s poly sci department at CUNY, he’d had a rough few months going through a divorce, was still young at 37 and had decided as an Afro-American to see what the hoopla of non-racist Cuba was about, and to appreciate the women of course. So with Reese visiting her mother this week, Bill had elected to come along and show him Havana. Bill had to keep reminding himself that Mark was a mature adult, just needed help getting his feet wet, he didn’t need a babysitter.

Bill flipped open the airline glossy letting the clamor fade into background noise. The magazine conjured the tropics, the tall, dark skinned dancers in bright colors on the beach reminding him of that little girl… God that was a long time ago. He liked Cuban women, their, well, womanliness, their self-assured sensuality; all of them had that. He smiled in momentary erotic recall, and then shook his head, reining himself in; the past was past, it was the future that counted. The plane took off and he closed his eyes for a catnap.

From the bus on the tarmac they were disgorged into a babble of Spanish and a large bright anteroom. Bill came completely awake, a huge grin splitting his face; I’m really back in Cuba! Well, almost. There’s still immigration and customs. He spotted Mark among the desultorily moving foreigners trying to orient themselves and waved him over to the immigration line. Mark loped over followed by his seat companion, who immediately shot out his hand. Call-Me-Willy, I’m Cuban, he said unnecessarily. His handshake was surprisingly strong, if sweaty.

Bill Richards.

Willy’s going back home to visit his family after…how many years Willy? Mark interjected.

"A long time, but I been telling Mark here, I’ll have some time to show you guys around, give you the lay of the land. You live in New York too, Profe? I’m from Jersey myself." His English was surprisingly good, but it was unnecessary for him to tell them New Jersey, he had a distinct accent. ‘Profe’ is an affectionate nickname for teachers, so Mark had obviously filled him in on his profession; Cubans love nicknames, although they don’t usually assign one on introduction.

The line through immigration was moving slowly, two planes from Europe had landed at about the same time as theirs. Mark stepped back theatrically, We look enough alike to be brothers, only a reverse Oreo. Call-Me-Willy jutted in his chin, saying nothing. Brothers isn’t the first word that would cross your mind looking at them: an Afro-American, a Jew and a Cuban. Mark’s probably sleep-deprived, was Bill’s first thought, he hadn’t been able to nap on the plane. But as he knew his colleague wasn’t given to hyperbole, Bill compared them as a stranger might do.

We do look somewhat alike, at least superficially, he thought, once you get past the skin color, and even that’s not so very different: all shades of bronze; Mark’s Irish grandfather lightening his somewhat, my Cuban grandparents darkening mine, and Willy has typical Latin coloring, putting him somewhere in the middle. Bill continued the mental comparison: all three of us about six feet, maybe not slim anymore in middle age, but fit. Mark’s fitness he knew came from his Marathon running fanaticism, his own from regular jogs in Central Park, and Willy’s muscular biceps and shoulders indicated weight workouts. Curly brown hair was ubiquitous as well, of varying lengths and hue: Mark with the darkest, shortest and kinkiest albeit with more than a touch of red, Willy possessing medium brown curls, oily and above-ear length; while his own ringlets, thanks to his father’s German-Jewish ancestry, were muddy blond and still worn as long as in his hippie days. The noses were the big dividers… we all have ethnic noses.

Call-me-Willy had been studying Bill as he’d done this silent assessment, and now he pulled out three NY Yankee baseball caps from his carryon and handed two to them. Putting his own on, he said, Now we’re the Three Musketeers. Mark was stuck because he’d started this, so he put his on backwards, although Bill knew he didn’t usually wear baseball caps. Bill accepted the cap pleasantly although he too detested wearing the things; he was proud he still had a full head of hair and didn’t put his on.

They shuffled their carry-ons closer to the head of the line and Willy began suggesting places to stay and promising to show Mark some action. How about you Profe? Want me to fix you up with some action? Willy smirked.

What the hell, do I look too old to attract a woman by myself? Bill bridled and responded in Spanish, I do okay on my own.

"Ofensa ninguna compadre," Willy rushed to say, also in Spanish, and then switched back to English for Mark’s sake.

It’s only it’s my turf is all, even if I haven’t been back in awhile. Bill was smarting from the offer to find him women and stopped listening to whatever Willy said next. His 54 was in spitting distance of Willy’s age that looked to be in the 40s, late 40s. He knew he was attractive. Hell, he was always getting propositioned by his students and not all of them looking to raise their grades, although he knew better than to touch that, and anyway he wasn’t interested in girls or even younger women anymore, well, maybe to look. It was true he was out of dating practice. Did it show? Having been burned in two marriage disasters and with a daughter to raise alone, he just hadn’t had time in too long. Damn, this guy is making me defensive.

Call-me-Willy was now in the middle of warning Mark that he should have the name of a hotel to tell the immigration official when he went through, or no telling what he’ll do with you.

You’ll get frown lines, Bill kidded his vain friend, who was looking anxious. Not every tourist has reservations, it’s no sweat. Mark and Bill hadn’t made reservations, intending to go immediately to a place on the beach for the weekend and spend the rest of the week in a Havana hotel.

As he’d expected, their immigration official was blasé and told them there were kiosks in the airport where they could make reservations and get transportation. As a returning Cuban, Willy took longer going through immigration; there was always the danger one of them would be coming to do sabotage, although that hadn’t happened for years. He stuck with them while they collected their luggage, changed money, sailed through customs, and then stepped into a real light and sound show. Mark stood still, shell-shocked. He hadn’t traveled to Third World countries before and Bill knew that first confused arrival into another world and culture was an assault. The crowds of people hugging and exclaiming and blocking their way gave way however for Bill’s New York walk and Mark rallied behind him over to Cubanatur to see if they could set something up at a beach for the weekend.

Laira

The penetrating smell of hot espresso gradually intruded on my dream of giving birth to the twins. Lying on the warm sheets, I allowed myself to remember the delicious feel of their little bodies wriggling in my arms and nuzzling my breasts until the coffee aroma gradually took over and slowly the sensation gave way.

What was that about? I mused as I reached over to turn off the alarm before it could go off and wake Miguel in the next room. Although I’m a clinician and Cuban, I’m not a believer in either Freud or Santeria, and dream interpretation gets short shrift from me, perhaps because I remember mine so infrequently. I decided the dream was simply reminding me I could not relegate the ache of missing Mercedes to birthdays or Mothers’ Day as I’d recently been trying to do. It would always be with me. Now I really looked at the clock. Cuño, it was still early! I hate waking up at the same time day after day so I change the alarm times…my body doesn’t always get the message however. Ah well, the coffee smell means the water is already turned on, and early means there’s time for a shower.

Like many women here in Havana, I’m full-figured, which means I sweat, and last night’s shower had dissipated in the summer heat, despite my fan and open window. I need a better fan, I should ask papa to turn this one in to the CDR. We’re in the middle of an energy revolution and the local committees are exchanging the old soviet relics for newer, more efficient fans, but I never seem to find time to do it. I pushed open his door and peeked in at Miguel on my way to the bathroom. He’d rolled over on his back and lay sprawled diagonally, his arms and legs thrown wide, just as he'd slept as a baby, although at twelve he took up more than his share of the bed he shared with papa. Whorls of dark hair blew across his forehead in the breeze from the fan and I resisted the temptation to push them away from his eyes; he was a light sleeper.

As I soaped up and let the cold water refresh me, I went over my client plans for the day. I had nothing too taxing except for the Sosa-Valdes family; now that would be challenging. They would need a lot of support; I hope I’m up to giving it. I’ve arranged for the parents to come in to the office alone this morning and I’m scheduled to go to their home later in the afternoon to meet the son, after my weekly lunch with my brothers.

As I stepped out of the shower I was glad of the extra few minutes from waking before the alarm so I could fight my long crinkly hair smooth and wrap it in a businesslike, if fat, coil on my neck, I'm too old to have such long hair; I need a stylish cut, I told myself, but I knew I really wouldn't cut it. Anyway, 39 is not so very old, except when you think it’s almost 40. While I stopped to pour myself a cup of coffee on the way to where papa was waiting at the table, I could hear the chickens clucking in the yard across the small River Quibu; a happy sound. Thankfully, the neighbor’s new puppy was quiet for a change. The neighborhood was otherwise still.

You’re early this morning, you’ll have time to eat something Laira, not just grab coffee, papa anticipated, pushing the plate of bread, fruit and fried plantains at me. José always got up early, so made breakfast.

When do I not eat? I asked ruefully, beginning with a slice of mango and limiting myself to nibbling one or two tostones while collecting my keys and briefcase, I’m fat enough; I don’t want to have to buy new clothes.

José looked at his daughter, almost the picture of her mother, the same abundant black hair, long almond-shaped eyes, wide grin, smooth skin and definitely good shape, a bit darker than his wife, Mercedes, had been, but with the same joie d’ vivre. He put his gnarled mahogany hand on her arm, about to ask if she wanted to look like those skinny Americans in the movies.

What time will you be home for dinner tonight? he asked instead, and realized helplessly he was still on the food theme.

I don't know; there’s a lot to do. Seeing my father's face, I quickly added, I'm having lunch with Mio and Ladi and I’ll try to be home before the soap opera. Oh, remember Miguel goes to the computer club today. And papa, could you cut his hair? I know its summertime, but it’s getting in his eyes.

Who can forget his days at the computer club? He’ll remember without my saying anything and of course I’ll cut his hair, don't worry, we’re going to Varadero this weekend, remember?

Please don't start, I prayed, but it was too late, José was off on one of his hobbyhorses.

"Won’t you reconsider coming with us Laira?