Fifty Grand

And for icing I add a little laugh, a little girlish laugh. Oh, Menendez, cabrón, am I not so cute to have such big dreams? Oh, Sergeant Menendez, aren’t you moved by my naïveté. Doesn’t it make you laugh to see how little I know about how things work in the Policía Nacional de la Revolución.

He grunts. “They’re going to let you go to Mexico?”

“Well, they haven’t given permission yet for the whole year. I haven’t even applied formally yet, but I have an interview at the university next week. I think they’ll let me go for that at least.”

“Maybe,” he says coyly. “But on the whole college is a waste of time. Good solid police work you learn on the job. And a year away: big mistake if you ask me, Officer Mercado.”

“Well, we’ll see what they say.”

“If you want to get ahead you should join the Party,” he adds.

“I’d like to, but I can’t. Because of my father.”

His forehead wrinkles, as if he’s bringing up the mental files he has on the whole police department: cops, secretaries, cleaners, other chivatos.

“Ah, yes, your father. A terrorist. Defected in ’93.”

“He wasn’t a terrorist.”

“He hijacked the bay ferry to the Keys.”

“No. He was on the ferry at the time but he wasn’t one of the hijackers.”

“Did he attempt to come back?”

“No.”

Triumph and a snort. “Well, I won’t keep you, Officer Mercado.”

“Good day, Sergeant Menendez.”

I walk inside. One of the newer precinct buildings, but already paint peeling off the walls. Uneven black-and-white floor tiling. Frozen ceiling fan. Big painting of Jefe, Mao style. No one around. A snore. Sergeant Ortiz sleeping behind the front desk. I tiptoe past him up the steps and through a set of grungy glass doors that squeak open, almost waking Ortiz.

Through central processing.

Officer Posada asleep under his desk. The male hooker cage empty, the female hooker cage with one lonely occupant, a black girl, maybe fourteen, curled under a blanket.

The stairs to the second floor.

Crumbling concrete, cracks in the floor the size of plantains. A corridor-length mural depicting Cuban history from the time of Cortés to the glorious Pan American Games in 1990 when the socialist system triumphed again over the Yankees and their vassals.

Hector’s office.

Knock.

“Come in, Mercado.”

I open the door.

Books and papers everywhere. Two telephones. Another dead ceiling fan. A window looking down to the sea. Hector nursing a rum and coffee. He looks tired. He hasn’t shaved. Wearing the same shirt and jacket as yesterday.

“Sit.”

I sit.

“You wanted to see me,” he says. This early and this unguarded, his accent has that provincial eastern lilt he’s been trying to eradicate his whole life. If he weren’t bald, fat, married, and very ugly I’d find it sexy.

“So what’s this about?” he asks sipping from the coffee flask.

“It’s about my leave of absence,” I say.

His eyes flick toward the door.

“You’re early; I like that. Who else is in the building right now? Who did you see?” he asks.

“Posada.”

“Awake or asleep? The truth.”

“Asleep.”

“Posada asleep,” he sighs. “Before your time, Mercado, a posada was a hotel room you rented by the hour. We’d be lucky if Officer Posada used his brain for one hour a day. One hour in a day, that’s all I ask.”

I nod.

Hector sips his coffee.

“What about Ortiz?”

“Oh yes, Ortiz.”

“You could have brought me something from the bakery. The bakeries are starting to open, yes?”

“I didn’t think to. Sorry, sir.”

“Hmm, so what’s this all about?” he asks.

“Uhm, sir, as you’re aware, I’ve put in for a one-week leave of absence.”

He rummages through the papers on his desk. “I saw that. And you’ve applied to the Foreign Ministry for a travel permit to Mexico.”

I nod.

“Speak up,” he says.

“Yes, I wish to travel to Mexico City. I have applied to study at the university. I am meeting with a Professor Carranza at UNAM about the possibility of taking an M.A. in criminology.”

Hector nods. “Yeah, I read the letter. And if the university takes you, I suppose that means you’ll be taking an even longer leave of absence from the PNR? We’ll be losing you for how long? A year?”

“A year. Yes.”

He shakes his head, starts writing something on the piece of paper. “Hmmm, I don’t know about this, Officer Mercado. Has the ministry given you permission for this first trip?”

“Well, I applied weeks ago and it’s getting close to the deadline, sir. I was hoping that you could-”

Hector puts his finger to his lips and points at the wall and then at his ear. The implication is that his office is being bugged by the DGSE or the DGI. A second of dead air before he jumps in: “Hoping that I could what, Officer Mercado? Put in a good word for you? Why would I do that? Why would I want to lose one of my best detectives for a week, never mind a whole year? Well?”

He grins at me and passes me the note that he’s been writing. It says: “I’ll gain expertise that I can use to train fellow PNR officers, saving the department a lot of money.”