Havana (11 page)

There were things Frankie accepted. Being yelled at by a screaming old man who told him he was shit, he was nothing, he was so stupid his mother should be ashamed to have opened her legs for his father. That had happened enough times so that Frankie knew how to deal with it, which was just to close down, issue the aspects of contrition that would ultimately bore his punisher, and wait for it to blow over and go away.

But this was new. The little Jew man simply closed him out for the next few days. He, Frankie, ceased to exist. The world went on as if he were a ghost, an invisible man; nobody spoke, nobody acknowledged, nobody even let his shadow touch Frankie's, that's how deep the freeze was.

And the funny part: it hurt Frankie. It hurt him badly, in ways he still didn't know he could be hurt. And so he prayed. Not that he was a religious man, but he did have some notion of something Up There that he would have to answer to, and that cared little for the venal sins he had committed and would burn willingly for. But he wanted to face St. Peter unblemished by treachery. He wanted St. Peter to say, “Frankie, you've been a bad boy, but you always done what you were told and you never ratted nobody out, so by your lights you were a good man, a good gangster. All else is forgiven; only disloyalty may not be forgiven.” He prayed for another chance, and possibly not much went on in the world that day, for God found time enough for Frankie, and allowed the little Jewish man with the sad face to forgive him.

“I am so sorry, sir.”

“Don't call me sir, Frankie. I am no boss. I am a counselor and a friend and bent under responsibilities. Just call me Meyer.”

“Yes, Meyer.”

“You did so wrong. You were not supposed to drink or speak. You were not supposed to act out.”

“Yes, Meyer.”

“Frankie, these instructions were not pointless, arbitrary. I did not give them to amuse myself, do you realize that?”

“Yes, Meyer.”

“When you say
Meyer
you are thinking
sir.
I can hear it in your voice. Say
Meyer
as if you mean
Meyer.
”

“Yes, Meyer. Yes,
Meyer.
”

“Better, by far. Now listen to me and think.
Think!
”

“Yes, Meyer.”

“We cannot lose Cuba. We cannot. Absolutely. So much depends on Cuba. But Cuba is a strained balancing act. Our partners, though it is unsaid and unvouched for by document, are certain American corporations that also depend upon Cuba for rivers of money in the form of cheap sugar, labor and fruit, as well as real estate ventures and eventually offshore manufacturing. But these men are not our kind. They don't like our ways. The force we use to settle our problems scares them. Yet we need them.”

“Yes, Meyer.”

“They must be comfortable around us. They must see us as slightly comical versions of themselves, as capitalism gone raffish and exotic. We're from Damon Runyon, or out of the movies and played by Georgie Raft or Eddie Robinson or Humphrey Bogart. We're not squalid, violent, profane, quick-tempered. No, no, we're colorful, vivid, amusing rogues. We're stars and crime is our screen, do you see?”

“Yes, Meyer.”

“Ben Siegel, of them all, he understood this. They loved him out there, and had he lived, he would have become a star, I'm convinced. He would have been on the television. Big, handsome, lovable, a lady's man. He would have been such an emissary from us to them. It's a crime he was killed so young.”

Frankie knew God was being merciful today. He blinked back tears of thanks.

“Meyer, I know of Ben. Ben, Ben, Ben, he was my hero,” he said. “How I loved him. Others loved DiMaggio, or Ted Williams, me, I loved Bennie. I wanted to meet him but he was taken from us before that could happen. I just want to be like him. That's always been my ambition.”

“That pleases me. I loved that boy like a son and lit candles for him for a month in the Catholic church, though both of us are Jews. That's how much I loved him, and I had a need to show it. Someone shot him in the face while he read the papers, and some even say it was me who gave the order.”

“I never believed it. It couldn't have been the great Meyer.”

“It was not one of mine, or one of ours. It was from the outside, do you understand?”

“Meyer?”

“Yes.”

“Not an excuse. But an explanation. Please, just this once.”

Meyer considered. Then he said, “So explain a little.”

“The man I was yelling at?”

“Yes, the congressman's bodyguard.”

“Don't you know who he is?”

For once, Meyer had no real answer.

“Some thug,” he said, “with a badge. That's all.”

“Meyer, I heard it from one of the coupiers at Sans Souci, who recognized him. That's what's eating me. That's why I went all hot and cuckoo. He's the man in Hot Springs. Who punched Ben. Who became famous by punching Ben without warning. Ben swears to get him. Yet it's Ben who is shot, in the face, on his sofa. This big guy: he's the one, I tell you.”

This struck Lansky in a curious way. He saw how well it fit together, what perfect sense it made, the Arkansas connection, the political connections, the size and apparent toughness of the bodyguard. A little flare of some passion he had never felt before suddenly coursed in shades of red through his mind.

“Think about it, Meyer. Please. Think about it. I won't mention it again. But the man who killed Ben Siegel…. God has put him here, under our noses. What would you do with him?”

But in another second, Meyer was wise again. Something had changed, but he was wise.

“Never follow your feelings. That way is damnation. The business first. Always, the business first, and there's much to do here, and it must be done discreetly, yes, to solidify and indemnify our position.”

“And then?”

“If it's him, if we
know
it's him.”

“Yes.”

“Then we kill the
schmata.
But always, business first. Then vengeance. Or, rather, justice. I could kill for that.”

“Oh, the young crusader!” said El Colorado. “What a fine specimen he is. Come in, boy, let's have a look at you!”

El Colorado was vast and brown, the mahogany of his skin set off by the whiteness of his teeth and his hair and his suit as he sat on the patio at his house, no. 352, on the corner of 23rd Avenue in 15th Street in Vedado.

The old man was enjoying a perfectly hard-boiled egg in a cup. A sea breeze blew in, as the Caribbean was but a few blocks away, yet what Castro could see, as he was brought in to the old man, was flowers: a cascade of them, in the gardens below the patio, invisible from 23rd Avenue.

“The great El Colorado,” he said. “I come at last to show my respects!”

“
At last
is certainly right, boy. You young ones, you have no respect for those who came before and did the hard work. You think we lived merely as midwives to the birth of your generation.”

This bitter truth, nevertheless, was delivered with a great deal of zest and humor. Whatever had passed before, this day found El Colorado in fabulous humor.

And why not? He lived in one of Havana's most beautiful houses, he had six of the most beautiful mistresses in the city—Castro had eyed them longingly as he was escorted through the house by a factotum, but he could see their tastes were too evolved for a ragamuffin speechifier, as he was—and he ruled the city's vice network, with the exception of the women who worked the big
Americano
hotels and gambling houses. He was rich. Not bad for a socialist.

“It is true,” Castro said humbly. “In my generation, we think we have invented everything ourselves. That is our shortsightedness. We forget the great Marti, we forget the great El Colorado. Now, with a view toward what is possible in the future, I have come to make introductions, amends, and to seek the advice of the greatest revolutionary fighter of the thirties.”

“Sit, then. Julian, bring the boy some coffee. I see in your face, in its ovals and whiteness, you are not long separated from the motherland.”

“I am only a third generation. My father is a petty
caudillo
in Oriente, and his father a humble soldier who stayed after the debacle of '98.”

“Otherwise, you would have more cocoa in you. I see only lily-white. That is good for your ambitions, I know. It will be yet a time before anyone of chocolate persuasion makes a difference in our homeland.”

“That is one of the things I hope to change.”

The old man laughed hilariously. He found young Castro truly amazing.

“See, Julian, how well he plays. He knows which keys to hit, and exactly when to hit them. This boy has talent.”

“Yes, señor,” said the servant.

“Fetch him more coffee. You, young man, are a pleasure to have around.”

“Thank you, señor.”

“But what exactly do you seek? A favor? A source of income? A strategic consultation?”

“Advice, I suppose. And, I hope, friendship. That you would say good things about me, if asked. And if I am in a position to repay this kindness ever, then I shall do so. We in the struggle must concentrate on our opponents, not each other.”

“Possibly I am too old and used-up for good advice.”

“Yet still I hear of your heroism in the '36 strike against United Fruit, and leading the dockworkers in '42. Those were great days.”

“My best, my favorite, the source still of pride and manhood. But I'll tell you my miscalculation. I believed too much in the strike as a weapon. Now, especially, with all this American money invested and the people getting used to soft living, I doubt the power of them to sustain a strike and of a strike to topple Batista and drive the Americans out.”

“Then it's terror?”

“Terror is messy. The wrong people die, always. The hunger for blood becomes difficult to manage. Killing begets killing. A nightmare of betrayal and recrimination. I am thinking of something new: symbolic terror.”

Castro leaned forward.

“I don't follow you.”

“Suppose something happened that was grand,” El Colorado said, leaning forward, his eyes lit with inspiration. “Big! Something that had never happened before. Something that gave the people hope and heart and dreams of the future. And yet nobody died. And now I see a greater possibility. What if, furthermore, they ascribed that thing to you. You, young Castro, you had done this wondrous thing. Your name was on everybody's lips. Moreover, upon this occasion, you gave a grand speech. Your words were heard the country over. History, you say, will absolve me! And this speech puts you on the map so powerfully that no force on earth could take you off.”

“‘History will absolve me.' Hmmm,” said the young man, “yes. Yes, I do like that. I am for that, I agree to that.”

“Excellent. What wondrous instincts you have. Amazing in one so young.”

“And what is this thing?”

“Imagine…an American casino. Bandits attack it. But they kill no one. They abscond with millions, yes? They abscond with millions, and before the police can intercede, they have passed it out in the slums. All that American money, gone straight to the poor. And if the agent for this deliverance were seen to be young Castro, can you imagine the impact? Ah…” He paused.

The American gangsters who ran the casinos were by repute men not to be trifled with, Castro thought. Yet the gain would in fact be so enormous it stunned him. And if the connection between himself and the crime were more associational than exact, no charges could be brought, no prison sentence would ensue. He turned it over in his mind.

“Such a thing is going to happen?”

“Exactly as I have described it. It is a thing I have contemplated for many a year, and the planning is immaculate. Come with me.”

The old man stood up. He led young Castro through what seemed countless rooms jammed with treasures both of artistic and fleshly perfection. In most, servants bowed and scraped unctuously, and the grand socialist El Colorado sailed through as though it were beneath him to notice.

But from this heaven on earth, they departed quickly enough by way of stairs to the cellar, and in its darkness discovered a hell on earth—or more precisely, the capacity to bring hell to earth by virtue of violence.

In the deep underground, men labored, shirtless, on machine guns. So many machine guns! Many were broken down, and their parts lay greasy and sparkling under bare bulbs. But some of the guns were being assembled with a surgeon's care, by black men with soldier's graces who knew what they were doing.

“They have just arrived. From friends in Chicago, of all places. Come, look.”

He seized one of the finished guns, held it, admiring its weight and density, its gleaming beauty, the glow of its wood and metal parts, the sleekness of its design, the efficiency of its workings.

“Do you know this weapon, young Castro?”

“You see them everywhere. The police carry them. The Thompson gun, I believe. And now we have them.”

“Yes. To even the odds. If you fight mobsters, you must have a mobster's gun. He respects the gun. These guns will make my enterprise work smoothly and without damage.”

“I had no idea you had machine guns,” said Castro, deeply impressed.

“These will carry the day,” said El Colorado. “You may be sure of it! They won't even have to be fired! Now go, young man. You have a speech to write. You have to tell people that the day after tomorrow, big things are coming and that they come owing to your strength and vision. You should profit from this venture in power; I will profit merely in satisfaction.”

“History will absolve us,” said Castro.