Havana (32 page)

But then he saw where this was going. It wasn't going to recruitment, or to some cozy little world where he and Earl would be buddies, neighbors, they'd live in MacLean and go to the Agency every day and laugh and joke and watch their kids get older and older and in some far-off Valhalla they'd have a drink and a smoke and look back on fabulous, adventurous lives.

“He's a loose end,” said Plans.

“He's Earl Swagger, a Medal of Honor winner.”

“We can't have a man who's not under discipline or influence running around. He knows too much. If he's one of us, that's fine; if he's from a world where we're important and can bring influence, that's fine, too. But he's none of those things. He's out of our reach and he knows too much. He was the triggerman on Big Noise. He's fine now, you say, but what if he changes in the next few years, grows bitter, feels ignored, has a political or a psychological change of heart? Maybe he's pissed at the marines for kicking him out or at the VA for not sending his pension and medical benefits. It could be anything. You have to think of these things, Short. They're part of the game, too.”

“I was afraid of that.”

“You brought us Earl Swagger. You made Earl Swagger. He's your creation. Now you must deal with it.”

“Jesus.”

“Don't curse. I don't like cursing. Can you handle it?”

And the terrible thing, of course, is that not only could he handle it in the abstract, but he knew how, exactly, whom to speak to, what buttons to push, what leverage to employ, how it would all work out, so perfectly.

Again with the secrecy. It was so tedious. He thought all this nonsense was over. But the signal came, and when it came it had to be obeyed, by certain protocols.

And so: again. The elegant businessman in tropical worsted, the sort of man who'd look comfy with a doll on one hand and a satchel with $200,000 in the other, this man gets into his air-conditioned limo. It ducks this way and that, up streets and down them, through alleyways, up hills, around garbage dumps, and finally it deposits another man, not so elegant. Instead the shlump. Bermudas, striped, a panama with too broad a brim, a Hawaiian shirt, cheap big sunglasses, and gym shoes. Any low-rent tourist, a low-roller in the lowest houses, the kind of visiting Jew who came to Havana not for action but for the illusion of action.

That man wandered the streets for a bit, until he was convinced that no one could have stayed with him, then took the bus, the no. 4, until only the shvartzers were still aboard, finally getting off far from the glories of Centro, way west in Santo Saurez, the tough black place, and finding the hotel.

Up he went, the fourth floor, and found the door to a new room slightly ajar.

The important boy was there. He too was undercover. With him it was Bermuda shorts lime green, high socks, those white shoes the British wore, and kind of shirt you rode ponies on. He looked so college boy it was a joke. Not that he wouldn't be noticed; he would. But he'd be dismissed instantly by anybody watching as a dumb kid searching for poontang who took the wrong bus.

“So what now, genius? We're done, no? That bad boy, he's finished.”

“Sorry for the inconvenience. I set this up because I thought there should be some thanks. Your people may have almost gummed it up, but in the end, they kept discipline and let us work it out. You cooperated. That's a great start.”

“You were there? Give me a break, you guys were lucky that old cop came along when he did. Otherwise our boy is fat and happy in Mexico, setting up his next run.”

“No, Mr. Lansky, let me inform you. We did what we said we would; we were there, we pulled strings, we made sure the guy was caught and he'll be convicted and he'll disappear.”

“Maybe so. You're happy, I'm happy, now let's go our separate ways and hope nothing like this ever happens again.”

“An excellent idea. But our cooperation with each other would be very helpful in that eventuality.”

“So it would.”

“So I want to give you a gift. A gift of appreciation. For Meyer Lansky personally, that only Meyer Lansky would appreciate.”

The older man's eyes narrowed. He leaned forward. Then he reached into his pocket, took out an elegant Cuban already trimmed, made a show of licking it just so, fired it up, and exhaled a pile of smoke.

“What could you possibly have for me? A bag of money? An idea of who's tapped and who's not? Inside dope on who's ratting us out while drinking our booze, screwing our women and spending our money under our protection?”

“Can't help you with any of that. It's new business. I can only help with old business.”

The older man regarded the chutzpa of this youngster with considerable scorn. His eyes narrowed. He didn't like this a bit. Was there some tap going? Was this some plot against him and the old men? He looked the boy up and down and saw only a fraternity boy, guileless and silly.

“What do you want?”

“I don't want a thing. I just want you to get what you want.”

“And what would that be?”

“Justice. Revenge. Old scores settled. Retribution. Order in your world.”

“What are you talking about?”

“I know the story. It's said there was a boy who was a son to you. He was a visionary. He got things done. But when he got greedy out in the desert, you had him dealt out of the game.”

“What the fuck!” said Meyer, who hated cursing. “Who the fuck are you, sonny? That's libel, blood libel. You can't talk to me that way. You don't know who you're dealing with.”

“I only say what's said.”

“I loved Bennie Siegel like a son. Never, never,
never
would I have him hit. I am not a hitter. I don't kill people. I think, I figure, I see angles. I'm proud that I don't have to kill. I'm too smart to kill.”

“The man who killed Bennie Siegel is here, in Havana.”

Old Meyer sat back, regarding the bland youngster in the ridiculous outfit sitting across from him. His eyes narrowed. Up and down he looked, hunting for some sign of weakness. He studied the pleasant, unmemorable face, the clear eyes, the close-cut hair. He looked for the lick of lips, the swallow, the involuntary look off into make-up land where lies are invented. Nothing. The boy just looked back, completely calm.

“Let's say you have my attention.”

“We brought him in. He was our triggerman, and he's the best in the world at that kind of work. You don't have a man who can touch him.”

“It would take someone highly skilled to slab Ben.”

“He's that, in aces and spades. You've seen him. Your crazy New York torpedo smelled it on him, and nearly went after him twice. Good thing you held him back, because if he went man to man with Earl, he'd have been crushed like an insect.”

“I don't like this,” said Meyer Lansky. “Why are you telling me this?”

“I want you to know how much we appreciate what you did, how you held back, how you let us operate. In return, I give you this. Earl Swagger, that cowboy, he killed Bennie Siegel. Shot him eight times in the head in 1947 in Beverly Hills. Blew his face off with a carbine and walked away laughing. Bennie'd said he'd get him for a sucker punch Earl threw in Hot Springs in 1946. Earl worried that Bennie would do what he said, so he struck first. Earl is a killer. Ask the Japs. He killed a bucket of them.”

“Says you. How do I tell if this is some thing you're spinning like a web. It's what you guys do.”

“True enough. But Earl told me in the mountains, when we were alone. You doubt it? Then I'll tell you what Earl told me, what nobody could know except the man who killed Bugsy Siegel, and the cops. Only the shooter would know. A little tidbit that was never publicized, that never got out. You check it out, and you will see that I am telling the truth.”

Meyer stared at him hard, trying to see inside.

“It's this,” the important boy said. “After he'd shot him seven times, he walked up close to the window. Ben Siegel is already dead, his head punched full of holes. He's on the sofa. Blood is everywhere on his nice Glenn plaid suit. His legs are crossed, the
L.A. Times
is in his lap. But that wasn't enough for Earl. Earl takes his time, aims perfectly—” the young man mimicked the aiming of a light rifle as if he had done so himself, the closing of one eye, the steady press on a trigger, “—and
pow!
drills the last carbine slug into the eye. He aims, blows the eye out. He could do it, he's such a good shot. The eye sails across the room and lands on the carpet. Right? Do you know that?”

Meyer knew it. All the old men knew it. They had paid good money for it. But nobody else knew it, except the man who killed Ben Siegel.

“Earl is in a prison outside of Havana,” said the young man.

“He will be moved tomorrow at 4
P.M.
to the airport. The car will travel through Cerro down the Avenue Mangiari before bringing him to the airport for deportation. It'll be a single car driven by two plainclothes policemen, a black 1948 Buick Roadmaster. Swagger will be in back, handcuffed. They'll be on that road about 4.15
P.M.
Tell me, Mr. Lansky, will it still be said after tomorrow that Meyer never killed?”

Lansky just looked at him, but he was thinking how fast he could get hold of Frankie Carbine, and at the same time seeing at last exactly why it had been ordained that Frankie would come to him.

“Well, Mr. Swagger,” said the man from the embassy, “the Cubans have finally seen the light. You'll be relieved to know this is your last day in Cuba.”

He'd been here close to a week. In truth, it had been all right. The Cubans in this small place treated him well, and in a funny way it was a pleasure to be in a world where things made sense. No one whispered bad advice, no one tried to manipulate him against his own best instincts. They just fed him well and left him alone.

“Swell,” he said. “I'm flying out of here?”

“You'll catch the 5.30 Air Cubana back to Miami. Courtesy of the State Department, you will then be flown back to St. Louis. From there you are on your own. Of course the Cubans have made it clear, you are never to return.”

“Wasn't planning to.”

“Well, that's fine. Your belongings were picked up from the hotel, though the clothing you bought on the government expense account is of course government property and has been remanded to government inventory.”

“Wouldn't have it any other way.”

“We had your suit cleaned.”

“Ain't you boys going out of the way, or what?” Earl said.

“Do I detect some sarcasm in your voice, sir? You have been in violation of the law and we have worked very hard to make this as pleasant as possible for you. Cuban justice can be extremely brutal, and you have been treated quite gently.”

Earl just smiled.

“You will be released at 4:00 into the custody of two Cuban police officers. You will be handcuffed. Those handcuffs will not be removed until you are at the gangway to the aircraft. You will then board the aircraft and that will be that.”

“Fine by me.”

“I want your assurances you will cause no trouble. You have already been an embarrassment. You are to make no scene with the policemen. You will willingly allow the handcuffs until you reach the plane. You are to get on that aircraft and be gone. Is that clear? The deal we worked out with the Cuban State Police is dependent upon it.”

“Yeah, sure.”

“Thank you, Mr. Swagger. Now this interview is at an end. I suggest you clean up. Your clothes will be brought to you and you will be on your way.”

The man rose officiously, and without ceremony turned and left. Even the Cuban guard in the interview room, an amiable English-speaker named Tony, seemed baffled by the coldness. He was a good guy who'd buddied up to Earl a little bit, even gone and gotten him extra cigarettes.

“Earl, that man, he's got a pickle up his ass.”

“Don't he, though?”

Tony led him to his cell in the deserted place. No locking was necessary; it was run more like a hotel. Earl waited until another guard brought him his suit on a hanger, with shoes, socks, under-drawers and a shirt. Then he wandered down to the shower room, took a nice one, dried, came back and got dressed. Looking at his watch, he saw it was close to 4:00.

Out of here, he thought.

Finally. What a goddamned waste!

In the '38 Buick parked down the street from the jail, Frankie Carbine sat in the front seat with the binoculars, next to a darker guy from SIM who was guaranteed reliable and was running the car that day for Captain Latavistada, who sat in back. He could see the place just fine, blown up ten times, a stairway out of a blocky municipal structure that had long since lost its polish. A heavy-gauge locked cyclone fence ran the perimeter, wearing a gnarled tangle of barbed wire. A couple of cops in their dark uniforms were stationed outside, but in the Cuban way both men were relaxed behind sunglasses on chairs, smoking and paying little enough attention to anything.

Frankie looked at his watch.

It was almost 4:00.

He felt like screaming. It was so close. He tried to keep his pulse and his heart calm, but all he could think about was putting a full magazine into the
strunza
that killed Ben Siegel. He'd smelled it on him the first second, that stink of death. The guy was a stone killer; he had to be paid back in kind for what he'd done.

Frankie hoped he just riddled his guts. Then, he'd walk around and the guy would be lying there, bleeding and crying for mercy, and Frankie saw himself taking out his Colt .45, leaning over, and pressing it against the man's eye.

“Familiar,
strunza?
Like you done to Bennie.”

BLAM!

He'd blow that eye clean out of its socket and the world would see what happened when you went against the outfit. Mr. L would be so proud; all the old men of New York, they would be proud too, and Frankie could come back anytime he wanted. But he wouldn't. He and Ramon, they would take over—

“Frankie, are you all right?” asked Latavistada from the backseat.

“Yeah, fine.”

“Frankie, you should relax. Don't get too excited. It's going to be fine. It's going to be easy,” said Ramon, who had the Mendoza 7mm machine gun and a batch of clips.

“It's almost time, Ramon,” Frankie said.

“Yes it is, my friend. We will do this thing and then the world will be ours.”

“You let me do it,” said Frankie, patting the machine pistol that lay across his knees. “This guy and I, we had words. We had problems. He's a big guy, he smacked my head at Moncada. Today he learns what a mistake that was.”

“Yes, Frankie. The privilege of the first shots goes to you. You shoot him good, Frankie. Nothing fancy, just a burst into him, and watch his head as the bullets destroy it, and then I finish with the heavier gun, the two policemen, any witnesses. Then we pull our pistols and make certain. It is a very good plan.”

“Oh, fuck, here they come.”

Ramon spoke briefly in Spanish to the driver, who started the car.

And here they came indeed. It was a big Roadmaster, another Buick, dead black, with four pissholes on the side, driven by two plainclothes men from the state police. One puffed a big cigar. Both wore sunglasses and Panamas and guayabera shirts, burly men in their thirties, handsome after the dark Cuban fashion, one a negro, the other white. Both looked comfortable, settled, on the way to a meaningless detail.

Frankie stroked the Star machine pistol on his knees. He was ready. Christ, was he ready.

 

Frenchy watched from a bodega across the way. He hid behind two bunches of bananas and looked through a dirty pane of glass to the station. For some reason he knew he ought to be there. He wasn't sure why, he just felt obligated.

The transaction unfolded without drama. How could there be drama? Frenchy just watched as Earl came out, in his suit, his hands behind him where they'd been manacled. There was no tension in him, as everybody seemed to be buddies. The two cops led him down the stairs to the car, and a third walked behind, talking to Earl, laughing with him.

He watched Earl. He was the same as he'd been when Frenchy first laid eyes upon him seven years ago, perhaps more etched with age, perhaps a few pounds heavier, but essentially the same man, the eternal noncommissioned officer, blessed in battle, narrow otherwise in vision, the salt of the earth, the man who's made it happen for four thousand years of war. Now he, Frenchy, little Walter who'd been so mischievous in prep school, was planning his execution.

Frenchy tried to feel something but one of his talents was the way in which he disconnected himself from events he planned or executed. He didn't really have a conscience, though flashes of regret would occasionally pass through him. He'd once imagined something better for Earl, and maybe part of getting him down here was a way of making something up to the man for the way Hot Springs had ended, though he'd tried to make up for it in other ways, too. But it hadn't worked out. You couldn't save an Earl Swagger from his own nature. You couldn't make him see the point, you couldn't get him to bend. He wasn't a bender.

The car passed and sped down the road.

Frenchy made the sign of the cross. Not that he believed in such hocus-pocus; it just seemed appropriate somehow.

Via con dios, amigo,
he thought, and turned back to buy a banana.

 

The policeman next to Earl was talkative, as the car picked up some speed and headed out into traffic.

“So, you're a cop, right?”

“Back in the States, yeah. State cop.”

“Ah, we are state policemen, too. It's a good job, is it not, señor? People show you respect.”

“Well, I agree that it's a good job, but there's been days when I've wished I got a little more respect.”

The man in the backseat with him laughed.

“Oh, yes, the bad ones, they have to be instructed. That is why all policemen must have big hands so that when they strike a bad one, he knows he has been struck and therefore he shows respect and feels fear.”

“That's pretty much my theory, too,” said Earl.

The driver barked something at Earl's seatmate, and watched Earl in the rearview mirror briefly.

“He doesn't like it?” Earl asked.

“He thinks I talk too much.”

“You do talk too much, Davido,” said the driver. “You always talk too much. A policeman should not talk so much.”

“So, I like to enjoy myself. Anyhow, this man is not a criminal but an American policeman, a man very like ourselves.”

“That's fine, but do your duty.”

They drove now through a slum, and the traffic grew heavy. The streets were full, and now and then the cars jammed up, sometimes even halting.

“I don't want to miss my plane,” Earl said. “It's a great country, but I have had a better run of luck in my time.”

“Look,” said Davido, “he's a policeman too, and my cousin Tony vouches for him. We can take his cuffs off. A policeman shouldn't be in no cuffs.”

They broke free of the traffic as the buildings dropped away, yielding to fields and huts. The car speeded up.

“Well, I think you should put them back on when we get to the airport,” said the driver. “Who knows who is watching.”

“I don't want to get you boys in any trouble,” said Earl.

“No, it's no trouble—” but then Davido laughed as Earl withdrew his hands, uncuffed, from behind him.

“Did you see that? Jaime, did you see that? He slipped the cuffs! Amazing! How did you do that?”

“I've worked a lot with these here old-style cuffs. There's tricks to shake 'em a boss con once showed me. You didn't set 'em tight enough. I was able to shift my wrist and bring some pressure in a certain spot. You need to have a lot of strength in your fingers. I'll show you how to set 'em up so no bad guy ever does the same to you, okay? Maybe save you getting your throat cut one fine night.”

“See, this is a very helpful man,” said Davido, and it was only because Earl had rotated toward him, was not sitting back with his hands locked behind him, that he was able to see the black car scoot out from behind, accelerate to equal their speed, and the barrel of the gun rise, behind it the grim and determined face of Frankie Carbine.

 

“Faster! Faster!”
barked Frankie.

“No, no, not here,” corrected Ramon from the backseat.

But Frankie could hardly control himself. His whole body shook in fury and hunger. He leaned forward, his eyes bugging, his breathing hard.

“It's too crowded ahead,” Ramon warned. “We'd never get away. Wait till the road is clear, and we are out of the traffic. Then we pass him and
bzzzzzzt!,
it is finished, and off we go.”

Frankie settled back, but some incredible fever gripped his brain. He wanted to get in close, open up, watch the death and be done with it. Ahead the unmarked police car poked along, completely oblivious to the executioners so close behind. Frankie could see Earl and the cop in the rear, talking, even laughing now and then. They all seemed to be having a pretty good time. It filled him with rage. It was so wrong. Blowing out Ben Siegel's eye, then having a wonderful time in Cuba. His breath came harshly, through a dry nose and mouth, almost hurting as he sucked at the air, as if there weren't quite enough air available.