JC2 The Raiders (26 page)

"Do you love them?" Jo-Ann asked.

Bat nodded. "Of course."

Jo-Ann scooted across the couch to sit close to him.

She reached for his hand. "You and I would have loved each
other."

"Yes."

"Still can," she said.

He squeezed her hand. "Of course."

"Nevada gave me some advice," she said softly. "He
told me to give my love to a man I could trust. A man who would
accept responsibility for the consequences."

"That was good advice."

She lifted his hand and kissed it. "Nevada and I weren't talking
about the kind of love you're thinking about."

"Jo-Ann ... ?"

"A man I can trust," she said simply,
directly. Then her voice rose, and she said, "I'm a
virgin
,
goddammit!"

Bat frowned. "You've had too much to drink."

Jo-Ann snatched up her glass and drank the Scotch he had poured.
"Drunk! You think I'm drunk. No. Let me tell you what I am. I'm
Jonas Cord's daughter. I'm the granddaughter of another Jonas Cord.
When I heard about you, I wondered if you were a Cord at all, or some
kind of fraud. There was never a Cord by the name who'd turn down a
shot of whiskey or a piece of virgin pussy!"

She grabbed at the hem of her slip and pulled it up and over her
head. She was wearing panties but no bra.

"Jo-Ann," he murmured.

"C'mon, big brother. You a Cord, or you not?"

"My sister —"

"My brother. So what the shit? You're the man I can trust, if
you've got the guts. Brother and sister. We're gonna love each other
— brother and sister, for the rest of our lives. If I can't
trust my brother, who can I trust? I need your help, big brother.
Besides the fucking I need from you right now, I need a standard to
compare with."

"Our father —"

"Jonas will
laugh
if he finds out,
which he doesn't have to. He'd do it himself if he were here. Only I
wouldn't let him.
Him
, I wouldn't trust. Hey, brother! Look at
me! Toni have nicer tits than these?"

For a moment Bat closed his eyes. "Oh, Christ," he
muttered.

"You wouldn't know maybe, but Nevada Smith
was a great man," said Jo-Ann. "Greater than our father and
grandfather in some ways. He said something to me — I wrote it
down when I got back to my room, and I think I've got it exactly the
way he said it. He said. This thing we're talkin' about, it's mine,
it's your'n, it's his'n, it's her'n. It's nobody else's but. And it's
not worth moanin' and groanin' and worryin' and hurryin' about. Live,
little girl! Pee when you have to and fuck when you want to.'
You
bastard
, I want to!"

" 'Bastard.' You used the wrong word, little
sister. Okay, I'll fuck you outta your mind!"

Jo-Ann grinned. "Promise? Promise it's going to be everything
I've ever heard about!"

Everything she'd ever heard about.

Jo-Ann had seen pictures but had never seen a male organ before. He
guided her hand to it and let her examine it with her fingers before
he brought it near her. She satisfied her curiosity. She had been
told it would be hard, but it wasn't hard; it was just stiff. She had
been told it would be cold. She had been told it would be hot. It was
neither. She curled her hand around it and squeezed it gently. A drop
of gleaming moisture appeared on the rosebud of its tip. She pinched
the drop off between her thumb and finger and tested it. It was
slippery.

"Life," he said quietly.

They lay on his bed. She wanted to be kissed more before he entered
her, so she rolled on her side and pressed her mouth to his. He
responded forcefully. They kissed so hard she could taste blood from
her lips. Then he turned gentle and pushed his tongue into her mouth.
She had heard of this but had not imagined the lazy delight she would
find in it. They lay side by side for a long time, their tongues
caressing each other. She held his penis in her hand, and he stroked
her wet private place with one long finger.

Until his patience ran out. Then he pushed her over on her back and
rose to straddle her. For a moment she was afraid. For a moment she
was sorry she had brought herself to this point. Then it was too late
for fear, too late for regret.

He was tough and he was tender. He was gentle and he was rough. He
hurt her and he soothed her. He subdued her and he exalted her. She
shrieked and writhed under his unrelenting deep strokes: from pain
and pleasure so intermixed she could not separate them. And when he
finished and withdrew, she was hurt, she was exhausted, she was
drenched with sweat; she was submerged in warmth and wonder.

For sure she would never again live without it.

"Big brother," she whispered, playfully mimicking a girl
child.

"Hmm?"

"How soon can we do it again?"

"In a few minutes," he said. "Then never again after
tonight."

FOUR MONTHS AFTER THE DEATH OF NEVADA SMITH — that is, in late
summer 1953 — Bat flew to Havana. Jonas sent him. It was the
first time Bat would be working alone, without his father's close
supervision.

Fulgencio Batista had sent Jonas an invitation to come to Havana,
delivered as a personal message by the Cuban consul-general in New
York. Batista hoped Jonas Cord would invest money in Cuba:
specifically in building a casino-hotel. Jonas had replied that he
could not come anytime soon but would send his son, Jonas Enrique
Raul Cord y Batista.

They sat down over dinner in the presidential palace. Batista
pronounced himself overjoyed to make the acquaintance at last of his
niece's son.

"We've met before, of course," he said, speaking Spanish.
"I came to Cordoba. You were but a child."

"I remember," said Bat.

"I came again. You were in Europe fighting the war."

Fulgencio Batista was fifty-two years old that year, a compact man
who still carried himself as the army officer he had been. He
appeared to be of Spanish-Indian extraction: swarthy of complexion,
with dark eyes and brushed-back hair held in place with a fragrant
oil. He wore a cream-colored single-breasted suit, a pearl-gray
shirt, and a red-and-blue tie in a bold pattern. On his left hand he
wore a massive gold ring.

They talked for a while about nothing consequential. Then Batista
explained why he had invited the Cords to come to Cuba.

"It is too bad that neither you nor your father has ever come
here before," he said. "This country is poor, but this
island is beautiful. The climate is better than Miami's. The beaches
are extraordinary. The fishing is superb. The flight is short and
easy. The Cuban people are hospitable. No nation in the world offers
more beautiful — or complaisant — women. I have
determined to build our economy by making Cuba attractive to
tourists. Anyone who invests merely two hundred thousand dollars in a
hotel or motel can have a gaming license. Cord Hotels, Incorporated,
wants to build a casino-hotel in Las Vegas. Why not build it here?"

"The
Saturday Evening Post
article —"
Bat started to say. He referred to an article published in that
magazine in the spring, exposing dishonest practices in Cuban
casinos.

"But you do not know what we did," Batista interrupted. "I
turned the army against the card sharps. Military intelligence was
given the task of identifying them. Many were Americans. We arrested
them and deported them. The Cubans were released from jail with a
warning they would return to jail and stay there if they ever went
near a casino again. Now we play by new rules. The razzle-dazzle
games — eight-dice games and all that — are forbidden. We
know we cannot attract the clientele we want if we allow cheating."

"It's hard to control," said Bat.

"I've hired an expert," said Batista. "You know him.
Meyer Lansky."

"I've never met him," said Bat. "My father knows him."

"A really profitable gaming operation," said Batista, "can
only operate if the people who play can have confidence in it. That's
what Lansky knows: what the rules should be and how to enforce the
rules. Strictly."

"That's what we're doing in Las Vegas," said Bat. "Playing
by the rules. Including the tax laws."

"I want to make Cuba the Monte Carlo of the Caribbean,"
said Batista. "Most Americans don't want to take the time or
spend the money to fly to the Mediterranean, but here — a short
flight from their shores — we can provide everything Monte
Carlo offers and more."

Bat accepted Great-Uncle Fulgencio's offer of "a really superior
girl" for the night and woke exhausted and hungry when the
telephone rang and the hotel operator said a Mr. Lansky would like to
see him. Five minutes later Meyer Lansky was at the door. Wearing a
white terry-cloth robe. Bat welcomed him in.

The word about Lansky was that he was a small man. He was: a solemn
little man, prematurely aged as Bat judged him. His temples were
gray, his face was marked with liver spots, and his eyes looked
weary. He had an extraordinarily big nose. He bore the marks, too, of
a heavy smoker. He wore a dark-blue suit that looked a little too
large for him, a white shirt, and a bow tie.

"I wasn't expecting you," Bat said.

"I can come back another time," said Lansky.

"No. Sit down. You'll have to forgive me, though. There's a girl
in the bathroom, and breakfast is on its way up. She'll be out of the
suite in five minutes. I ordered for two. Can you use some
breakfast?"

"Just the coffee," said Lansky.

"I'm told it's a Cord family trait to be hungry in the morning,"
said Bat. "I'm only gradually picking up on Cord family traits.
Anyway, I'm glad you're here. We have some things to talk about."

Lansky sat down in a leather-upholstered chair facing the couch where
Bat would sit and take his breakfast off the coffee table. "The
President," he said, "made you a pitch about building a
casino-hotel here."

"Right."

"If he can make it work, what he's talking about, there's a ton
of money to be scooped up in Cuba."

"The country isn't stable," said Bat.

"Once there's a big American investment, certain people will
lend their talents to make it stable," said Lansky.

Bat shook his head. "I wish you hadn't mentioned it."

"I've got nothing to do with that," said Lansky. "You'll
have nothing to do with it. It'll happen just the same, and the
President will accept the help he gets."

"We'll all be tarred with the same brush," said Bat.

"Would you refuse to take profits from oil because John D.
Rockefeller was a robber baron?" asked Lansky.

"You're a consultant to President Batista. You're a consultant
to us. Is there a conflict of interests?" Bat asked.

Lansky shrugged. "Find one," he said. "My job for the
President is to make gaming profitable in Cuba — by making it
honest. That's what your father asked me to do for The Seven Voyages.
That and to avoid a tax prosecution by stopping the skimming. There's
money to be made in Cuba. I wish I had enough to build a casino of my
own."

"I'd be reluctant to make a long-term investment in Cuba,"
said Bat. "And I know my father would be reluctant. It would
take ten years to recover the money it would take to build a hotel.
Cuban governments don't last that long. You may be confident in the
staying power of my great-uncle, but I am skeptical."

Lansky pursed his fleshy lips and frowned. He lit another cigarette.
"You don't have to build a hotel to have a casino," he
said.

"I know. If you invest two hundred thousand, they'll give you a
gaming license. Surely you have two hundred thousand, Mr. Lansky."

"My money is tied up in a place called the Montmartre Club,"
said Lansky. "Ask around about it."

"I already have," said Bat. "You attract the high
rollers because they know the Montmartre is run to the Meyer Lansky
standards. Serious gamblers respect you and your club."

"But they leave my tables to go get something to eat, to see a
show, to get laid. I can't afford to build a big swimming pool for
their wives to lie around while they play. Look, Mr. Cord —"

"Call me Bat."

"Okay. And call me Meyer. You know the origin of the name Meyer?
It comes from the name of a rabbi called Mei-or, meaning 'the bringer
of light.' I was born Meier Suchowljanski. When we arrived in New
York forty years ago, my father changed me from Meier to Meyer and
changed us all from Suchowljanski to Lansky."

Bat smiled. "I am Jonas Enrique Raul Cord y Batista," he
said.

"Anyway, Bat, I have an idea. I'd like to
install a casino in a hotel like the Floresta — which is a
hotel
, with pool and shops and all that. I could attract the
serious gamblers the way I do at the Montmartre. I'd also get the
tourists, who'd know they were playing honest games."

"The way the new Vegas hotels work," said Bat.

"Exactly. Ben Siegel saw the connection. The difference is that
Havana is a tropical paradise, not a dusty desert town. What's more
important, Chicago and everything east of it are a lot closer to
Havana than they are to Las Vegas."

"Are you making a proposition, Meyer?"

"A million dollars will build a gaming room and a show room on
the Floresta," said Lansky. "It's a more modest operation,
but the investment can be recovered in four years, maybe less."

"The President wants Cord Hotels, Incorporated, to build a
casino-hotel."

"Tell him you want to test the waters by investing in the
Floresta," said Lansky. "If that's a winning proposition,
you'll do something more. I can assure you he'll welcome an
investment of one million."

"I want to see the Floresta," said Bat. "I'll want to
talk to President Batista."

"How much of a commitment did you make to him?" Jonas
asked. They sat over lunch at the Four Seasons. Bat had returned from
Mexico and was reporting to his father on his talks with Fulgencio
Batista and Meyer Lansky.