[2012] Havana Lost

by Libby Fischer Hellmann

  But her mother surprised her. “Cara mia, I want you to be safe, and Havana isn’t safe any more.” She glanced at her husband. “I’m sure this is only—temporary. Things will settle down. Then you can come back.”

  “But Mama—”

  “Silencio,” her father ordered. “Don’t you understand you are a target? There’s nothing more the rebels would like than to kidnap one of their enemies.” He paused. “And you’d better believe we are their enemy.” He looked at Nick. “When do you fly back?”

  “Tuesday.”

  Her father nodded. “That’s plenty of time to pack, Francesca. Your mother will ship the rest of your things. You can stay with your Aunt Connie. I’ll call her this afternoon.”

  Frankie stiffened. “I can’t possibly get everything together in two days. I’ll need at least a month.”

  Her father scowled. “Too long. I want you back in Chicago.”

  “A few weeks, at least,” Frankie said.

  “You have until the end of August.”

  Two weeks. She’d bought herself a little time. She nodded, fighting back tears.

  “All right. That’s settled.” As far as Frankie’s father was concerned, the conversation was over. He could take it off his to-do list. His expression turned pleasant; you might almost call it a smile. He shooed them out with his hand. “Now, I know you lovebirds have other things to do.” He chuckled. “Don’t do anything I wouldn’t.” Which was a cue for her mother to raise her eyebrows in mock horror. Which she did.

  Frankie noted the flush that crept up Nick’s neck. He was probably remembering what they did in his room after they came back from their walk on the Malecón last night. Frankie, full of the sensual Cuban music, had been hungry for his touch, and Nick had obliged in a way of which her father would definitely not have approved. Now they exchanged sly smiles.

  If he treated her that way every night, maybe it wouldn’t be so bad to be married to Nick. In fact, it might be the very thing she needed.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  That night Frankie and Nick stayed at the hotel. Although La Perla’s casino was bigger than the Nacional’s and air-conditioned, too many bodies in one space made for a distinctive blend of odors: perfume, hairspray, and smoke, all of it overlaid with losers’ sweat. A trio played softly in a corner; her father was experimenting to see if people gambled more with live music. The alternative would be to pipe music in. Frankie didn’t care one way or the other. Crooner Tony Martin was performing in the nightclub; she and Nicky would be going to the ten o’clock show.

  Underneath the music she heard the chink of martini glasses, the jangle of the slots, the clack of dice on green felt tables, the shuffle of cards, the squeals from people with winning hands. It was barely nine, but already it was packed, and a thick haze of cigarette smoke hovered below the chandeliers. Cigars would be lit later, at which time Frankie would leave. Made from the finest tobacco, from Pinar del Rio and Havana, they were gifts to players from “management,” but she couldn’t stand the smell.

  The women were dressed in low-cut gowns or cocktail dresses and most dripped plenty of pearls and diamonds that caught the light. One or two had mink stoles draped over their shoulders, although it was eighty degrees outside. Most of the men wore suits and ties, but the dealers and Tony Pacelli and Nick were in tuxedos. The more a gambler lost, the more formal and gracious the staff grew, as if elegance and good manners were the consolation prizes for going broke.

  Still, the casinos were known for their honesty. Meyer Lansky, the overlord of Havana casinos, insisted on dealers and croupiers with the highest integrity. According to Frankie’s father, the Little Man had worked out the probabilities of gambling, and realized the odds always favored the house. There was no need to stack the deck. If anyone was caught skimming, other than Lansky and Batista, of course, they could count on big trouble. With rigorous standards in place, you could almost forget that Havana was run by the largest criminal organization in the world.

  Frankie made the rounds on Nicky’s arm. She watched an elderly lady with white hair playing roulette. The woman’s expression never changed as the marble clattered around the wheel. She moved her chips from one number to another after it settled. At the crap table a couple who couldn’t keep their hands off each other whooped with every throw of the dice. A quartet of men at the blackjack table tossed back shots and either joked or swore at the dealer.

  Frankie turned to Nick. “You want to play the slots?”

  He slipped his arm around her. “I’m not much of a player. And I already have the best hand in the house.” He squeezed her shoulder.

  A waiter passed carrying a tray of champagne. Frankie lifted two glasses and turned around to hand Nick his, but he was staring at a dark, handsome man playing poker. The man was surrounded by a bevy of young blondes, one of whom lit his cigarette, while another handed him a drink.

  “Is that who I think it is? The actor, what’s his name?”

  “You mean George Raft?”

  Nick nodded.

  Frankie smiled and handed him a glass of champagne. “It is. He owns part of a casino not far from here. He comes down between movies to say hi and check things out.”

  “Really? That’s strange, you know?”

  “What do you mean?” Frankie sipped her champagne.

  “Well, he plays gangsters in the movies… and now…” Suddenly Nick cut himself off. “Oh no. I’m sorry. I didn’t mean—”

  Frankie’s smile widened. “Don’t worry. I know what you mean.” She paused. “Maybe it’s good that I’m going back to America.”

  “Really?”

  Frankie looked around. “There’s more to life than Havana. This is my father’s world. Maybe it’s time to discover my own.”

  “I’ll help you every step of the way,” Nick said eagerly.

  Frankie kissed his cheek.

  Nick gazed back at the women around Raft. “Well, at least the guy’s in good company.”

  “Oh, he’s small fry. You should see the place when the Rat Pack is here.”

  “I’ll bet.” Nick sipped his champagne.

  She laughed. “They only come in winter, though.”

  They kept moving through the crowd. “So why do you want to have a restaurant, Frankie?”

  She stopped. “When I was little, I was raised by a Cuban nanny. I was always at her apron strings. She taught me how to cook. Sang me Spanish songs and lullabies. Told me tales of Santería magic. I knew she wasn’t my mother, but…” She turned pensive. “Anyway, when I was about six, she got sick. We didn’t know what was wrong, but one day she didn’t come to work. Or the next. Or the day after. My parents finally had to let her go.”

  “What happened?”

  “I never found out. They wouldn’t let me see her. But one day, not long afterwards, they told me she died. I cried for days.” She paused. “I thought she was family, you know? And that we were deserting her. But Papa said she wasn’t. She was just the help.”

  Nick brushed a lock of hair off her forehead. “You really do have a big heart.”

  She went on as if she hadn’t heard. “So that’s why I was thinking of starting a restaurant. Or maybe a coffee house. For all those Beatniks I keep hearing about.”

  Nick chuckled. “What if your husband doesn’t want you to work? What if he wants you to raise three wonderful children instead?”

  Frankie smiled back. “I could manage both. If not, I’m sure my ‘husband’ would let me know. After all, family is the most important thing.”

  “Speaking of which…” Nick pointed with his chin. Tony Pacelli stood at the entrance to the casino. Another man in a tuxedo—one of the croupiers, Frankie guessed—was motioning her father over to a corner where a couple of barrel-chested, bull-necked men had flanked two people. Frankie and Nick crept closer. Her father’s back was to them.

  The man in the center of the tiny group was middle-aged, fleshy, and American. Thinning blond hair fell across his forehead, and hi
s suit, while expensive-looking, hadn’t been tailored and bunched in all the wrong places. A young buxom brunette in a tight blue satin sheath and too much make-up was by his side. The man was red-faced and sweating, and the way he swayed back and forth made it clear he’d had a few.

  The band went on break, but the noise in the room more than compensated. Despite that, his voice carried over it.

  “If you really wanna help me,” the man sounded belligerent, “you’ll tell me where it is.”

  Her father replied in a low voice. “Not here, Mr. Whittier. Not now.”

  “What the hell you think I came to Havana for? The weather?”

  Her father gently took the man’s arm. “Why don’t you and your lady friend come with me and we’ll figure this out.”

  The man shook off her father’s hand. “Bullshit. All I want is the fucking address of the sex house.” He made a sloppy gesture toward the brunette and leered. “So I can watch her get fucked.”

  “Please, Mr. Whittier. Keep your voice down. I told you we don’t furnish those recommendations to our guests.”

  “Then you better talk to your bellman, ‘cause he sure as hell does.” The man began to sway again. “How did I know I’d lose the damn card?”

  “Mr. Whittier, I think it’s time you came with us.” Pacelli’s voice was still quiet and relaxed, as if he had all the time in the world.

  “Who do you think you are? The fucking pope? You’re a stupid guinea. An asshole gangster. Get away from me!”

  Her father nodded at the two muscle men, who gripped the man under his shoulders.

  Whittier squinted at one goon, then the other. “Lemme go. Unless you’re taking me where I wanna go.”

  “What is he talking about?” Nick whispered.

  Frankie led him away from the group. “There are private homes in Havana where tourists can watch live sex shows. Even choose a woman or man who will have sex in front of them. We don’t approve, of course. But the tourists… they think they can do whatever they want in Havana. Anything goes.”

  “No wonder your father wants you to go home.”

  “This city is no different than any other place. If you look, you will find it.” She slipped her hand in his. “But we don’t need to stay here. Come. Let’s go see Tony Martin.”

  But Nick stayed her hand and watched as the men dragged Whittier, still shouting and cursing, out of the casino. His girlfriend was told to remain where she was. She looked frightened and alone.

  “Where are they taking him?” Nick asked.

  “Where do you think?”

  Nick blinked. “Why not just kick him out?”

  “Because he’s not like us, Nicky. He’s a pig.”

  “He wouldn’t be the first pig to come to Havana.”

  “Yes, but my father thinks he needs to be taught a lesson.”

  CHAPTER FIVE

  Two days later, Frankie took Nick to the airport; or rather, accompanied Enrico as he drove Nick in the Cadillac. Havana was home to thousands of Buicks, De Sotos, Oldsmobiles, and Packards with huge fins and lots of chrome. Their sheer size made traffic sluggish, although it wasn’t as bad as rush hour in Chicago, Nick said. Still, the preponderance of American cars, casinos, entertainers, and businesses that migrated from the mainland helped fuel the notion that Havana was simply another American outpost.

  Back at La Perla, Frankie went down to the storage area in the hotel’s basement to get her suitcases. Her mother, a notorious pack rat, had kept all her childhood possessions: her roller skates, the hula hoop that she had to have after seeing it on Candid Camera, her books, her records. The furniture from the house in Miramar was here, too: a large floral couch and matching chair, not as elegant as the furnishings in the penthouse, and her old four-poster bed, the one with a pink and orange canopy that made her feel like a princess.

  And there was the cabinet that held her collection of painted snails. Unique to Cuba, the snails weren’t really painted, but their shells were so colorful and intricately designed that legend said they’d been painted by the sun. Over the years, they’d become highly sought after and quite valuable, so her parents, and then Frankie herself, made it a point to buy every snail they found. Her father had paid to have a glass-fronted display case made. It had hung on her bedroom wall.

  She knelt beside a box packed with the snails and unwrapped one. It was bright yellow with a perfect white swirl around its middle, and another deep blue swirl near the top. She clasped it to her chest, unprepared for the wave of sadness that swept over her. Her entire life in Cuba was spread out on this floor. And she was going to leave it, probably forever. She lightly caressed everything in reach. Mama had to ship everything back to the States. Otherwise, what record would there be of her existence?

  After a moment, she reluctantly rewrapped the snails and returned them to the box. She stood and pulled out two big suitcases. She was looking forward to going back. Rock and roll had become a huge phenomenon in the States. Nick kept telling her about Elvis Presley, who’d been inducted into the army a few months earlier, and there was Buddy Holly, Ricky Nelson, and Johnny Mathis. She couldn’t wait to see them. Of course, they’d get front row tickets for any show or sporting event they wanted. It wouldn’t be all bad.

  She started to drag the suitcases out, but they were heavier than she expected so she decided to ask one of the hotel workers to bring them up to the penthouse. She took the stairs back up to the lobby and cut across to the pool, hoping to run into Ramon, Enrico, or one of the other men who worked at La Perla.

  She blinked as she went outside. There was no breeze, and the heat was so ruthless that waves of hot air rose from the concrete. The kidney-shaped pool was enormous. A bar was built in at one end so that guests could sip a daiquiri or mojito while in the water. A kiddie pool was beside the big one, and dozens of lounge chairs sprawled on the patio. Everything—tiles, umbrellas, and chairs—was an artificial blue or yellow or white. The pool was filled mostly with women, and the hum of conversation was punctuated by children’s laughs. Husbands and fathers were undoubtedly at the tables.

  The waiters serving drinks and sandwiches poolside wore white jackets with long sleeves, bow ties, and pants. They had to be sweltering, Frankie thought as she scanned the scene. She didn’t see any familiar faces, so she went back inside. When she pushed through the door, the contrast between the outside glare and the dim interior temporarily blinded her, but she could hear a conversation a few feet away. Men. Talking in Spanish. Almost whispering. As her eyes adjusted, she saw two men in a corner on chairs they’d pushed so close together their knees touched. Although Frankie had attended the American school, she was fluent in Spanish, and she picked up that one of the men needed something the other could supply. She looked over.

  One of the men was Ramon, the waiter at the nightclub whose mother needed medicine. He must be working the day shift. Frankie had never seen the other man. She slowed to take a closer look, but as she did, he turned toward her, and their eyes met.

  He wasn’t that handsome. He had thick, dark, unruly hair that refused to lie straight and stuck out at all angles, and his Roman nose was too big for his face. His lips were full, his chin unimpressive. His skin was olive, and in the dim light, appeared sallow. But it was his eyes—dark and smoky—and the expression in them that made it impossible for her to look away. Insolent. Challenging. As if she had crossed a line by staring at him, and he would show her. She couldn’t remember anyone looking at her that way. Then his expression softened. It was subtle, but she could tell he liked what he saw. Her pulse sped up.

  A glint of amusement seemed to fly out from him and connected with her. She found herself firing it back. Communication received and returned. It couldn’t have lasted longer than a second, but Frankie felt as if they’d shared an intense conversation. Then she had been released. But from what? Who was this man?

  She turned toward Ramon, who had been watching their exchange. His tone changed, and he lowered his voice. He was
telling his friend that she was the boss’s daughter and not to mess with her. She expected the friend to show surprise, perhaps embarrassment, but he did something that flustered her. Instead of looking away or down at the floor, his amusement deepened. As if he’d seen straight into her soul.

  Finally he broke eye contact and whispered to Ramon. Frankie couldn’t hear what, but Ramon’s reaction was to violently shake his head. His friend repeated whatever he’d said. Again Ramon shook his head, this time lifting his palms as if to ward off danger. Frankie knew she should leave. She stayed.

  The man rose from his chair. He was about three inches taller than her, and his body didn’t carry an ounce of fat. He walked—no—sauntered over.

  “Señorita Pacelli,” he said. His voice was deep but melodious.

  Frankie cocked her head. “Si?”

  He took her hand, making sure he kept his eyes on her.

  “I am Luis,” he said in Spanish. “Luis Perez.”

  She replied in Spanish. “And what brings you to La Perla, Señor Perez?”

  “I am visiting my friend, Ramon.”

  “I see.” The words seemed inadequate. Insubstantial. She turned to Ramon. “How is your mother?”

  “Better, Señorita. Gracias.” Was there a touch of disdain in his voice?

  “Bueno.” She realized Luis was still holding her hand. She eyed it.

  He let it go. “I am honored to make your acquaintance.”

  She raised her hand to her cheek. “I must go.” She turned away, wondering why she’d come downstairs, and started toward the elevator. She remembered at the last minute and spun around. “Ramon, there are two suitcases in the storage area. They’re too heavy for me. Could you please bring them upstairs?”

  “Of course, Señorita.”