“You are going on a trip?” Luis asked.
Flummoxed, Frankie ran a hand through her hair. She didn’t know this man. It was none of his business. “I’m moving back to the States.”
“Ahh…” Luis fell silent.
For some reason she felt compelled to explain. “It’s my father. He insists.” Now, why had she said that?
“I see.” Another pause.
Frankie’s stomach churned. She wanted to tell him more. But more of what? She stole another look at him. He was still watching her.
He took her cue. “It was a pleasure to meet you,” he said and stepped back to let her pass. “Perhaps our paths will cross again.”
• • •
Frankie wasn’t hungry that night. Restless, she paced from the patio door to the other end of the apartment. Her father was at the casino, her mother visiting a friend. She turned on the television but snapped it off after a minute. She wasn’t in the mood for “I Love Lucy” tonight. Ricky Ricardo wasn’t your average Cuban. Hollywood had stripped away his Cuban pasión, except for the silly accent.
She took the phone into her room and closed the door. Nick was back in Chicago; he wouldn’t be going back to Penn for a few more weeks. She dialed his number, made pleasantries with his mother, waited anxiously until he came on the line.
“Frankie? Is everything okay?” He sounded breathless, like she might have interrupted a game of basketball.
“Do you remember what we did the other night?” she said by way of introduction.
Nick’s voice grew husky. “Oh yes.”
“Can we do that again?”
“Oh yes.”
“I want you to imagine we’re together. Right now.”
“Frankie…” His voice rose. “Our parents.”
“Mine aren’t here.”
“Mine are.”
“Then get on the upstairs extension and take the phone into your room. I want you, Nicky.”
“Oh, Francesca. If only I could. Darling.” His breathing grew heavy.
She smiled when she heard that and imagined what she would do to him if they were together. Then, suddenly, she caught herself. What kind of wanton creature was she becoming? “I’m sorry,” she said softly.
“Are you kidding? I love this.” Nick replied. “By the way, I left the pin in an envelope by your bed. Did you find it?”
She hadn’t, but now she scrounged around the bedside table. There, in a corner held down by the lamp. “Yes. I found it.” She reached for it and tore open the envelope.
“Put it on. And then tell your parents what it means.”
“Oh Nicky, I miss you so much.”
“I love you, Frankie.”
“Me too, you.”
She hung up and felt inside the envelope, withdrew a small lapel pin. Diamond-shaped, with three Greek letters embossed in gold on a black background. She turned it over. A tiny clasp on the back could be attached to the collar of her blouse. In addition, a delicate chain extended about two inches to a second, smaller clasp. She turned it over again and gazed at it. This pin was her future. She would go back to America, and in time, Nick Antonetti, a kind, handsome, intelligent man who was crazy about her, would be her husband. They would make love every night and have lots of children. She couldn’t do better than that, could she?
CHAPTER SIX
Although the penthouse was air-conditioned, Frankie spent a restless night. She rose at dawn, sweaty and hot, with the sheets tangled between her legs. She showered, dressed, and decided to take a walk. A cup of strong Cuban coffee would set her right.
She crept out of the penthouse, taking care not to wake her parents. They would go crazy if they knew she was going out alone. Again. The day had dawned clear and surprisingly crisp, and it was an easy trek east on the Malecón. In the distance were the fortresses first built by the Spanish in the 1500’s, but before she reached them she turned south towards Havana Vieja and threaded her way through cobblestone alleys that looked like they belonged in Europe.
She was drawn to the narrow streets crammed with apartment buildings, homes, monuments, and churches, most of which had elbowed each other for centuries. Every once in a while a small courtyard would appear, giving the illusion of space, but it was just that, an illusion. Havana Vieja was the most densely populated area of the city, but the swarm of people who usually packed the streets hadn’t yet arrived.
Frankie made her way to the Plaza de la Catedral, dominated by the Cathedral of San Cristóbal and its baroque exterior and towers, one larger than the other. She slipped inside and lit a candle, asking the saints to bless her journey to America. A sign for a mass later that morning was posted, but she didn’t wait. As she exited the church she saw three young people who looked like students milling around the broad stone plaza. The University of Havana was closed. Frankie wondered what they were doing up so early.
As she turned right down a narrow street, a sudden movement behind her made her spin around. No one was there. How strange. She’d been sure she’d felt a presence. She pulled her cardigan tight. Maybe it wasn’t such a good idea to go out by herself. But she hadn’t dressed up, and she wasn’t wearing makeup. She should be able to pass. Just another Cuban woman shopping after morning mass.
The aroma of rich coffee from a small café drifted into the street. Frankie slowed, looked both ways, then went in. The café wasn’t much more than a counter and four tables, but most Cuban restaurants were run by families who lived in the back or up the stairs. She sat at a table. A radio in the back spewed out anti-Batista blather. An elderly woman with gray hair and a thick waist emerged from the back.
“Café, por favor.”
The woman nodded and disappeared. The radio went silent. A moment later, a little boy—possibly her grandson—came out gripping the cup and saucer, as if dropping it would incur the eternal wrath of his abuela. Frankie thanked him, dug in her bag for a peso, and handed it over. The boy grinned. His two front teeth were missing.
She sipped her coffee and read today’s El Diario, which she’d picked up in the lobby. The past year had been volatile, marked by sudden attacks like the bank bombing and brutal reprisals by the Batista regime. The rebels had torched sugar crops, set fire to an Esso refinery, and periodically blocked the roads outside Havana. The army mounted a campaign in the Sierra Maestra Mountains to wipe them out, but the rebels survived. Then last month the rebels had won a surprising victory at the battle of El Jigue. A story in today’s paper reported that Fidel would broadcast a speech to the entire island on a rebel radio station. The entire island!
On the other hand, the police kept arresting rebels whose pleas of innocence usually changed to guilty after a few days. And through it all, the tourists kept coming, prompting her father and his associates to build more resorts and casinos. No one she knew thought the revolution would succeed, and people carried on as if the violence was simply a fly in the ointment of progress. Still, her father’s increasingly grim expression—and the fact that he wanted her out of Cuba—told her he was worried.
He’d nagged her mother to leave too, but she announced she would never leave Cuba without him and that the conversation was over. Marlena Pacelli, an Italian-American of Sicilian descent, knew her place, and it was with her husband, no matter what.
It must be nice to have that clarity, Frankie thought. It wasn’t that she didn’t know her place, but why did they expect her to settle down right away? Why couldn’t she do something else—at least for a while? If she got a job, her parents wouldn’t have to know, and by the time they found out, she might even have been promoted. She smiled, warming to the thought, and raised her cup to her lips.
“And what does Señorita Pacelli find so amusing?”
Startled, she looked up and nearly dropped her cup. Luis Perez, the man who’d been talking to Ramon yesterday, stood by her table. It was all she could do not to let her mouth fall open. She slowly lowered the cup onto the saucer, hearing the clink of china on china. How
did he know she was here?
“You’ve been following me.”
He nodded.
“Where did you pick me up? At the Cathedral?”
“At the hotel.”
She crossed her arms. The concept of kidnapping was no longer theoretical. Her parents were right. She steeled herself for what was surely coming. At the same time, she’d be damned if she’d reveal any fear. “Leave me alone or I’ll have you arrested.”
The old lady came out from behind the shop. Her eyebrow arched, and she eyed Luis. “Is there a problem?”
Luis raised his hands in a gesture of surrender. “No, Señora. There is no problem. I mean the Señorita no harm.” He turned to Frankie. “I—I wanted to talk to you. Alone. Without Ramon.”
Frankie looked into his eyes. For a moment her world tilted. Then it tilted back. She didn’t know this man. He could be anyone. He was dangerous.
He pulled out a chair and sat down. “It is all right?”
This time her mouth did open. The nerve! The old woman planted her hands on her hips and cocked her head, as if to ask, “Should I call the police?”
Luis gazed at her, the smile more in his eyes than his lips. Frankie gazed back. “Thank you. It won’t be necessary.”
The woman hesitated, then turned and disappeared.
“Who are you? What do you want? Why were you at La Perla yesterday?”
“All questions I intend to answer. But first I clearly need to win your trust. I hope you will permit me to try.”
Frankie hardly knew this man, but she’d known he’d say that. They sat across the table, a distance between them, but something was drawing them together. A Santería god working its magic?
He smiled, as if reading her mind. “You feel it too,” he said. “You will deny it, but you have been struck by el flechazo. And wounded by its sweet poison.”
She didn’t answer. She sensed that this man was going to change her life. At the precise moment she knew where it was heading. She felt untethered, as if her body had become too light for earth’s gravity. She searched for something to say. Nothing came out.
“Te comieron la lengua los ratones?” He laughed. Did the mice eat your tongue?
She made a last effort to assert control, but it was just for show. “How can you be so sure I want anything to do with you?”
“If I am wrong, you should get up, leave a few pesos for the coffee, and go back to your hotel.”
Her unsettled feeling grew. He was right. She should leave. Retreat to familiar territory. To stay was madness.
She stayed.
“I am a law student,” he finally said. “Or was. I left university before it closed. Ramon and I have known each other since we were boys and pulled the tails off lizards together.”
“Why were you at La Perla?”
He hesitated, then leaned forward. As he did, his scent drifted toward her. Dark and male. With a touch of oil. So different than Nicky’s.
“I have recruited Ramon to our cause,” he said softly.
Frankie felt as if a steel blade had sliced through the table. “You are with the rebels.”
Luis laced his hands together. Only then did she realize he was as nervous as she. He had taken a huge risk. She looked away.
“You’re going to kidnap me, aren’t you? Spirit me off to the mountains and use me for ransom.”
“Look at me, Francesca.”
A shiver ran up her spine as he called her name. Rolling it over his tongue like music. She looked back.
“I will never harm you. And I want nothing from you. ” He paused. “No. That is not true. I want everything.”
For the second time in a minute she couldn’t catch her breath. He leaned forward and stretched his hand toward hers, palm up. Then, as if her hand had a mind of its own, it slid forward and covered his.
• • •
Tony Pacelli didn’t particularly like Meyer Lansky. No one did. People respected him. And feared him, especially after his buddy Bugsy Siegel was whacked and people figured out Lansky himself was behind it. When it happened, more than a few were surprised, mostly because Lansky wasn’t a paisano. He was a Jew from New York. A small man with small eyes, a big nose and ears. His hair was slicked back, he wore nice suits, and he kept himself well-groomed. But Tony rarely saw him smile, except when he was with his wife Teddy. He was all business. Still, Pacelli had to admit that Lansky had made him rich. Thanks to him, Pacelli owned a good chunk of La Perla, and had been invited to invest in other projects, most of them outside Cuba.
So when Lansky called for a meeting that afternoon, Pacelli made sure his office was stocked with fresh coffee, booze, and water. Whatever the Little Man wanted. He put on a fresh shirt.
As usual Lansky was punctual, arriving on the dot of four with two beefy bodyguards. Like him, the bodyguards were dressed in suits and ties despite the temperature, which had to be well into the nineties. Pacelli stuck out his hand. Lansky gave it a weak shake. Pacelli motioned him to a small circular table. “This is a rare honor,” he said, smiling.
Lansky shot him a look that was half-simper, half-grimace. Pacelli was relieved. With people he didn’t know or didn’t like, Lansky remained stone-faced.
“What can I get you?”
Lansky lifted his palm. “Nothing.” He settled in the chair across from Pacelli. “Our friend wants us to increase his cut.”
“El Presidente?” It was well known Fulgencio Batista had practically begged Lansky to set up shop in Havana years ago. Lansky complied, emerging from the shadows of the U.S. Mafia to create a gambling mecca on the island, all of it legal. It was also well known that in return for allowing Lansky and his friends to control the casinos and racetracks, Batista took a healthy piece of the action.
“He’s becoming insatiable,” Lansky said.
“You think he’s protecting himself in case—” Pacelli was reluctant to say the words “rebels” or “revolution” for fear it would lend them too much credibility.
“I can’t answer that. I don’t talk to him much.”
Pacelli hid his surprise. He had assumed Lansky and Batista were joined at the hip.
“But our partners up north are worried. With Castro all over the New York Times, and the pullout of the Vegas operators, we’re in a tough spot.”
In a move designed to improve the struggling Vegas casino business, the Nevada Gaming Commission had decreed last April that anyone holding a license in Nevada would have to pull out of Cuba if they wanted to remain in Vegas. Several operators did.
“I hate to admit it,” Pacelli said grimly, “but bookings at La Perla are down for the first time.”
Lansky scowled. “How much?”
“Not much. Maybe eight per cent.”
“I’m hearing that from Santo as well.” Tony knew he was talking about mobster Santo Trafficante, who was also heavily invested in Havana. “Well, we’ll drop our prices. The airlines will go along.”
“What happened to the meeting in the Dominican Republic?”
It was an open secret that given the problems in Cuba, Lansky, Trafficante and others were looking for opportunities elsewhere in the Caribbean.
Lansky leveled a strange look his way. “It didn’t turn out the way we hoped.”
Pacelli knew enough not to pursue it.
“I don’t see a way around this,” Lansky said. “For the time being, we’ll have to cut a few corners. Cough up another twenty-five K to feed the beast.”
“A month?”
“A week.”
Pacelli rolled his eyes.
“Yeah, I know. Used to be all we hadda do was sell a few more shares to our friends. But now, with the Vegas situation, a lot of people are on the sidelines.”
“They’re waiting to see what happens.”
“It’s a goddammed shame. But don’t worry, Tony. We’re still the best investment this island has ever seen. Even if Castro deposes Batista, he’ll never close the casinos. We make too much money. Think about
it. We’ve brought stability and progress to Cuba. And not just us. The banks, the electric company, United Fruit. Esso. Castro is not a stupid man. We’ll have a new partner. You’ll see.”
He smiled then, forcing Tony to respond with one of his own. But inside Pacelli was incredulous. Did Lansky really believe what he was saying? Tony’s sources told him Batista’s chances of surviving were two to one. Against. Hadn’t Lansky been listening to Castro? Overthrow the regime. Nationalize. Reform. Share the wealth with Cubans, not foreigners. Was he nuts? Or had self-interest made him blind and deaf?
Lansky rose from his chair. “Sorry about this, Tony, but it’s just temporary. Until this business is resolved.”
“I understand.”
Lansky went on. “My wife Teddy is in Florida for a while. You thinking about relocating your family?”
“My daughter’s leaving next week. My wife… well,” he said, “she won’t go.”
Lansky clapped him on the shoulder, not an easy thing since Pacelli towered over him. “You got a good one, Tony. Count your blessings.”
Pacelli watched him go. Then he went back to his desk. He thought about what Lansky had said. The Little Man wasn’t really interested in Pacelli’s future, no matter what he claimed. No one would look out for Tony except Tony. He’d worked hard. He’d achieved. He wouldn’t let it slip through his fingers without a fight. He picked up the phone. He hesitated, then dialed a number. This would change everything.
“You know that proposition we’ve been talking about?” he said in his quiet, silky voice. “Well, I’m in.”
CHAPTER SEVEN
Frankie couldn’t decide what to wear. Usually she threw on whatever was clean—she changed clothes several times a day during the hot season. This morning, though, she tried on at least three different outfits before settling on a pair of blue shorts, white blouse, and sandals. She paid special attention to her make-up, ensuring that her Maybelline mascara, eyeliner, and eye shadow were perfect. She swept her hair up in a twist, put on a hat and sunglasses, and sneaked out of La Perla before her mother was awake, a pattern she had followed every day this week.
[2012] Havana Lost Page 4
