[2012] Havana Lost

by Libby Fischer Hellmann

  The kid fished in his pocket, brought out matches, flipped them to Ramon. Ramon took his time lighting up. He inhaled, blew out smoke. The kid had half a foot on him, but Ramon wanted him to know who was in control.

  The kid waved away smoke.

  Finally Ramon spoke. “So?”

  The informant dropped his cigarette on the ground and crushed it. “First, the money.”

  The kid was no dummy. Ramon felt in his pocket, drew out a few bills, handed them over.

  “We just got back from the Escambray Mountains.” The kid slipped the bills into his pocket. “We made a drop.”

  That’s where Che Guevara was holed up, Ramon knew. Che was his hero. “You were there?”

  The kid looked proud. “I was one of the drivers.”

  Ramon struggled to keep his composure. It wasn’t fair. He was the one who should be with Che. Not this skinny little kid. “And?”

  “My boss was making the final count, making sure all the guns and ammo were there—”

  “Get to the point,” Ramon cut in.

  “We saw your man.”

  “Luis Perez?”

  The kid nodded. “He looked different. His hair was lighter, and he was wearing glasses, but I remembered him from the job at the police station.”

  Ramon nodded. Six months earlier, their cell worked with a couple of others to set fire to a police station downtown. It hadn’t been successful—the police put the fire out before much damage was done, but it was great for morale and courage. He thought he recalled the kid. Gangly. Scared. A new recruit.

  “I’m going to need proof,” Ramon said. “And I want to meet your leader.”

  “That will never happen. He doesn’t meet with strangers.”

  “Then how do I know it’s really Perez?”

  “Because he said he’s only been in Santa Clara a couple of months. Him and his ‘wife.’”

  Ramon straightened. “His wife? You saw her?”

  He shook his head.

  Ramon deflated.

  “We drove back to Santa Clara together. Me, my boss, and Perez. Perez said how hungry he was and how his wife was such a good cook. But then my boss said he thought he recognized Perez from Havana. Perez said it was impossible. That he was from Santa Lucia. His wife, too. He clammed up after that. Wouldn’t say a thing. Had us drop him off on a street corner.”

  “Do you know where they live?”

  “No.”

  “And you don’t know what he’s doing.”

  “All I know is that he spends time with Che. Cienfuegos, too.”

  “I need to know where they’re living.”

  A shrewd look came over the kid. “I can maybe find out… but it’ll cost you.”

  Ramon fisted his hands. Pacelli had given him money to spread around, and he had skimmed a little to buy food. He didn’t have much left. He studied the kid. It was bad enough that Luis was spending time with Che and Cienfuegos while Ramon was stuck in Havana. It was worse that he, Ramon, was in danger of being bumped off if he didn’t come through. He was supposed to be by Luis’s side. Not the girl. The Santería witch. Meanwhile he had been reduced to doling out bribes. Ramon was so angry he thought his head might explode, with steam blasting out, like in the cartoons. Then he remembered who his boss was. He told the kid he’d be in touch and headed back to Pacelli.

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  Tony Pacelli put the phone down and rubbed his hands together. The spic had told him about the lead last night. His first instinct was to send his men to Santa Clara right away; stage a late-night raid once he discovered where his daughter lived. Then he’d hustle her out of Cuba with her mother. Perez would be taken out, of course. No great loss. But there was a risk that Francesca might be caught in the crossfire, so he had to consider other options. The phone call he’d ended would be an excellent alternative.

  He went to the balcony and looked down on the Malecón. The water was choppy, and the morning sun fired a volley of sparks that danced over the waves. There was no doubt in his mind now that Batista would be overthrown. The only question was when. Castro would take over and there would be chaos for a while, but Tony figured it would be only temporary. The new government would need a steady source of revenue, and the casinos could supply it. It was simply a matter of waiting, figuring out the new point men, greasing the right palms.

  Until the dust settled, however, Tony, along with the other casino owners, was flying cash back to the States. On the return trips the planes brought in weapons for the rebels. He’d known about the flights for over a year but only involved himself a few months ago. It was a prudent insurance policy, a way to hedge his bets.

  All their bets, in fact, except Lansky’s. Meyer Lansky’s ties to Batista were too deep. And too public. Once Castro took over, the Little Man’s days in Havana would be numbered. Tony felt bad—at least he told himself he did. Lansky had been his mentor. But Tony had his own future to consider, and without Lansky as his filter, he’d be dealing with the top government honchos himself. Not so bad.

  Although Tony wasn’t prone to outbursts in his professional life, he wasn’t a man who smiled easily. He did now. Normally he didn’t care how weapons arrived and reached their destination. The important thing was that the rebels knew who their benefactors were. Everything else could be handled by bagmen and underlings, men Tony didn’t know and didn’t want to. Until now.

  • • •

  The day after Christmas Ramon boarded the train for Santa Clara. The kid, whose name was Alejandro, sat beside him, still wearing his fake leather jacket. Alejandro didn’t talk for most of the trip. Just slumped in his seat, pale and awkward, a fearful look on his face. He had reason to be afraid, Ramon thought. The kid had to be feeling more pressure than in his entire life. At the same time Pacelli had dangled a lot of money in front of him, so he was motivated.

  Pacelli wanted to use Alejandro to bait Luis. At first Ramon thought it was too risky. Luis wouldn’t trust the kid, might suspect him, given what the kid said about Luis clamming up after someone thought they recognized him. But Pacelli pointed out that Luis wouldn’t deal with Ramon under any circumstances. They had no choice. If the kid failed, well, Pacelli told Ramon to impress on him that this was Pacelli’s daughter. Failure was not an option.

  Ramon stared out the window. The blur of countryside, small towns, and fields reminded him of the time he and Luis took the train to Havana from Oriente. So much had happened over the past three years. His friendship with Luis had gone cold, just when the revolution was heating up. Which would not have happened if the girl hadn’t stumbled into their lives. Ramon was only doing what any good friend would when that friend wasn’t thinking with the right body part. And now her father was on his side, too. Luis would thank him one day. He would realize how shrewd Ramon had been to make the deal. Everyone would benefit. The father would get his daughter back, Luis would get his weapons, and Ramon would—eventually—get Luis.

  He turned away from the window and started to explain to the kid what he should say to Luis, and more important, what not to say. “Never mention the girl. As far as you know, he is alone. There is no woman.”

  The kid nodded. Ramon could smell the fear coming off him. Bitter, a little salty.

  “Don’t mention that you want to come to his house. You don’t want to raise any suspicions. Let him suggest a meeting place.”

  “But how will we find out where he lives?”

  “Leave that to me.”

  “How will—”

  Ramon cut him off. “Like I said, leave that to me. Do not talk to him about anything except the weapons.”

  “How will that work?”

  Ramon cleared his throat, straightened up, and laced his fingers together. “I already told you that my people are flying in a cache of weapons from Miami. I’ve arranged for them to be trucked here to Santa Clara. You are the go-between. You tell Perez they are coming and that he—or someone he designates—should handle the transfer.”

/>   The kid bit his lip. “What if he decides to send another man instead?”

  Ramon flexed his fingers forward and backward. “He won’t. He’ll want to supervise it. That’s the way he is. By the way, when you first approach him, he’ll want to meet in a neutral location. He might bring some of his compadres to check you out.”

  The kid’s chest heaved. “I don’t know—”

  Ramon cut in. “Oh yes, you do. And yes you can. That’s why you’re getting all the dinero.”

  The train slowed. They were approaching Santa Clara.

  “You will give him a deadline to make a decision. Say twenty-four hours. He will talk it over with his superiors. We will stay in a hotel while he does.”

  “How do you know they will agree?”

  Ramon chuckled. “They cannot afford to say no.” He jabbed his finger at the kid’s chest. “The most important thing is the delivery location. It will be wherever Perez tells you. Before you go there, you and the driver will meet me. There will be several men in the truck. They will come with me. Then you will deliver the cargo. Meanwhile, the others will rescue the girl. If everything goes right, no one will get hurt.” He hoped what he was saying would prove true. He was following Pacelli’s orders exactly. Pacelli had no reason to turn the tables on him. Or the kid. He hoped.

  The kid nodded uncertainly, as if wondering the same thing. “And I will get paid when?”

  “When I am.” Ramon forced a smile. “I will get your share to you. It will be a very happy new year. For both of us.”

  The kid looked blank.

  “One more thing,” Ramon added. “You are never to mention Pacelli’s name. Ever. They will ask. Especially Perez. He will want to know who is behind the shipment. You will tell him you do not know. That it was a gift. From friends. It will not be the first ‘gift’ they’ve received. He will understand.”

  The train pulled into the station. It had been a remarkably smooth trip. Even the train was on time.

  The kid pulled up the collar of his jacket.

  “Why do you wear that?” Ramon asked. “It is way too hot for it here.”

  The kid shrugged.

  Ramon heaved a sigh. Another pendejo who thinks he is what he wears. Aloud he said, “You’ll have to take it off. You look too obvious. Now, do you have any questions?”

  “What do we do now?”

  Was the kid really that stupid? Ramon hoped he hadn’t made a mistake. So much depended on him. “We contact Perez.”

  • • •

  Like Havana, downtown Santa Clara was overwhelmed with Christmas decorations. Although it was beach weather, the sidewalks, stores, and buildings were plastered with evergreens, colored lights, Santas, reindeer, fake snow. All American-inspired. Probably brought in from Miami. America seemed to own every square mile of Cuba. What would happen when they disappeared after the revolution? Luis said it meant freedom. Ramon used to believe him. Now he wasn’t so sure. He wasn’t sure about anything.

  He and the kid walked to the university and settled themselves in front of one of the campus buildings. Ramon was the spotter, identifying people—usually young men or women walking alone. When he found a prospect, Ramon told the kid to take the lead while he lurked in the background. The kid did what he was told, but it wasn’t easy. They were strangers, and people knew it was dangerous to talk to outsiders these days.

  Finally, after a couple of hours, two young women told them about a rooming house where the proprietor knew people who knew “the right people.” One girl seemed to recall a couple who came from Santa Lucia.

  They followed the directions to the boarding house, but once they got there, Ramon decided their intelligence was wrong. Alejandro asked the woman who owned the place whether she knew a couple who’d arrived in Santa Clara a month or so earlier. The couple were their cousins, the kid claimed. They needed to find them. For the family back in Santa Lucia.

  But the woman refused to admit she’d ever heard of them, and she certainly couldn’t tell them where they were. Ramon swore softly. What was it about Luis? Why did he always seem to have a cocoon of protection around him? What made him so special?

  Frustrated, he and Alejandro checked into a cheap hotel. The next morning he told Alejandro to go back to the boarding house and beg the woman to send word to Luis. They would meet him any place he said. Any time. They just wanted to talk. “Are we still cousins?” Alejandro said.

  Ramon thought for a moment. “You can tell her the truth. But say that you are certain Luis will want to talk to you.” He told the kid to wait at the woman’s rooming house until Luis replied.

  “What if she doesn’t come through?”

  “Then we’ll find another way,” Ramon said, knowing he sounded more confident than he felt. If this didn’t work, he didn’t know what he’d do.

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  High clouds stole across the sky, too shy to drop lower, Luis thought as he headed toward Parque Vidal the next afternoon. The woman whose sister’s house they lived in sent him a note last night saying that a young man—a boy, really—wanted desperately to meet with him. “He wouldn’t go away,” the woman wrote. “He tried to convince me he was your cousin but then admitted he wasn’t. But he was certain you’d want to hear what he has to say. He said for you to set the time and place—all he wants to do is talk.”

  At first Luis wasn’t inclined to go. He’d spent too much time and effort creating a disguise. He cut his hair, and Frankie had helped him bleach what was left light brown. He wore glasses too, although they had no prescription, and he dressed in short-sleeved shirts and chinos. Just another bourgeois man on his way up. But the camouflage hadn’t been foolproof. A few weeks earlier he’d hitched a ride on a truck back from the mountains with a few rebels who’d delivered weapons to Che. One of them thought he recognized Luis from Havana. Luis denied it, of course, but he made a speedy exit.

  Since then he’d been extra careful. If he was spotted, he and Frankie would retreat to the mountains. Frankie wouldn’t complain, but he didn’t want to subject her to what was essentially an army camp with no plumbing, rough people, and a glut of weapons. Not in her condition.

  The baby. A flush of warmth swept through him whenever he thought about it. Since she’d told him she was carrying his child, Luis began to look at the world differently. He was going to be a father. It was nothing short of a miracle. And it changed everything. He and Francesca would marry. He imagined where they would live, what he would teach his son—he was sure it would be a boy. The child would want for nothing. In a way he knew his joy was the natural progression of things, and he wasn’t surprised. But at times the force of his emotions caught him unaware, and he had the nagging feeling his priorities were backwards.

  Francesca was the one who was working, cooking, cleaning. She couldn’t continue after the baby was born. He would need to provide for the family. For the first time since he’d dropped out of university, Luis thought about going back. Becoming the lawyer he’d planned to be.

  And yet the note sent to him by the boarding house woman was tempting. It was probably another arms shipment. The timing couldn’t be better. Che was about to launch an attack on the city of Santa Clara. If he succeeded, Cuba would be cut in half, with the rebels controlling the eastern half of the island. Batista could not survive. The revolution would be over, the rebels victorious. It was critical that the attack be successful. The rebels could use all the support they could get.

  And, if he was honest, there was another reason Luis wanted to meet the contact. He’d been in the area three months now. He’d made connections, but he wasn’t much more than an errand boy. If he could broker this deal and pull it off, Che and the others would know he was important. Deserving of respect.

  And so he sent word back to the woman at the rooming house that he would meet the boy in the Parque Vidal at four.

  • • •

  Tinny renditions of Christmas carols from nearby stores floated over Luis as he crossed the
wide bricked pavement edging the park. He’d told the boy to meet him by the gazebo. He’d cased the place an hour earlier, looking for strangers whose expressions were a bit too casual or furtive. He saw nothing unusual.

  At four o’clock he sat down on a bench a few yards from the gazebo. A few moments later, a scrawny, gangly young man in a blue t-shirt and khaki pants appeared on the opposite side. He stole a glance at Luis but made no effort to approach him. Instead he strolled across the lawn to the center of the park, to the statue of the “El Niño de la Bota,” The Child with the Boot. He studied it, then went to the bronze statue of Marta Abreu. He was trying to blend in as a tourist, Luis thought, but his moves were so obvious it was painful. Luis wondered who had sent such a raw recruit.

  He rose and walked over to the statue of Marta Abreu. As he drew near, a relieved expression came over the boy. Up close, Luis saw beads of sweat on his upper lip. He motioned toward the statue. “She was a very important person.”

  Confusion swam across the boy’s face.

  “Marta Abreu,” Luis said. “She traveled all over the world but never forgot where she was from. She gave all her money to help the poor. You might say she’s the first socialist Cuba ever had.”

  The boy gazed at the statue. Then he cleared his throat. “You are Luis Perez?” He wouldn’t meet Luis’s eyes.

  Luis glanced at his watch. “I only have a few minutes. What is it you want?”

  “There is a cache of weapons being flown in from Miami tomorrow. Someone thought you might be interested in them.”

  “Who?”

  “I don’t know,” the boy said. “I know only what I have been told.”

  “And who told you?”

  “My—my rebel leader at the Riviera Hotel in Havana. I cannot tell you his name. But we are DR. Like you.”