[2012] Havana Lost

by Libby Fischer Hellmann

  As soon as his father left the table, the mood lightened, and his mother and grandfather started to chat. Tony Pacelli wasn’t a tall man, and at eighty, he was stooped and gnarled. But he still had the same round face, olive complexion, and lots of thick silver hair. His mother once told Michael they’d called him Silver-Tongued Tony, but Michael thought it should change to “Silver-Haired Tony.” His mother got a good belly laugh out of it.

  Michael cleared the table while his mother brewed coffee. “Get the red plates for the cake, the ones from Grandma Marlena, would you darling?”

  Michael took four dessert plates out of a cabinet. Made of red beveled glass in an Art Deco style, they were so old they were new, his mother said. He brought them out to the dining room. His mother served cake and coffee.

  His grandfather took a bite of cake and chewed slowly. A beatific smile spread across his face. “Delizioso, Francesca.”

  “Grazi, Papa.”

  He sipped his coffee. “This too.”

  The joy of simple things. That must be what comes with age and a life well-lived, Michael thought. He wondered if he’d ever feel that way. He smiled at his grandfather.

  “What’s so funny?”

  “I enjoy watching you.”

  His grandfather raised his fork in Michael’s general direction. “Good cake, coffee, and family. What more could a man want?”

  His mother rolled her eyes, but she was smiling. “This, from the busiest eighty-year old man I know.”

  “What else am I gonna do, Francesca? Your mother’s gone, you’ve got your own life, and our young man here is in his own world.”

  “You could retire. At least slow down.”

  “And do what? Play cards all day?” He pointed his finger at Michael’s mother. “All those years at La Perla, and I never gambled. Not once. I should start now?”

  “Well in that case, we need to talk about the supplies for the restaurants. Prices have skyrocketed, and it’s because of the Teamsters. They keep hiking their rates. They’re killing us.”

  Michael started to tune out. Although his mother had her “own life” as his grandfather put it, she was shrewd, and as a formidable cook, she enjoyed working around food. She’d stepped into the Family’s restaurant supply business and was now running it. Two of the nonfood operations, as well. When his grandfather allowed her to. He was still coming to terms with the idea of a woman—even one who happened to be his daughter—managing his business.

  “Francesca, I’ve told you before. We can’t force them. They are our friends.”

  “They may be, but there’s got to be a limit. How can we charge ten dollars for a damn salad?”

  But Tony Pacelli was old school. “Pick your battles, Francesca. You need to know when it’s time to mount an offense, and when to go along. There are times when loyalty trumps all.”

  Michael caught his mother’s exasperated expression.

  But Michael couldn’t care less about Family business. “Grampa, Mom said you wanted to talk to me,” he cut in.

  His grandfather waved his fork. “Later.”

  That was code for “I want to talk to you in private.”

  His mother kept bickering about the Teamsters, and his grandfather parried. Michael decided he might as well go home. Finally, his mother noticed his disinterest, ducked into the kitchen, and came back with a plate of cake. “Here. Take this to your father.”

  Michael took the plate and headed into the den. With dim lighting, oil paintings of the Italian countryside, and a silver pen and pencil set his mother had given his father years ago, the den was an imitation of a respectable WASP’s room. His father was on the phone, talking quietly. Probably catching up with his bookies, going over the spreads of the Sunday football games, sorting out who lost what. The noise from the TV blared, covering the conversation. Curious that his father had never become an integral part of the Pacelli Family business, Michael thought. Had that been his father’s decision or his grandfather’s?

  Michael cleared his throat. “Here’s your dessert.”

  His father looked up but didn’t reply. Michael set the plate down and flicked his eyes to the TV. A James Bond movie. Timothy Dalton, the new Bond, was on some Caribbean beach while a beautiful woman worked her wiles on him. Dalton wasn’t nearly as appealing as Sean Connery, whom his mother declared was the only Bond worth watching. Michael was heading back to the dining room, when his mother’s voice rose above the TV. She sounded angry.

  “You can’t be serious. I won’t permit it.”

  At first he thought they were still discussing the Teamsters.

  His grandfather’s voice was soft, and Michael had to concentrate to make it out. But his tone was conciliatory. “Francesca, you’re being unreasonable. You said yourself he doesn’t have any plans. He needs to do something until he’s ready for the family business.”

  Michael stopped.

  “He’s never going into the family business. Don’t you realize that?”

  There was a long pause. “Never is a long time. But we don’t need to discuss that now. What we do need to discuss is this—this proposition.”

  “I won’t let him go. Is your memory so short?”

  “Is yours that long?”

  Michael knew his mother and his grandfather had been estranged when he was a little boy. They didn’t speak, and when they were forced to be in the same room, they avoided each other like the plague. When Michael asked his mother why, she’d say it was something that happened a long time ago and she wouldn’t discuss it further. It was only after the death of his grandmother, Marlena, that his mother and Grandpa Tony reconciled. Still, it was an uneasy truce, as he could sense.

  “Someone has something on you, don’t they?” his mother said sharply. “You’re in trouble.”

  “You know better than to ask that.”

  “Why not? You’ve always sacrificed family for business.” His mother sounded bitter.

  His grandfather’s voice rose. “Don’t talk to me like that. I am still your father. And the head of this Family.”

  But his mother refused to back down. “I swear to you, if you raise this with him, I will never speak to you again. I can’t believe you have the nerve to suggest it after all we’ve been through.”

  Michael ran his tongue around his lips. What the hell were they talking about?

  “You live in the past, Francesca.”

  “That’s a joke, right?” His mother’s voice quieted, but it was thick with tension. “It’s not me who’s living in the past. I’m moving forward—with or without you. That part of our lives is over. If you bring it up, I guarantee you’ll regret it.”

  Michael decided whatever they were arguing about had gone on long enough. He strode purposefully back into the dining room. “What are you talking about?”

  Both of them started, as if they’d been caught red-handed. Each flashed recriminating glances at the other.

  “What’s this about me going somewhere?”

  His mother said nothing.

  “Mother, whatever is going on, don’t you think you ought to talk it over with me, rather than Grampa?”

  “You—you…” His mother stared at his grandfather, so angry she couldn’t make her lips form words.

  “You see?” Michael’s grandfather snorted.

  “You have no idea what you’re doing,” his mother finally spat out.

  “If one of you doesn’t tell me what’s going on, I’m out of here.” Michael didn’t intend to make good on his threat, but it sounded good. Forceful.

  His grandfather pushed himself back from the table. “All right. Here it is. I got a call from an—associate. He has a job I think you might be interested in.”

  “Papa—”

  “Silencio!” Tony Pacelli yelled. “Go into the kitchen.”

  His mother flared her nostrils but didn’t move. Michael expected her to defy her father. Then, after a long pause, she rose, stomped into the kitchen, and slammed the door. Michael could
hear her throwing pots around. Noisily.

  There was still a difference between women of his mother’s generation and his, he realized. His mother’s generation was caught between two worlds: the world of the obedient wife and daughter and that of the independent woman. It was clear his mother didn’t like it, but ultimately, she obeyed her father. At least this time. Was it because Tony Pacelli was still the Don? Was it because she knew her father wanted to talk to him in private? Didn’t matter. No way a woman in Michael’s generation would do that.

  Michael cleared his throat and turned to his grandfather. “Now… what’s this all about?”

  His grandfather drew a cigar out of his pocket and held a match to it. “I hear you turned down the job at the Agency.”

  “It’s not the kind of place I want to work.”

  An Ivy League graduate, fluent in four languages, Michael had drifted around Europe and Asia after college. Much to his mother’s chagrin, he ended up in the military and was sent to the Persian Gulf as an MP. Now his tour was over, and his mother, alarmed at his lack of direction, had asked his grandfather for help. Michael had few illusions. He knew Tony Pacelli’s history; the man had practically been best friends with Meyer Lansky in the Fifties.

  Still, when Tony set up a meeting at the Agency for him, Michael realized his grandfather’s contacts ran deeper than he’d thought. Maybe all the way back to the Second World War when the Mafia helped the OSS plan the invasion of Sicily. History had proven there was a thin line between the hunters and the hunted.

  His grandfather puffed on the cigar. Wisps of smoke corkscrewed up, turning the air milky. “Maybe it’s better. Your mother hated it when you went to Iraq. It drove her crazy.”

  “Except the Agency wanted me to be an analyst. Sit in an office and translate articles. I can’t think of anything worse.”

  “Still the buccaneer.”

  “It’s not that. Since Iran-Contra, everyone in the business is looking over their shoulders, covering their asses, wringing their hands.”

  “Not your—what do they call it—your M.O.” His grandfather puffed on his cigar.

  Michael nodded. Both his grandfather and mother wanted him to join them in the Family “business.” Michael had mulled it over, but he knew he could never be a part of the Outfit. It wasn’t simply a youthful rebellion, although he’d been told countless times he was a cliché straight from The Godfather. All he knew was that the path they wanted for him was too easy. Too orchestrated. Whatever he ended up doing, wherever he ended up going, he wanted to do it on his own. Not inherit it. Plus, the fact that he’d been on the right side of the law in the army didn’t exactly square with the Family business.

  “So.” His grandfather sucked on his cigar. “I have a—friend. Actually he’s a friend of a friend. He has a job that needs doing in Cuba.”

  “Cuba?”

  “It has nothing to do with the time we lived there.”

  Michael had always been curious about his mother’s life in Cuba. She’d told him stories about growing up in Miramar, an affluent suburb, before they moved into La Perla. Her stories made him want to see the island. But every time he suggested a trip, perhaps through Canada or Mexico, she’d shake her head and say, “Not while there’s an embargo. Anyway, from what I hear, Cuba has changed. The life I knew is gone.”

  Now Michael focused on his grandfather. “Your ‘friend’ is with the Agency?”

  “He was. He went private. So did his friend, I’m told. Has a client near Boston.”

  It was happening more and more. Recruits no longer stayed in intelligence organizations for their entire career. Instead, they used the CIA, FBI, and the other alphabet soup security groups as stepping-stones for more lucrative jobs. Some started their own companies, hiring themselves out to lobbyists, corporations, and international conglomerates. Others went freelance, picking up surveillance and undercover work for foreign governments. He’d heard a few former MI officers were involved with a couple of law firms in D.C.

  “Where did this friend of a friend come from?”

  His grandfather threw up his hands. “I’m an old man. I don’t keep up anymore. But I trust my friend. He says his friend, name of Walters, needs a man to go down there.”

  “To do what?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “It’s not another one of those crazy-ass plots to kill Castro, is it?”

  Tony chuckled. “Not this time.”

  “How long will I be there?”

  “I don’t know that either.” He tapped the end of his cigar in the ashtray. “But if you’re interested, I’ll give you his number.”

  “Is that why you and mother were arguing?”

  His grandfather furrowed his brow and raised his eyebrows in the Italian way that meant maybe, maybe not.

  Although Michael hadn’t wanted to use his family connections, deeming them tainted, he hadn’t been called back for second interviews except at the Agency. And despite his experience, he doubted any police force would willingly hire a mobster’s son, except as an informant, which he had no desire to be. He was, in a word, stuck.

  “Okay. Give me the number.”

  Tony was digging into his wallet when his mother stormed back into the dining room. Her cheeks were red, her eyes black as coal. Her body language was rigid, and her breath came so fast and shallow Michael thought she might start to hyperventilate. Michael had never seen her this worked up. Not since he was seventeen and he’d wrapped his car around a telephone pole on Christmas Eve.

  “I won’t allow it, Michael. You go to Cuba over my dead body.”

  “Francesca,” Tony said, “the revolution ended thirty years ago. And despite Fidel, Cuba is one of the safest places in the world. Now that the Soviet Union has collapsed, there’s a good chance relations with the U.S. might warm up. I don’t—”

  His mother planted her hands on her hips. “Cuba is in the middle of a severe depression. Even Castro calls it a ‘Special Period.’ No one has enough food. Or oil. Or anything. People are dropping dead in the streets. You won’t—”

  Michael cut in. “Both of you, stop it. Right now. I’m going. And that’s the end of it.”

  He turned to his grandfather. Pacelli was looking at his daughter with pity, as if he felt sorry for her and wanted her to know it. Michael looked back at his mother. “Mom, I make my own decisions. Besides, I want to see where you lived. So I’m going.”

  Whatever he said or didn’t say, his attitude wrought a marked change in his mother. Like a pin piercing a fat balloon, the fight suddenly went out of her. Her body slumped, as if she was Atlas with the world on her shoulders. She seemed about to speak when his grandfather cut in.

  “You see, Francesca? Let him make his own way.”

  Michael prepared himself for a fresh burst of temper from his mother. Something about undue influence. Or forcing someone to bend to his will. But when he looked over, her anger had dissipated. Now she looked scared. More scared than he’d ever seen her.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

  1991 – Havana

  Sunlight crashed down onto the street, bounced off metallic objects, and flared into Michael’s eyes. He was wearing wrap-around sunglasses, but he had to squint.

  He’d been in Havana less than a day. The city looked much like he’d expected, a seedier, more Spanish version of Miami, trapped forever in 1959. Few cars cruised the streets, and those that did were mostly vintage Chevys, Fords, or Soviet Ladas. Crowds of people queued patiently at bus stops and stores. The only billboards and posters were either profiles of Che Guevara or ads for rum.

  But the biggest difference between Cuba and the States was the pace. Here everything was unhurried and languid, as if people knew they had nothing very important to do. Part of it was the heat, of course, but Michael couldn’t help noticing the absence of hustle and bustle. Not that there weren’t as many people as Chicago or New York. There were. But they seemed content to spend the day waiting for rations that inevitably ran out
before they made it to the front of the line, after which the line would dissolve and form again around the corner for something else. Some rode bicycles, but no one pedaled quickly. The beat of an Afro-Cuban tune spilled into the street from somewhere, lending a perversely festive air to the surroundings.

  He’d checked into the Hotel Nacional, probably the best known hotel on the island, but he didn’t plan to stay more than one night. Half the population in Cuba informed on the other half, and a stranger, especially a single man, was news worth reporting. He would leave as soon as he found smaller, more private accommodations. Casas particulares, they called them, Cuba’s version of the B&B. They weren’t legal, at least not yet, but Cubans were inventive when it came to survival, and the state pretended they didn’t exist. There were small restaurants too, paladares, which were operated out of private homes and served excellent food. Michael planned to find both so he could melt into the background before anyone figured out who he was.

  He’d come to Cuba through Mexico, where he boarded a private boat that took him from Cancun to Bolodron. From there his plan was to make his way to Pinar del Rio on the western edge of Cuba, then Havana. When he flashed his fake American passport, the customs officials, as expected, didn’t stamp it. It was a practice they followed for any American visiting Cuba. But they did question him. Michael had to ask them to repeat themselves; Cuban Spanish was faster and differently enunciated than the Spanish he’d been taught. His college professor used to call it “Hillbilly Spanish.”

  Once he got the hang of the dialect, he told them that he’d sailed to the island from Mexico. One of the officials told him that’s how Fidel returned to Cuba in 1956 to start the revolution. Fidel’s boat was the Granma, the other official said proudly, which was now the name of Havana’s main newspaper. Michael thanked them for the history lesson and asked the best way to get to Pinar del Rio and then Havana.

  “There used to be a bus,” one said. “A train, too. But now…” he said, “…who knows?” He yanked his thumb in the air. “This is the best way. If you find a truck that will stop.”