by Jose Latour
From a booth at the back, Contreras ordered shong ton soup, mixed fried rice, fried shrimp-filled wontons, and a bottle of Hatuey beer. Twenty-five minutes later, as he sipped espresso from a demitasse, a short, green-eyed, pink-skinned man approached him with the faintest trace of a smile on his full lips. Drops of rain dampened his clothes—a maroon, mass-produced suit over a white dress shirt a size too small for his neck, plus a beige tie—and sparkled on the vamp and the toecap of his nut-colored, well-polished shoes. His protruding belly and bald, close-cropped scalp smacked of old age, but the unlined face of a man in his early thirties made Fermín Rodríguez look around forty.
“Havana just had lunch,” the newly arrived one remarked.
“Be my guest,” Contreras said, indicating the booth’s opposing seat.
“Nah, I beat you to it.”
“Let’s get rolling then,” the gray-haired man said as he scooted from the booth and dropped two one-peso bills on the table. On the way out he lit up.
Buckets of rain forced them to take the street’s arcades, seething with shoppers and staff on their lunch hour while waiting for the downpour to stop. Two pickpockets working the block spotted the pair as they left the restaurant; the older shook his head to the younger and turned to look for tame prey. Lottery ticket vendors, pitchmen, and shoeshine boys hawked their wares. A few despondent beggars dressed in rags extended their hands; one of them, to resemble Saint Lazarus, showed the pustules on his legs and kept three mangy dogs by his side. Fermín Rodríguez gave a wink to a pimp of his acquaintance. Contreras ignored the respectful nod of a con man whose main scheme was selling hand-operated machines that transmuted one-peso bills into twenties to gullible farmers visiting the Cuban capital.
They jostled and shoved until reaching the corner of Cuatro Caminos, where they took a left and darted down Belascoaín to the Chevy. In the passenger seat, Fermín wiped his head dry with a handkerchief as Contreras started the engine.
“What are the odds today, Gallego?” the leaner man asked.
“Eleven to ten the Series for Milwaukee; thirteen to ten the game.”
“Spread’s too wide for the game.”
“No, it’s right. Lew Burdette against Bob Turley. The Yankees’ pitching staff stinks. Listen, Ox, the two best pitchers in the Series …”
Fermín made a man-by-man evaluation so as to prove his point. Contreras listened as he drove along Monte Street and the handed-down Calzada del Cerro, rolled around the corner at Lombillo, then took a right turn onto Ayestarán. The Chevy came to a stop by a two-storied apartment building at 527 La Rosa Street. Contreras cut the engine. His passenger opened the door and with four quick hops gained the porch. The driver braved the rain under the soaked newspaper as he unhurriedly locked the car. Then they took the staircase to apartment 4; Contreras opened the front door and switched on the light of his living-cum-dining room.
“Boys will be late,” Fermín predicted as he mopped his scalp once again.
“Probably. Would you like a drink?”
“To fight this cold I have.”
“Help yourself. I’m gonna dry my hair; need something stronger than a handkerchief.”
Contreras left Fermín guffawing and entered the bedroom as the short man headed to the kitchen. The tenant took off his jacket, shirt, and tie, toweled his hair dry, combed it, then returned to the living room in his undershirt. Fermín had poured Tres Ceros brandy in two plain-glass tumblers and now sat on a rocker, facing a 17-inch black-and-white television set. Contreras took his place at the left side of a well-worn wooden sofa for three with wickerwork back and seats, then emptied his tumbler in two gulps. Fermín’s face was a shade over his natural tone; sweat and grease sparkled on his forehead and chin.
“Want to take off your jacket?” Contreras asked.
“No, I’m fine.”
“Why don’t you turn it on?”
“It’s early.”
“We’ll pass the time.”
A political analyst contended that the overwhelming majority of the Cuban people supported President Batista. The viewers exchanged amused glances. Contreras was refreshing his drink when the doorbell rang twice; he went to open. A handsome, light-skinned Negro stood in the doorway. A shade under six feet, he had deep brown eyes and a well-kept thin mustache. He wore a soaked white guayabera, light blue slacks drenched below the knees, and dripping brown shoes. He looked undecided about leaving the wrapping paper he had used as raincoat in the hall.
“Come on in, mulato,” the tenant said.
“I’ll wet the floor. Hi, Gallego.”
“Hello. How are you doing, man?” Fermín said from his seat.
“Fine. Fucking rain cooled my ass.”
“Strip in the john and hang up your rags,” Contreras suggested. “I’ll lend you a pair of pants and a shirt.”
At 1:31 the three men came together in the living room. The black man, in borrowed slippers, sat to the right of Contreras and warmed himself with a slug of brandy. “This is nice, compadre,” he said, raising his tumbler.
“Why didn’t you come yesterday?” Contreras asked, his calm voice discounting significance to the absence. Fermín shot swift glances at his two buddies.
“Greatest thing on earth, pal,” Melchor Loredo said exultantly. “Was on my way here, bus breaks down at 70 and 21 and, well, like everybody else I got out to take the next one. Then this kid—he was just a kid, you know, under twenty—gets out a ’58 Buick Limited that looked like a million bucks, leaves the engine idling, keys in the ignition …”
“I crap on you, Wheel,” Contreras deadpanned in such a soft tone that Fermín grabbed the arms of the rocker, getting ready to stand between them.
“Let’s have some respect, Ox,” said Loredo, carefully choosing his words.
“Respect? You asking for respect? You showing respect for our job?” Contreras croaked, his face screwed up.
“It was a gift, Ox,” Loredo pleaded.
“I don’t care if it was,” imperiously now. “I said you couldn’t get into anything. And I meant it, ’cause we can’t lose the driver at this point. No sooner you turn your back, you steal a hearse.”
“I forgot everything, guys. It was like … a reflex, you know? As if the kid had made me a present …,” he said to provide a justification, looking at the floor.
“You were this close to getting busted,” Contreras insisted.
“Well, nothing happened,” Loredo said.
“Don’t talk shit, Wheel,” Fermín barged in, trying to patch things up. “At noon, in front of two dozen people. A prowl car turns around the corner, you’d be in the tank now, you chump.”
“I level with you guys, you throw the horses at me?” said Loredo reproachfully.
Contreras clicked his tongue in exasperation. “Don’t get an attitude,” he said testily.
“Okay, I bungled it. Sorry. Just don’t rub it in.”
They watched the screen in silent anger for several more minutes. Then Fermín suggested espresso and got up to make it. Contreras left his seat to take a leak, Loredo lit a cigarette, tension abated. Distracted as they were by Gillette commercials, lineups, and weather forecasts, the black man’s latest theft slowly faded out.
The home club won in the very first inning. In the top, Hank Bauer singled over second, then Eddie Mathews fielded McDougald’s high hopper but threw widely, permitting Bauer to reach third and McDougald second. Mickey Mantle was intentionally walked, filling the bases, and Howard bounced to Schoendienst, whose throw to Logan forced Mantle at second as Bauer scored. Berra grounded into a double play.
The Braves responded in kind. Bruton walloped a home run into the right field bleachers, Schoendienst lined a double to the wall in right, Mathews was called out on strikes. Aaron walked, then Covington singled sharply into right center, scoring Schoendienst and sending Aaron to third. Duke Maas replaced Turley on the mound. Torre flied to Howard in short left; Aaron scored, and Covington took second on the throw to home
plate. Then Lew Burdette hit a homer, the first by a pitcher in a World Series since Bucky Walters sent it to the left field bleachers on October 7, 1940. Elston Howard crashed into the fence in a vain effort to catch Burdette’s drive, injured his side, and was replaced by Norm Siebern.
“Gentlemen, Milwaukee has it in the bag,” Fermín said.
Contreras and Loredo nodded in solemn silence, watching the screen as their minds checked angles. Loredo examined the initial, easy part of his job. Get as near as possible and fasten his eyes on the main exit. He would probably leave the engine idling to keep it warm and lubricated. As soon as he saw the flame, he would place the small taxi signs on the car’s partially rolled up back windows, pull off the curb to meet them, offer the ride, open the left rear door from the inside. An almost embarrassingly simple piece of cake.
Then he would become the team’s most valuable player for the next fifteen minutes. He hoped for the best. He would try to keep to the planned route of escape, skirting speed limits and hoping no police cruiser ordered him to pull over. But if for some reason they were chased, he’d have to unleash the engine’s full power, estimate slopes and possible skids, and spin a path of hell-bent flight in the web of city streets without taking dead ends or hitting potholes, to safely carry his load of men and money to the hideout. His expertise had earned him the sobriquet “Wheel”; he was the best driver and car thief in Havana, with only one prison sentence after 7 holdups and 188 car thefts in ten years.
In the bottom of the third inning the phone on a small round chestnut table near an empty rocker started ringing. Contreras rose to his feet, lowered the set’s volume, and picked up the receiver.
“Yeah.”
“Can’t make it. It’s a deluge.”
“No problem. But the meeting the day after tomorrow goes, even under a blowing hurricane.”
“Okay. Bye now.”
“Bye.”
Contreras hung up and said “Abo” to Fermín and Loredo. He turned up the volume, recovered his tumbler, and swallowed the dregs of liquor.
“Can’t he make it?” Wheel asked, dripping with sarcasm.
“Says the rain doesn’t let him.”
“The blonde, I’d say,” Fermín chuckled.
Only a clairvoyant could have been closer to the truth. A mile away, in an apartment rented by the hour, twenty-eight-year-old Arturo Heller, dubbed “Abo”—for abogado, “lawyer” in Spanish, having gotten as far as the second year of the University of Havana’s law school in the early fifties—hadn’t interrupted his lovemaking as he dialed, nor during the brief exchange. On top of him, on her knees and leaning on his shoulders, a smiling young woman found herself reliving her childhood years, when she had ridden the carousel’s rising and falling painted horses. Instead of tooting pipes and felt-covered mallets pounding out a tune, songs by Nat King Cole came from a radio on the bedside table. Every minute or so, with Heller’s eager compliance, she buried his penis deep inside of her, then rubbed her clitoris against his groin, knowing that with the deliberate friction she would come. Fermín had only been wrong about the woman’s complexion: She was a genuine brunette, with small breasts, a nice behind, rounded thighs, slanted eyes, and full lips. To prolong the pleasure she occasionally paused and sighed and waved back strands of long black hair and made ego-boosting remarks to her partner. Being so active, she preferred passive men, and Abo was an ideal partner: a commanding, proud macho in public, a complacent and governable lover in bed.
With her eyes closed, relishing every second of it, she demanded Heller’s ejaculation in mid-orgasm. He let himself go. Afterward, they gradually overcame their panting and she slid back on the mattress. A few minutes later, Heller tuned the radio to Circuito Nacional Cubano to learn the score. The ceiling mirror reflected the superb body of the Pennsylvania Club dancer, and he ogled it admiringly. It was the first time in two weeks that his main consideration had not been the amount of money inside a certain safe. One minute after he fell asleep, Mickey Mantle hit his first home run of the Series.
At his place, Contreras figured that the five runs scored by the Braves in the seventh and eighth innings had decided the game and engaged in some mental calculations before mentioning an amount to his guests. Fermín nodded reflexively, as though his own estimate had been confirmed.
“We would be set up for life,” Loredo said with low-key enthusiasm.
To prolong their agony, the Easterners scored three runs in the top of the ninth before losing, 13–5. Contreras turned off the set. Fermín stretched out. Loredo headed on back to the bathroom to don his still wet clothes and shoes.
“C’mon, I’ll drop you guys where you like,” Contreras volunteered when Wheel returned to the living room. “Damn rain,” he added, then rose to his feet and marched to the bedroom to put on a shirt and jacket.
A mile away, following a raunchy exchange and a shared shower, and only half-listening to the soft music that Radio Codazos specialized in, Heller rubbed his nose on the dancer’s curled pubic hair and playfully started a downward kissing plunge.
…
For the general public, Casino de Capri was an offshoot of the Capri Hotel. Those in the know maintained that the corporate relationship between the adjoining structures, on the corner of Twenty-first and N Streets in Vedado, was exactly the opposite.
In 1956 Casino Parisién had opened at the Hotel Nacional under Lefty Clark’s expert management. This trial balloon proved to those in gaming that prosperity hinged on lodging as many wealthy patrons as possible in nearby rooms. Having replicated the Las Vegas experience in a different environment, Meyer Lansky and his associates decided to build the Riviera, Capri, and Deauville casinos and hotels. The owners of the Tropicana, Montmartre, and Sans Souci, as well as those of other, second-rate Cuban nightclubs with gambling halls, had felt threatened with extinction.
Casino de Capri’s blueprint depicted a 72-yard-long, 24-yard-wide, 25-foot-high one-story concrete structure that had the gaming area in front, the nightclub at the back. The swinging, padded, and buttoned double door in green facing Twenty-first Street opened into a huge lounge in whose center four roulette wheels and four blackjack tables formed a circle. In the middle of it, behind a counter stacked with brand-new decks of cards and sets of dice, the chief inspector sat. Long, red velvet lampshades hung over each table. Drapes of the same material covered the walls.
To the left of the casino entrance were the cashier’s glassed-in cubicle, a second double door to the hotel’s lobby, and a hidden, glass-encased elevated hallway from which senior management and the security chief kept an eye on the place. By the wall to the right, a curved mahogany bar with ten stools and four tables offered a different recreation. At the rear, in the right corner, was a baccarat table close to the men’s washroom; in the left corner were a craps table and the ladies’ rest room. Between them, a third double door opened into the nightclub. One-armed bandits all over the place left little space free.
Naive visitors were seduced by a façade of overwhelming opulence that was the result of four perceptions. Their feet absorbed the change from the sidewalk and black marble steps to thick wall-to-wall carpeting. Murmurs, Muzak, and the clicking of plastic chips replaced street noises in their ears.
Their eyes registered the elegant decor and the stylish apparel of most of the gamblers and all of the staff. The smell of several expensive perfumes could be discerned too. In addition, there was the extrasensory expectancy of money on the move.
Wilberto Pires, formerly employed as a collector of cork bark in his native Portugal, then a snapshot camera mechanic in Barcelona and later a male prostitute in Monte Carlo, dubbed Willy Pi by the rest of the staff, watched out of the corner of his eye as Marvin Grouse approached his table. Promoted to the post of gambling-hall supervisor, Grouse was in his second night on the job. The extremely good-looking Portuguese dealer adjusted his black bow tie as he waited for a last bet. Three customers sat at his varnished cedar table, but the woman still hadn�
�t decided where to place her chips. Willy Pi would be calling the bilingual “no va más; the betting is closed” between four and six seconds before the ivory ball jumped from its perfect circle to the spinning wheel.
Grouse watched the bouncing ball indifferently, heard Willy pronounce the winning number and color, observed as the rake quickly drew in losers’ chips, and winners were paid off. The dealers were trained experts, so Grouse never subjected the bet to close scrutiny. Instead, he kept his eyes peeled for sweat on their foreheads, a dirty spot on the cuffs, underpolished shoes. The new hall supervisor also looked for overflowing ashtrays, drinks not replenished by waiters, and lack of courtesy shown to players.
During his seven years as assistant gambling-hall supervisor in Vegas, and now in Havana, Grouse couldn’t recall ever completing what he termed a “look-see” without finding some kind of trouble, such as at Willy’s table in this precise moment, where the smoke from a cigar a client was puffing on irritated the Canadian lady to his right. Grouse leaned over the ear of the plump fiftyish woman and whispered something for half a minute. The satisfied matron smiled, picked up her chips, and, accompanied by Grouse, moved to another roulette where two men, nonsmokers apparently, were playing.
Barry Caldwell, the inspector overseeing Willy’s table, took mental note and reflected on variations. Had the lady refused to move, Grouse would have induced the smoker to change tables by offering him anything—twenty-five pesos in chips or a free meal at the nightclub—to achieve gaming’s supreme goal: clients picked clean but pleased about it.
Followed by the eyes of one of the players at Willy’s roulette, Grouse ambled over to the craps game. “Make your bets, gentlemen,” the Portuguese dealer suggested as he spun the ball on the bowl’s track with a flick of the wrist. Green Chips bet five pesos on black, five on odd, five on the third column, and five on the first dozen. As White Chips and Blue Chips made their bets, Willy Pi briefly glanced at the breed of player who displeases casino operators the world over.
