by Jose Latour
“My name is Romualdo Peraza, at your service,” said Contreras as he shook hands with both men.
“It’s a pleasure to make your acquaintance, señor,” Grouse said. “I’m Marvin Grouse. What can I do for you?”
“My son wants to gamble here.”
“Is that so?”
“We live in Pinar del Río. I own a thirty-hectare tobacco plantation in Hoyo de Monterrey. My son is an invalid—polio.”
A hound sniffing a raw sirloin steak wouldn’t have drooled more than Guzmán. He had enough economic awareness to infer that thirty hectares of top-quality Cuban tobacco yielded several hundred thousand pesos per year. After interpreting he added, in a low tone and in English, “Roughneck’s loaded.”
“Sorry about your son, señor,” Grouse said with just a little bit of interest. “How old is he?”
“Twenty-nine.”
“I ask because we can’t allow minors on the premises. But go on, please, go on.”
Contreras scratched the tip of his nose, looked around, and with his left arm took in the whole casino. “You are the only winner here, Señor Grouse. In the short run, somebody may take a few thousand from you; in the long run, you always make a profit. But I never deny my son something he enjoys. All he’s got is his mother, me, a wheelchair, and the misfortune of being a born gambler—poker, bridge, dominoes, dice, gin rummy, you name it. At this time of the year I always bring him to Havana for his roulette tour and he throws away a few thousand. He was down on his luck at the Tropicana last year. Now he wants to give it a try here and stay at the next-door hotel. But I have him at my sister’s because I need to strike a deal with you first.”
“A deal, señor?”
“That’s right. I’ll give him five hundred pesos every evening, for as long as we’re here. Perhaps he’ll have a hundred left from the previous evening, or he might have won five hundred and have a thousand on him, but I’ll give him another five hundred just the same; that’s our agreement. But there’re evenings when he loses everything half an hour after starting to play and then he … gets nasty. Asks the house for a loan, wants to cash a check or pawn his watch or diamond ring, and I can’t do a thing ’cause he suffers spasmodic seizures if I interfere, can’t breathe. So, my request is, if he runs out of money, you don’t loan him any or accept one of his checks or his jewels as a deposit. When the house firmly turns him down, he waits for the next day under a cloud, but in good health. That’s the deal I need to make, to have peace and quiet when I bring my son here.”
Marvin Grouse hadn’t interrupted out of politeness. Throughout his adult life he had heard similar requests dozens of times, always due to the invalidism, dipsomania, hysteria, mental retardation, arteriosclerosis, or just plain stupidity of rich people. Every professional knew how to treat these appeals: with acceptance, if the individual’s bearing did not impose a deplorable sight on the clientele. If it did, then the approach was to suggest sending a dealer and an inspector equipped with what was necessary to the individual’s home.
Categorical refusal occurred only when earnings wouldn’t cover the cost of the second option. For Grouse, a young and lucid polio victim who might lose up to five hundred daily for ten or fifteen days was an adorable client, accepting his father’s conditions a pleasant duty. And looking ahead, Grouse surmised that someday square pop would meet his Creator and his son would become a rich man with a taste for roulette. Grouse had the inescapable duty of doing everything within his reach to gain the invalid’s confidence.
“This house is honored by your choice, señor,” he said. “Your terms are within our code of ethics, so we agree to your request.”
Guzmán interpreted.
“Well, I’m glad to hear that.”
“You have our full understanding. Your son will gamble at his ease here. Since Señor Guzmán interpreted for us, I’ll entrust him with welcoming you on your first evening and escorting you to the table of your choice. I shall personally instruct dealers on how to behave with your son.”
“I’ll appreciate that. You know, he’s superstitious and never sits at the table before ten, but we’ll arrive on the dot.”
“Wonderful. Did you say you wanted to stay at the Capri?”
“That’s exactly what I want, to spare ourselves the inconvenience of daily taxi rides.”
“Have you made a reservation?”
“No.”
“Give this card to the desk clerk when you arrive.”
“Thank you, Mr. Grouse.”
With a conciliatory smile, the tobacco grower reached for Grouse’s card, the casino’s monogram embossed on it. He slipped it inside his jacket’s breast pocket, nailed the cigar with his left-side incisors, shook hands with both men, and left.
Contreras took a taxi and asked the driver to drop him at Twenty-third and Twelfth; he twice checked that he wasn’t being followed during the ride. The streets were deserted; their numerous blinking neon signs seemed a waste of money. Few cars cruised by and there were no straphangers on the buses. Unbelievable for a Sunday evening, Contreras concluded.
Where he got out of the car, an old man in a cheap muslin suit and a straw hat was shouting a monotonous “Hot” time and time again, by which he meant renowned spicy tamales, which he was keeping warm in a can by his feet. Contreras ordered two, dropped the cigar stub, and entered the Veintitrés y Doce bar and restaurant. He pulled a chair out from under a square wooden table covered with a red checkered tablecloth, asked for a plate, a fork, and a beer, then dined, deep in thought. Twenty minutes later, after leaving the place, he lit up and strolled down Twelfth toward the sea. With his jacket unbuttoned, the cigarette dangling from his lips, hands thrust deep into the pockets of his trousers, and a sad look on his face, Contreras occasionally stopped at shop windows to watch the tenuous reflections in the glass and make sure no one was following him.
At Seventeenth Street he stepped on the butt and turned right. His old Chevy was parked by the curb, mid-block. He unlocked the driver door and slipped behind the wheel. One more time he peered at both sidewalks, then turned off his worried-man mask. A faraway explosion was heard. He ran his tongue over his lips, started the engine, and released the emergency brake. Then Contreras breathed a long sigh of relief, shifted from neutral to first, and drove to Los Pinos with the kind of self-confidence found in prophets who believe themselves infallible.
…
The small hurricane that had traversed central Cuba the day before made the sky over Havana exceptionally blue on October 6, a Monday.
At a quarter past eleven, Mariano Contreras and Arturo Heller arrived at the Capri Hotel in a ’54 Packard cab. The driver helped the older man unfold a huge chrome-and-leather wheelchair and ease the invalid onto it. The doorman and the bellboy lifted the vehicle up the steps to the main entrance, propelled it into the lobby, and positioned it by a column. The disabled man kept smiling broadly all the time. He’s over it, the bellboy thought as he went out again to haul in three old, genuine-leather suitcases, which he placed on a cart. Contreras paid the cabbie, tipped the doorman, and went in. Then he grabbed the wheelchair’s handlebars and ambled to the desk.
With the palms of his hands on the marble countertop, the reception-desk clerk smarmily asked whether he could be of assistance. Contreras handed him Grouse’s card and requested a room on the fourth floor. Frowning, the clerk checked a clipboard. By pulling and pushing the nickel-plated rings protruding from both wheels, Heller turned to inspect the high columns, the decor, and the few scattered guests waiting for someone or just passing time in comfortable armchairs. When the clerk raised his eyes from the clipboard, he looked befuddled. Contreras guessed something was wrong.
“Perhaps the gentlemen would rather stay in an upper floor. We have rooms with a breathtaking ocean view.”
“Nothing available on the fourth?” Contreras wanted to know.
“Oh, yes, excellent suites,” the embarrassed clerk said. “But all have two levels, living room down a
nd bedroom up. There are ten or twelve steps in the staircase, and one turn.”
“I see. You hear that, Tony?”
Heller had paid attention to the brief exchange. “It has to be on the fourth floor,” he insisted with a surly look.
Contreras, trying to sound reasonable: “Son, you’re too heavy for me to carry you up.”
“You know four is my lucky number.”
Clenching his jaws, the irritated father faced the attendant. “It’s, uh … gambler’s superstition. How could we …?”
“Are there couches in the living room?” the son butted in.
“Yes, sir. Two in each suite,” the clerk eagerly said. “And several armchairs.”
“No problem then. I’ll sleep on a couch.”
“But, son, the toilet …”
“There’s a small bathroom in the living room,” the attendant explained. “For visitors, you know.”
“Perfect. Fill in the cards, Dad.”
With the laborious, slow handwriting of a poorly educated person, Contreras filled in two cards with the names Romualdo Peraza and Antonio Peraza, residents of Mantua, Pinar del Río. The clerk asked the approximate duration of their stay, summoned the bellboy, and handed him a key.
The elevator’s soft dings, clicks, and hisses could be heard on the way up. The bellhop opened the front door of suite 406, tripped a switch, then rolled the baggage cart in. The guests entered a well-furnished living room that showed how impersonal interior decorators can get when compelled to please all kinds of tastes. There were two couches—one in black, the other in red—two marble-topped coffee tables, four armchairs, a writing desk, and side tables supporting lamps, ashtrays, and a phone. An ebony female statuette stood on a white marble pedestal. An expensive unit combining television, radio, and record player faced the red couch and two of the armchairs. Two Monet prints adorned opposing walls.
Contreras ambled to the drapes opposite the front door, parted them, gazed down at a section of N Street through an aluminum-encased glass window. Across the street, four- and five-story apartment buildings, cars by the curb, people on the sidewalk. A few strides to his left he found a door that opened into a fully equipped small bathroom, minus bathtub.
Following the bellboy upstairs, he came upon twin beds separated by a nightstand with a telephone extension, a second radio, an ashtray, and night lamps. There were a three-drawer dresser, two armchairs, a sliding-door closet, and a huge bathroom. The whole suite had wall-to-wall carpeting.
Back in the living room, under the paralytic’s impatient stare, the attendant hauled the baggage up, instructed the hillbillies on how the safety latch worked, handed over the key, and closed the door behind him after pocketing a onepeso bill stripped from a fat roll.
The guests locked eyes and smiled. Heller stood up, faked the heel tapping of an Andalusian dance, and roared with laughter. Contreras demanded silence by frantically shushing on his forefinger.
“C’mon, pop, give me a break. Polio victims do laugh.”
“Shit, Abo, everything is a joke to you.”
“Okay, okay, the jig is up. Just kidding,” he said, holding up his hands innocently.
“You shouldn’t have pushed so hard for the fourth floor. Clerk might wonder.”
“You said we should try to get a room on this floor.”
“Yeah, but I didn’t know there were fucking stairs in all the suites. A man in a wheelchair shouldn’t stay here.”
“It’s done. Forget about it,” Abo said, staring at the contraption. “By the way, does this thing have to be so big? This is for a four-hundred-pound fatso.”
“Abo, stop talking shit. You know why.”
Heller sighed, took off his white guayabera, dropped it carelessly on a coffee table, and keeled over onto the red couch. Contreras loosened the knot of his tie before removing his jacket and draping it over the back of an armchair.
“Hey, Ox, let’s take the blanket to the casino,” Heller said. “It’s really hard not to move my legs.”
“Okay,” Contreras said vaguely, easing himself onto the other end of the red couch. Heller rose to his feet and turned on the TV. In full concentration, his partner watched as the screen filled with three white diagonal lines on a gray background. Suddenly Contreras jerked to his feet, hurried to the phone, and asked the operator for the desk.
“Desk.”
“I’m in room 406. Are you the young man we talked to a few minutes ago?”
“Yes … Señor …”
Contreras could picture the desk clerk picking up the blue cards.
“… Peraza,” the man said finally. “What can I do for you?”
“Would you be so kind as to send up some sort of small chair or stool my son can shower on?”
“Oh, sure, Señor Peraza. No problem. I’ll explain the situation to the housekeeper. It might take a few minutes, but you’ll have it in a little while.”
“Thanks.”
Contreras hung up and faced his smiling partner.
“Brainy guy,” the younger man said.
“A jerk’s what I am. How could this escape all of us? Even in a bathtub, an invalid has to sit. Missing this kind of detail makes you a loser.”
“Yeah. Well, now it’s fixed. The game starts in a few minutes and I’m hungry. How about you?”
“I had an early breakfast.”
“Okay, let’s order.”
As the first views of Yankee Stadium were shown, Heller called room service. At 12:30, a table with collapsible sides was wheeled in. While watching the game the guests had rice, well-done beefsteaks, French fries, tomato salad, white bread, beers, caramel custard, and espresso, all off gold-rimmed china.
In the bottom of the third, Gil McDougald hit the third pitch into the screen alongside the left field foul pole for a home run to put the Yankees in front. The top of the fourth was starting when a young, attractive cleaning lady brought a small revolving metal stool with four rubber-tipped legs. After placing it in the shower stall, she came out, smiling sheepishly. Her attempt to control her curiosity about the young paralytic failed, and she stole a look. The woman took her tip pondering the irony that such a sexy-looking hunk should be confined to a wheelchair.
Contreras rolled the table out and they watched the rest of the game from the red couch, their legs outstretched. In the top of the sixth, the Braves threatened when Bruton singled over Kubek’s head, but Elston Howard made a spectacular tumbling catch of Schoendienst’s fly to short left center and doubled up Bruton, who had rounded second.
The New Yorkers retaliated in the bottom of the same inning. Bauer singled between third and shortstop, Jerry Lumpe fouled out, and Mantle hit a Texas leaguer, moving Bauer to third. Berra doubled into right field, scoring Bauer and sending Mantle to third. Howard was intentionally passed, and with bases full Skowron singled to right and Mantle scored.
Manager Fred Haney marched to the mound, probably told Burdette that it wasn’t his day, then replaced him with Juan Pizarro. McDougald was given a ground-rule double when Covington lost his fly in the sun and the ball landed in the visiting team’s bullpen in deep left field, scoring Berra and Howard as Skowron stopped at third. Kubek struck out, but Bob Turley contributed with a single to left, scoring Skowron and McDougald.
“Seems to me we’ll sleep here tonight,” Heller said.
Contreras nodded soberly. If the Manhattan Mules won, they would have nothing to do on Tuesday while the teams traveled back to Milwaukee to decide the Series in the sixth or seventh game. The date of the robbery moved according to each game’s outcome, as a prolonged Series fueled more bets. Contreras reckoned that a tie after six games might pile up $500,000 in the main collecting office, located sixty yards and nine steps away, on the mezzanine between the Capri’s fourth and fifth floors.
Restraint was his responsibility. The rest of the team wanted to highball it, arguing every conceivable reason except the most pressing: to get their hides off the line. He stole a glance at Heller.
The man was living the foolish years most males go through. Overconfident, irresponsible, hoping to screw the brains out of every beautiful broad who crossed his path. Contreras had forced him to plan ahead on what to do after the hit. In his youth he had behaved pretty much like Heller; maybe it was why he felt some kind of parental obligation to the gang’s youngest. These days Contreras found himself tired of masking his insecurity beneath a veneer of tough-guy bluntness. Looking forward to his retirement, he admitted to himself having replaced raw courage with common sense, to having honed his precision to allow for slower reflexes. But the most important thing he had learned in his life was that you never trust anyone.
Heller, looking at the screen with the boredom brought on by an insurmountable lead, reflected on his part. He was a bundle of contradictions: the experienced gambler whose intelligence was sporadically nullified by passion, an expert on probabilities with a psychic streak. He closed his eyelids, and the sharply delineated layout of a roulette table popped into his mind.
After a minute he spied the older man out of the corner of his eye. It saddened him to watch Contreras writing anything, like at the reception desk. Ignorant people shamed Heller, but those among them who were extremely clever saddened him. He wondered how Contreras had learned to read and write. Taboo subject, the kind of thing you never asked. The team’s leader could read fast enough, but when it came to writing … Well, reading was the truly essential thing, and the man had a mind like a steel trap. Once he had read something truly significant to him, it would stay in his mind forever. Heller felt a little drowsy and yawned prodigiously.
“I’m gonna take a nap, Ox. You want me to turn it off?”
“No. I’ll watch it to the end.”
Heller was sound asleep on the black couch, his clothes hanging untidily on the wheelchair, by the time Contreras turned the set off and went upstairs. He divided the contents of two suitcases between the closet and the dresser. Except for new underwear, everything else came from pawnshops. The third suitcase was stored unopened in the closet. Back in the lower level, he transferred the “Do Not Disturb” sign on the doorknob to the outside, turned the safety latch, and climbed the stairs again.
