Havana World Series

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Havana World Series Page 7

by Jose Latour


  Contreras undressed, hung his clothes, took a shower, then lay in bed. For a little over an hour he reviewed the months of planning in search of a loose end, any unseen omission like the bathing stool. He even indulged in a measure of self-criticism and acknowledged that he was losing his cool, taking it out on others, like the day before yesterday with Wheel, yesterday with Meringue. Contreras had learned from experience that the touchstones for leading men were to never lose your temper, and to cajole, not browbeat. He’d have to shoulder the blame for undetected blunders and miscalculations. He’d been hired to do the job, and the casino’s internal organization and routines had been painstakingly enumerated to him. Hatching the scheme and finding the right guys were his responsibility. Now it was on, and all his men were firmly committed; there were no major snags, no reason for turning back. His brain started unplugging sections of itself and sleep came only when a feeble sunlight was glowing under the bedroom’s drapes.

  Heller showered in the living room bath and shortly before 8 P.M. took the stairs and awoke Contreras. They got dressed, ordered and had supper, then watched TV until 9:45, at which time the older man pulled the knot of his tie up and slipped into the jacket of the suit he had worn the previous evening. Heller was in a light gray suit. A pin crowned with a pearl fastened a tie with diagonal stripes in different shades of green to the front of his white, long-sleeved dress shirt. Strapped to his left wrist was a beautiful, solid-gold watch. On his left ring finger an impressive diamond set in gold sparkled.

  While Contreras fought off a smile, Heller squatted and jumped several times, made rapid dance steps for half a minute, then marched into the toilet to urinate. Contreras went upstairs and returned with a coffee-colored blanket. Heller came back to the living room and eased himself onto the wheelchair, cursing the odd things he had to put up with to make a living. He spread the blanket over his thighs and legs.

  “Ready?” Contreras asked.

  “Ready.”

  José Guzmán saw both men coming in through the lobby door at 10:02 P.M. and approached them with his best smile. He shook hands with Contreras, then introduced himself to the disabled man and invited him to choose a table. Several clients noticed the offbeat newcomers, and even those lost in the whims of chance briefly watched the silent progression of the smiling, eager paralytic and his lugubrious companion. Heller opted for the same roulette table at which Valentín Rancaño had conducted his reconnaissance, and with terse greetings acknowledged the bald insurance agent and the aged landlord playing at it. Guzmán whispered something to the dealer. Contreras bought five hundred pesos of blue chips, Heller stacked them in front of himself, adjusted his distance by maneuvering the wheelchair, and, assisted by Contreras in what escaped his reach, placed his first bet.

  By 12:45 A.M. all Heller had left were fifty pesos. A mortician from Vermont and a Mexican fiddler had replaced the insurance man and the landlord. Six different dealers had turned the wheel and Contreras’s cigar, though now a smelly butt, still survived between the fingers of his left hand. Disappointed with his poor results and annoyed at the forced immobility, Heller felt the pressure of his full bladder cutting the night short. He positioned the remaining chips on number 20, turned a little, looked up at Contreras, and spoke as if on the fringe of collapse, a drop of hysteria in his voice.

  “Dad, I need some fresh air.”

  He faked a light gasping, felt stared at. Contreras frowned and leaned over Heller’s right shoulder as he waited for the end of the play. The ivory ball lost speed, fell into the revolving wheel, jumped between canoes, and came to rest in one of them.

  “Veinte negro; twenty black,” the dealer said.

  Heller lost control and almost jerked to his feet, but Contreras gripped his shoulder and brought him back to his role. The younger man’s panting was as genuine as his smile.

  “Congratulations, son,” the father said unemotionally, as the rake placed in front of the amazed gambler chips worth 1,750 pesos.

  Three

  At first sight, Elias Naguib brought to mind a huge, expensively wrapped parcel. Excellent suits in quiet tones softened the impression made by 206 pounds unevenly squeezed into a five-foot-five-inch frame with fifty-three years of wear and tear. Above his deeply lined forehead, close-cropped curly hair evolved from ash-gray in front to white on the back of his neck. Bushy black eyebrows and permanent dark bags framed hazel eyes that never tired of calmly gazing around, taking in people and objects. Dating from the time he had started using a dental prosthesis, Naguib had developed the tic of pressing together his thin lips every minute or so.

  Colonel Orlando Grava, general inspector of the Cuban police and chief of the Bureau of Investigations, had the demeanor of a politician campaigning for reelection. His flashing dark eyes, smooth white skin, wavy and combed-back dark hair, and frequent smiles made up for his plump physique. His jacket’s long narrow lapels moderated the contrast between his youthful-looking forty-five and his paunch. Police pundits affirmed that, five years earlier, Grava hadn’t been able to afford a fake stone for his wife’s engagement ring. At present, he reminded people of the church mouse that had found the crown’s treasure. A bracelet set with several small brilliants girdled his right wrist, a costly watch was strapped to his left, and the two gold rings on his fingers—an amethyst set in one, an emerald in the other—looked quite expensive. When he wore open-necked shirts, the heavy chain and medal in eighteen-karat gold hanging from his neck made people gawk.

  Both men stood by the rectangular mid-room bar of the Havana Biltmore Yacht and Country Club, a huge plush building on the shoreline west of Havana, half a mile from the small coastal town of Santa Fe. The bar was stylishly furnished with precious woods and genuine leather, large seascapes in oil, and two huge eighteenth-century mirrors. Bohemian glassware and a cool temperature were also provided.

  The club’s select membership included many of the oldest and richest Cuban families. As in all clannish associations, personal wealth and the right sponsors were issues very seriously pondered when making decisions on new acceptances. Grava’s application had been turned down a year earlier, and the colonel hoped that Naguib, a member since 1952, would be one of his new sponsors this time. In April his host had started frequently inviting him to the clubhouse for drinks and meals.

  The Lebanese sipped mature Cuban rum diluted with bottled spring water; the snobbish cop’s favorite tipple was whiskey and soda. No other patrons were present, the discreet bartender had retired as far away as he could, and the two men were talking things over at midday on Tuesday, October 7. Naguib was clinching his first calculated move after a quarter hour of apparently idle chatter.

  “… the sonofabitch’s doing bad,” he concluded with a self-taught Spanish pronunciation in which the emphatic, guttural accent of his native tongue survived, “so he’s trying to make some money by importing cocaine.”

  “Really?” a surprised Grava exclaimed.

  “Now, I don’t want you to get me wrong. I’ve done my share of shady deals and have nothing against smuggling something, or cooking the books to pay less tax. But drugs are different. Marijuana, it’s not too bad. But cocaine?”

  “I couldn’t agree more.”

  “Right now he has no less than eighty thousand dollars’ worth of coke stashed away in his jewelry store’s safe.”

  It looked as though Grava couldn’t believe his ears. “Are you sure?” he asked suspiciously.

  “Absolutely.”

  “Something must be done,” Grava said, straightening up and looking official. “Thanks for coming forward, Mr. Naguib. You’re a responsible citizen.”

  “I certainly try to be one. Do what you think best. And … changing the subject: How are you getting along with the revolutionaries?”

  It was his second move. Grava raised his left eyebrow, put the glass to his lips, finished its contents, then signaled for another round. By the time the barman mixed the drinks, refilled the bowl of salted peanuts, and retur
ned to his distant corner, the colonel had his reply ready.

  “Here in Havana, the revolutionaries are finished. In Oriente, they still resist the Army’s offensive.”

  Naguib tilted his head, as though in deep thought. Then, after a couple of seconds: “Don’t you think … I mean, I don’t want to pry into other people’s affairs, but wouldn’t it be prudent for certain folks to make sure they know where the fire escape is?”

  “Folks like you?” the Cuban asked with a grin.

  For an instant Naguib lifted his eyes to the ceiling and forced a smile as he shook his head. Then he stared at the colonel. “No, not for me, no. I’m a foreigner, I don’t hold a position in this administration—I’m fairly certain the rebels don’t even know I exist. But I have a friend, a top government official, up to here in this mess”—Naguib’s right-hand fingers touched his chin—“who’s looking for a small yacht and a passport; you know, his photograph with a different name. He’s desperate for a quick way out.”

  Grava’s silence was full of information. Naguib pressed his lips against his dentures and let his gaze slide over the rows of glassware and bottles. He kept talking, a man revealing his innermost thoughts. “The wise man never nails a door shut, because he doesn’t knows if he’ll have to open it one day. My friend could be wrong, but being cautious won’t hurt him. He’ll have his yacht to sell whenever he wishes. He can burn the passport if he feels he won’t need it … but for the moment he keeps his options open. You own a boat?”

  “No,” replied Grava, letting Naguib carry him along.

  “What a shame—the Bureau is so close to the river. Deep-sea fishing is extremely soothing. Ask club members.”

  Third move.

  The colonel sipped from his glass, considering something. “Fishing in the Gulf Stream must be quite an experience,” he said at last. “Since I read Hemingway’s The Old Man and the Sea I’ve been considering buying a pleasure boat.”

  “Well, I could try and find out if there’s a good one on the market.”

  “You sell everything?” asked Grava with a fresh smile.

  “From microscopes to coffins. The client orders, Elias serves. Reasonable prices, guaranteed quality.”

  They chuckled before sipping from their glasses. The Lebanese lit a Lucky Strike with a Zippo lighter. Grava popped a few peanuts into his mouth as he pondered the pros and cons of trusting the Lebanese. Naguib closely watched the colonel’s facial expressions and determined he had pinpointed the main reason for concern.

  “Maybe, if you can afford it, I could buy it in my name, then lease it to you on paper,” he said.

  Grava nodded reflectively, then said, “Good alternative. What would a medium-sized cruiser cost?”

  Naguib pulled down the corners of his mouth, tilted his head, fixed his eyes on the wall behind Grava. “I really don’t know. I suppose it depends on when it was built, its length, breadth, type of engine, and the owner’s rush.” Then, locking eyes with Grava, he made his fourth move. “But keep in mind this cocaine I just told you about. Maybe some American or Mexican would pay sixty for what’s worth eighty.”

  The colonel bit his lower lip and evaded the probing eyes. He never felt comfortable with this man who constantly outfoxed him. The guy was incredible! Recent acquaintances didn’t cut deals this way. This wasn’t the right manner to address the chief of the Bureau of Investigations, for Chrissake! It was galling! But he begrudgingly admitted that the Moor was right: These were hectic times; the island was in the throes of insurrection. He needed a way out, just in case things took a turn for the worst, so this was one of those moments in which swallowing one’s pride was the right thing to do. And he could sell the yacht abroad if, God forbid, the fucking fanatics opposing President Batista forced him to leave Cuba for a few months, until things got back to normal.

  “You could be right, you know?” Grava said at last. “The thought would’ve never occurred to me. I usually have drugs burned.”

  “Tell you what,” Naguib whispered. “You seize the cocaine. I’ll try to find a buyer for it. If I manage to sell it, you give me the money and I’ll buy you a cabin cruiser in my name. Then we sign a sales contract for you to keep, and a fake lease contract, just in case anyone asks about this new boat of yours.”

  Grava raised his left eyebrow again. “I don’t know, Mr. Naguib. I have to think it over. But if we manage to do what you suggest, my gratitude shall be eternal.”

  Checkmate, Naguib thought, then waved away the compliment. “I’ll consider the score even. I owed you one for the list of consultants.”

  “That was nothing,” the colonel said, smiling distractedly, still immersed in the possibilities opened by this amazing exchange.

  “Contreras is good,” Naguib commented.

  “So, you chose him.”

  “Sure. He made an impression.”

  Grava knitted his brow and shook his glass; the ice rattled. “I’ve been told he’s rounding up hoodlums who served time with him. My Robbery Department recommends a full investigation.”

  “That’s not necessary. He’s working for me now,” Naguib said, perhaps a trifle abruptly.

  “Is he? I thought you were done with him. It’s been nearly four months since you asked.”

  “I’d appreciate it if you leave him alone.”

  Grava felt a dismissive dryness in Naguib’s tone. “And I’d appreciate it if he doesn’t give me any trouble,” the colonel said.

  “Let us hope he doesn’t.”

  Grava declined Naguib’s invitation to lunch, adducing urgent police matters, and the Lebanese walked him to the club’s colonnaded entry. In the parking lot, five bodyguards had locked themselves in Grava’s two 1958 black Cadillac sedans, air conditioners blasting. Both vehicles glided to the portico when the colonel stopped at the doorway to shake hands with his host.

  After seeing Grava off, Elias Naguib instructed his driver to have lunch in the servants’ cafeteria, then sauntered over to the restaurant. Blas Chacón, Naguib’s driver since 1940, felt certain his boss would enjoy a leisurely meal, so he took his time polishing off the white rice, black bean potage, ground beef, and fried plantains that he ordered. Naguib would leave the club around two o’clock and ask to be taken to the offices of Luis Mendoza y Compañía, traders in sugar futures, Blas figured.

  The afternoon had turned splendid by the time Naguib lit a Lucky and nestled in the backseat of his 1957 De Soto to enjoy the drive. The eleven-mile-long, tree-lined Fifth Avenue was reputedly Havana’s most beautiful boulevard. It had a ten-yard-wide median divider with a cemented central footwalk, along which manicured flowerbeds, ornamental trees, and lawn thrived. Some magnificent residences could also be admired. The tunnel under the Almendares River marked the beginning of a six-lane freeway flanked by a seawall known as Malecón to all city residents. Naguib took a deep breath of sea breeze. His gaze swept over the water sparkling under the blinding sunlight and came to rest on the Morro Castle’s lighthouse. It had been the first thing Cuban he’d seen from the boat on his initial, exploratory trip many years earlier.

  Once the vehicle entered Old Havana, the hub of Cuban finance, Naguib shifted mental gears and started thinking sugar. He got off at 305 Obispo Street, went down a stairway to the traders’ basement, and studied the evolution of prices in New York on Monday and Tuesday morning. Next he bought fifty lots of raw sugar for next March, discussed probable margins for the October closing position, then exchanged views with his agent about the impact of the rebels’ economic sabotage on the upcoming sugar harvest. The Lebanese considered the sweetener a national barometer which foretold effects on most segments of the Cuban economy, unceasingly absorbed information about it, and speculated following sober cause-and-effect analysis.

  At 3:16 P.M. Naguib returned to his wholesale jewelry business at 418 Muralla Street. He inspected a shipment of Brazilian emeralds, approved two new ring designs, telephoned three retailers, and skimmed over the September 30 profit-and-loss statement.
As over the years the Lebanese launched new business ventures, this shop had diminished its share in his total net profits to less than 10 percent, but it remained his toy and only haven of sentimentality.

  Naguib had become acquainted with precious stones in 1926, when a New York–based uncle—an expert on two fancy cuts: heart and pear shapes—lured him from Beirut. The man tried to teach his nephew lapidary art, with poor results. Elias had lacked the indispensable combination of eagle eyes and steady hands required to become a faceter, so he was relegated to sawing off diamonds with a rotating phosphor-bronze disk. Laid off when the American economy went into a tailspin in 1929, Naguib became a homeless, hungry wanderer who begged coins and dreamed with a diamond’s white fire.

  At half past four the Lebanese arrived at 523 Vives Street, home to Motor Auto Company Limited. His latest acquisition was a retail spare parts front for cars stolen in the U.S. and shipped to Cuba from Key West by ferryboat. He inspected ten Willys jeeps legally bought as Army surplus in Miami, then checked invoices, signed checks, and, accompanied by a building contractor, toured the site approving repairs.

  At 5:50 P.M. the De Soto climbed a ramp to the indoor parking space of Centro Comercial La Rampa, on Twenty-third and P Streets, Vedado. Blas Chacón cut the ignition, left the keys in it, got out of the car, and went home, pleased to quit early, feeling certain that his boss had a new love affair. The Lebanese remained in the backseat. The poor lighting provided by a few incandescent bulbs wrapped him in shadows, causing him to blend in with the walnut-colored upholstery. Getting ready for his next interview, he engaged in the complex mental interweaving of refined schemers.

 

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