Havana World Series

by Jose Latour

  “Which?” Peewee Frankenstein asked. Di Constanzo sorted out two from five keys.

  The third man, a spectator so far, shifted the shotgun to his left hand and reached for the keys. After squinting at their trademarks, he stepped up to the security grille and read the bas-relieved name on the lock cylinder: Corbin. He chose the same-brand key and nodded. The hostage was pushed to face the entrance and the man with the keys slipped in the first of them, turned the lock, slid open the gate. Then he inserted the second key into the door’s lock and turned it.

  The Frankensteins with shotguns barged in, covering the room with sweeping motions. Four nonplussed men lifted their eyes to the unexpected.

  “Nobody moves. Lewis, translate,” Grouse’s executioner said in Spanish. After a two-second hesitation, a perplexed young man sitting in front of a desk complied.

  It was a windowless, shipshape, thirty-by-fifteen-foot office. On the wall, to the left of the door, a gaping Mosler safe showed two cubic feet of neatly stacked U.S. and Cuban bills. A wheeled table with empty plates and glasses stood alongside three gray, four-drawer filing cabinets. In the center, atop two light green metal desks, were phones, three calculating machines, two ashtrays, and assorted office supplies.

  “Hands on desktops,” was the subsequent instruction that Leroy Lewis, born twenty-seven years earlier in Eau Claire, Wisconsin, dutifully translated. Formerly a Spanish teacher at a Youngstown high school, now he was Casino de Capri’s assistant cashier. Obviously having been adding figures on a Victor calculating machine an instant earlier, his arm rested on several strips of paper. Behind the desk sat Melvin Zemach, a twenty-five-year-old assistant accountant who in 1955 gave up a business administration scholarship to Wharton, tempted by a Las Vegas job opportunity.

  Nick Di Constanzo entered the room, prodded by the Parabellum’s muzzle, now resting on his spine, and was forced to sit in a chair near the door. Behind the desk he faced sat Richard Falwell—formerly with the National City Bank, now the casino’s cashier—and Lee Nelsen Sullivan, a fifty-two-year-old CPA who graduated from Tufts in 1930. Di Constanzo glanced at the two reports he was supposed to check and sign on the desktop. The short Frankenstein, panting and puffing, dragged Grouse’s body inside, then closed the security grille and the door. The stench of excrement invaded the office.

  “We had to take care of Grouse ’cause this guy here thinks he’s pretty tough,” the Frankenstein in charge said. “Lewis?” he asked after a pause. The assistant cashier stammered the translation.

  “Anybody else feel like giving us a hard time?”

  The number crunchers, terrified, kept their eyes on the floor.

  “I thought so. Di Constanzo, get on your feet,” the man ordered. Pale but composed, the boss stood once Lewis interpreted.

  “Lie down on the floor.”

  The marauder who had turned both locks began tying up Di Constanzo. The Frankenstein-in-chief approached the safe, leaned his shotgun against the wall, and pulled out two pillow linings. As the casino’s top executive was being immobilized, the short man cradled his buddy’s shotgun in his left arm, his own Parabellum firmly gripped with his right, aimed at the not-yet-tied hostages. But it wasn’t necessary. The paper shufflers, well removed from heroics by their beliefs and outlooks, followed the example set by their boss with admirable acquiescence. The third invader, meanwhile, was stuffing stacks of bills into the pillow linings.

  In six minutes he filled both to the brim. His two companions, having nothing to do once the staff had been immobilized, watched him without a word. He zipped the linings up, asked for the pillowcases, slipped the loot into them. Then the intruders filled their pockets with wads of the highest denominations that remained in the safe.

  “Pull out the phone cords,” Frankenstein One said.

  The short man stuck the Parabellum under his belt before rendering the phones useless. The other two gathered near the door, covering the shotguns with what looked like huge pillows. The short man operated the locks and peeked into the hall.

  “Clear,” he said.

  They came out, closed the door and the security grille. Fermín pulled his mask off and did the same for Contreras and Heller, who had their hands full. With ruffled hair, they darted down the hallway and took the steps to the fourth floor. While he covered their backs, Fermín’s hands squeezed the rubber masks, which he hadn’t been able to slip into his overstuffed pockets. They paused by the swinging hallway door, made sure nobody was waiting for the elevators, and returned to the suite unseen. Contreras turned on the lights and, running his hands through his hair in a poor attempt at rearranging it, snapped the final orders.

  “Shotguns on the couch. This pillowcase on the wheelchair seat. Yours on the back. Sit. C’mon, c’mon, sit. Now the chair’s the right size, ain’t it? Abo, you’re paper-white!”

  “Really?” the younger man asked, panting, in bug-eyed surprise.

  “Very convenient, ain’t it so, Doc?”

  “Perfect,” Fermín approved.

  “Open the bag, Gallego,” Contreras went on. “The dough in our pockets. Here. Take some more. Pass yours, Abo. Here, Gallego. C’mon, c’mon. Jesus, this is the biggest heist in Cuban history! Hurry up. Your rod goes in too, Gallego. Pull out the flaps of your smock. What’s missing?”

  “The masks,” Heller said.

  “First thing I dropped in the bag,” Fermín said.

  “Abo, loosen your tie, undo your shirt, mess up your hair a little more. Okay. Off with the gloves and into the bag.”

  They frantically tugged at their cotton gloves; a few moments later the medical bag was closed.

  “Let’s get the hell out,” Contreras said.

  Fermín turned the handle and they went into the hall. The fake doctor pulled the door close, then pocketed his handkerchief. Contreras, deep lines of worry on his forehead, clutched the handles and pushed the wheelchair in which Heller passably mimicked an acute respiratory crisis with moans and wheezes. The elevator on the left was coming down from the eleventh floor; in less than twenty seconds the door slid open. The attendant and two Venezuelan oil executives on their way to the airport moved aside to make room for the distressed threesome.

  “Lobby—hurry up,” Contreras ordered.

  Staring at the pale face of Abo, who kept his eyelids closed as if seeking relief in blindness, the amazed employee pulled the lever. Embarrassed, the South Americans shied away from the patient and his escorts.

  At the hotel entrance, Rancaño kept scanning around as though his date was late. An unlit cigarette hanging from his lips, he kept shifting his weight uneasily from one foot to the other and clicking the lid of a windproof Ronson lighter open and shut. The doorman and the bellboy on duty eyed him curiously and shared an intrigued glance.

  From where Rancaño stood, the elevators’ floor scales weren’t clearly visible, but from the horizontal, right-to-left blinking of the small bulbs, the gambler guessed a cage was coming down. The second he saw the wheelchair he turned to the attendants and said, “Hey, what’s going on?” tilting his head to the lobby. The doorman and the bellboy gaped at the sick man in the wheelchair. Rancaño spun around, worked the lighter, placed the flame several inches away from his face, and a second later brought it slowly to the cigarette.

  Seventy yards up Twenty-first Street, Melchor Loredo clearly saw the flame. From the passenger seat he snatched two six-by-three-inch metal sheets folded in half, the word “Taxi” in blue over a white background, and inserted them on the top edges of both half-rolled-up rear windows. He turned the ignition; the engine came alive with a purr. Loredo pressed the clutch, shifted into first, and drove away from the curb as he turned on the lights. At the intersection with N Street, he tapped the brakes. Heller and the wheelchair were in the arms of two attendants, Contreras leaned over the invalid and Fermín looked his way to signal for a quick pickup. A driver from the hotel cabstand was briskly approaching his black ’56 Cadillac, parked on the other side of the street.
Loredo made sure no other vehicle was coming uphill on N, lightly stepped on the gas pedal, let the clutch out, and reached Contreras.

  “Taxi, sir?”

  “Yes, taxi, open your back door!”

  “Hold this for me,” Fermín said as he handed the medical bag to Rancaño, posing as Good Samaritan.

  Loredo, still in his seat, leaned backward and opened the left rear door. Contreras lifted Heller by the armpits, Fermín took his legs, and with much pushing and shoving they managed to sit the choking invalid in the middle, his father by the other door. The doorman and the bellboy watched in commiseration. Fermín handed the pillowcases to Contreras, folded the wheelchair, and positioned it in the empty space by Heller, between the car’s backseat and floor.

  The taxi-stand cabbie watched in relief. It was a fare he didn’t want, and probably the Venezuelans needed a taxi too. Fermín scurried around the car, followed by Rancaño, who surprised the hotel doorman by concisely declaring, “I’m coming with you.” Both slid over the front seat, and Rancaño closed the door. Loredo released the brake, gunned the engine, and the car glided along Twenty-first before taking a right onto O Street. It was 12:36 A.M. on Friday, October 10, 1958.

  PART TWO

  Five

  Shortly after 1:30 A.M., the parking attendant on duty persuaded his latest girlfriend to make love on the backseat of a brand-new ’59 Edsel. Late models turned him on. No different from the rest of the species, he abhorred interruptions when screwing a broad and decided to approach the doorman first and find out what was keeping the few remaining casino staff from going home. Didn’t those damn Yanks know the proper thing to do was to go into mourning for the Pope? Fucking Protestants!

  Thirty-seven minutes later, the desk clerk phoned Bertier Pérez, the hotel’s general manager. He reported that Mr. Di Constanzo and Mr. Grouse had been last seen heading to the casino’s mezzanine office a few minutes after midnight. No one had left the place since; nobody was answering the phone, either. Pérez was inured to the unpredictable working hours of hoteliers and ignored his wife’s protestations and her repeated slaps of her pillow as she tried in vain to return to sleep. He got dressed in a hurry, then bolted to the mezzanine. Nick Di Constanzo had had nearly two hours to chart a course of action, for it was 2:19 A.M. when Pérez, staring at the stain on the carpet and frowning at the smell of excrement, knocked on the wooden door. A chorus of anxious voices came from inside the office. Pérez identified Di Constanzo’s when it ordered the others to shut the fuck up.

  “Who’s there?” the casino boss asked.

  “Bertier Pérez, the hotel manager, Mr. Di Constanzo.”

  “Okay. You listen good, Pérez. Phone 2-4500, ask for Mr. Lansky, tell him to come at once. If he’s not there, try the Riviera—find him somehow, and give him my message. You got the number?”

  “Yes, sir: 2-4500.”

  “Fine. Next you call a locksmith. He’s to pack his tools and get his ass here as fast as he can. When Mr. Lansky arrives, the locksmith opens the gate and the door. Don’t let him open before Meyer—I mean Mr. Lansky—arrives. Am I getting through to you?”

  “Perfectly.”

  “Good. Get one of those laundry handcarts, drop five or six clean sheets and towels in it, and bring it here.”

  “At your service, Mr. Di Constanzo. Anything else?”

  “Yeah. Once the gate and the door are unlocked, only Mr. Lansky and those he names can come in. You and the locksmith go back to bed. And, Pérez …”

  “Yes?”

  “Bag your lips.”

  “Sir?”

  “No comments, to anyone.”

  “Understood. I’m leaving now.”

  “Hurry up, Pérez.”

  Bertier Pérez was born in Littleton, North Carolina, of a Paraguayan father and an American mother. Fluent in both languages, he had joined the hotel trade in 1931. At present, Pérez was a forty-nine-year-old monogamous Catholic who occasionally washed blood from his hands when, on vacation at home, he sliced an expensive cut of beef for a barbecue. But the experienced executive was pragmatic enough to reconcile his respect for the laws of God and men with the realities of managing hotels owned by mobsters. Most of the time he doubted that such nice, smiling, magnanimous men would engage in a diversity of criminal acts capable of exhausting the provisions of the thickest penal code, but something always happened—from a sudden scowl to the unexplained disappearance of someone—that planted new seeds in his cautious mind. So, the Capri’s general manager followed instructions to the letter and, on his own initiative, made known to the switchboard operator and the desk clerk that Mr. Di Constanzo and other casino staff were working late and mustn’t be disturbed. And he gave room service a standby order for ham-and-cheese sandwiches and a half-gallon thermos bottle of freshly brewed coffee, just in case.

  From 3:36 to 3:38 A.M., Meyer Lansky and Jacob Shaifer watched as Ricardo Benavides unlocked the gate and the door and put away his skeleton keys in a metal box. The general manager handed a fifty-peso bill to the locksmith, took hold of his elbow, and steered him from the mezzanine, thanking him most kindly. Once they were out of sight, Lansky pulled out a .38 Smith & Wesson revolver and Shaifer drew a .45 automatic Colt Commando.

  “I’m coming in, Nick,” Lansky said.

  “Okay, Meyer.”

  Shaifer crossed the doorway, looked around, and nodded to Lansky before shoving the gun back into his shoulder holster. His boss first gazed at the open and virtually empty safe to confirm what only an idiot wouldn’t have suspected, then scanned the room, where five impatient men, lying on their stomachs, stretched their necks up like hungry turtles. A sixth remained as uninterested as only corpses can be. The stench of excrement was overpowering inside the office.

  “Got a blade, Jacob?”

  “Sure,” Shaifer said, fishing into the left pocket of his trousers.

  “Cut them loose,” Lansky ordered, pocketing his gun.

  By the time Di Constanzo finished rubbing his wrists and ankles, the other four had been freed too and a cash up was ordered. The younger men began counting what was left in the safe; Falwell and Sullivan consulted records. Lansky and Di Constanzo retired to the filing cabinets, where the man from the Capri told Lansky what had happened. After recounting Grouse’s murder, he presented his carefully considered reason for giving in.

  “… The keys were in my pocket. They could’ve bumped me off and taken them anyway. It would’ve gained us nothing, so I gave it to them.”

  When Di Constanzo finished, Lansky closed his eyes. He was mildly surprised at not feeling the symptoms: the buzzing in his ears, the heat on his face. Next he fixed his gaze on the apple-green carpet. In twelve hours, a day at most, all Commission members and gang bosses in the U.S. would learn that Meyer Lansky had been taken for …

  “Ask them the fucking figure,” loud enough for all the others to hear.

  “Lee?” Di Constanzo asked.

  “Six hundred twenty-seven thousand,” Sullivan reported.

  Di Constanzo shot a glance at Lansky. The man was perceptibly shaken by this egregious loss of prestige. Bonanno’s probable reaction sprang to Lansky’s mind, and his brain paused to consider that probability. The quiet humming that usually preceded the buzzing started in his inner ear.

  “Bonanno?” he asked, lifting his eyes to Di Constanzo.

  The man from Capri mulled it over for about ten seconds. “I don’t think so, Meyer. This must’ve taken weeks, even months of planning.”

  “Precisely.”

  “He ain’t got anyone here.”

  Lansky kept to himself the “who knows?” that came to his mind. “Who’s your man fluent in Spanish?”

  “Hey, Leroy, get over here.”

  Still affected by the recent ordeal and impressed by Lansky’s presence, Lewis traversed the room. Even though nobody had said a word about internal complicity, the five men from Casino de Capri felt certain an insider had supplied vital information to the raiders. Leroy L
ewis feared that, having been ordered to interpret, he might be considered a likely suspect. His own knowledge of his total innocence wasn’t a great comfort.

  “Mr. Lansky wants to have a word with you,” Di Constanzo said to the assistant cashier.

  “At your service. It’s a pleasure to meet you, sir,” Lewis muttered.

  “Thanks, kid. These bastards knew you by name; they used you as interpreter.”

  “Well … yes.”

  “Did their voices sound familiar to you? Identify anyone?”

  “No, sir.”

  “Was their Spanish genuine? I mean, did you notice an accent?”

  Lewis could have given an instant reply, but he took his time, eyes on the floor, to give the impression he was recalling every word. He shook his head one last time.

  “Genuine Spanish is only spoken in Spain, Mr. Lansky, in Castile specifically. They talked Cuban Spanish, but genuinely Cuban, no foreign accent. Besides …”

  “Go on.”

  Lewis smiled, shook his head some more. “This may sound strange to you, sir, but they smelled Cuban. Over here people shower on a daily basis, use deodorants and perfumes. The one who tied me up smelled Cuban.”

  “Anything else?”

  “No.”

  “Okay. Thanks.”

  The assistant cashier rejoined the other office workers. Meyer Lansky studied the group for a moment. They didn’t know whether to volunteer for anything, sit down, talk among themselves, or ask permission to leave. Melvin Zemach frequently raised his eyebrows and glanced at the ceiling, both hands stuck in his pockets. Slouching, Richard Falwell held his hands at his back, looked at the carpet, and every minute or so pursed his lips in disapproval. With one leg thrown over the corner of his desk, Sullivan was chewing his nails to the quick. Lansky felt certain the traitor was not one of them: All four seemed to belong to the mass of gutless folks whose mantra was “I have ultimate respect for the law.” Like most men of action, the Hebrew had a very low opinion of paper pushers.