Havana World Series

by Jose Latour

  “An altar?”

  “Yeah. Like in church.”

  “Oh.”

  “It means that the Motherland is an altar to be worshiped, not a ladder to climb up. José Martí said that.”

  “I see.”

  “So, I became a revolutionary. I planted bombs, shot cops, and was a stupid jerk till I learned, around … ’35 that it’s neither shrine nor stepping-stone—there’s no Motherland anywhere. There are wise guys and suckers, hawks and doves, lambs and wolves. I held up several numbers cash spots and did two banks. Then the war began and I had three easy years with the black market. Tires, gas, lard, the works, but all good things come to an end. When I tried to hit the third bank, I got busted. Did a jolt from ’45 to ’54 at the Presidio Modelo. I came out four years ago and said to myself—”

  From the round table near the right end of the sofa, the phone rang softly. Both men glanced at their watches.

  “Twelve minutes early; anxious to collect,” the Lebanese said, lifting his eyebrows. Then he rose and answered.

  “Yes.”

  “…”

  “Ask him if his name is Señor Vila Real.”

  “…”

  “Is he a good-looking guy, around thirty, dark hair, five foot nine or ten?”

  “…”

  “Okay, send him up.”

  Naguib returned the receiver to the cradle, made a “Follow me” sweeping arm motion, grabbed the bag, and with Contreras on his heels went into the master bedroom. It was long and wide, with walls upon which oil paintings, pastel drawings, and two rectangular mirrors hung. A dark green velvet drape framed the only window. An enormous Italian bed stunningly displayed Baroque at its height. The oak headboard had an elaborate, tiny, ascending carving that seemed cocoa froth immobilized by a supernatural action. On both sides of the bed, on the wall, two kneeling angels carved in cedar kept vigil with distressed expressions. From the bed’s legs grew spires that stood one yard above the mattress, as if hoping to recover a canopy. Naguib dropped the bag on the Nile-green bedspread.

  “I’ll leave the door ajar, so you can hear and see through the slot,” the Lebanese said.

  “The guy could try to pull off something without warning. How will I know?”

  “I’ll holler for you real loud,” Naguib replied, smiling broadly. Then he turned off the lights and returned to the living room. Two minutes went by. Contreras tried to adjust the door so the slot offered maximum visibility, but where he and Naguib had sat remained out of sight. He was reflecting on how convenient it would be if the new arrival chose the left side of the sofa when the buzzer rang. The Lebanese approached the front door and opened it.

  …

  Wilberto Pires—former collector of cork bark in his native Portugal, snapshot camera mechanic in Barcelona, and male prostitute in Monte Carlo, Willy Pi to the rest of Casino de Capri’s staff—stood in the doorway.

  The handsome man wore a beige sport jacket over a brown polo shirt, coffee-colored slacks, and loafers of the same shade. He was carrying a plastic KLM handbag. With his charming smile, he brought to mind a young movie actor headed toward worldwide recognition.

  “Come in, come in,” the host said.

  Naguib had chosen him from among thirty-odd candidates for several reasons, in particular the mixture of frustration and ambition which occasionally gleamed in his eyes. For the last ten of his twenty-six years, Pires had gathered enough personal experiences to write a treatise on the misfortunes of good-looking insolvent males. Most men thought he might tempt their girlfriends, wives, sisters, or daughters into sinful fornication. The well-off women he had successfully approached in Monte Carlo developed expectations impossible to fulfill; all wanted to transform him into either an ornament, a stallion, or a slave—and sometimes into all of three things at once.

  Five months after landing in Cuba, he’d met Naguib at Johnny’s Dream Bar in what he considered fortuitous circumstances. After making certain that his latest friend was rich, heterosexual, and single, the dealer had accepted invitations to Le Vêndome, the Saigon, Havana’s Lebanese Club, and the Turf. In the course of three weeks, Pires admitted to Naguib his unfulfilled ambitions, repressed longings, and considerable nostalgia for his beloved Portugal, for Vila Real and Serra do Marao, for the Douro and Peso de Régua. Many opportunities had been denied him, Pires affirmed plaintively. His host, rather than commiserating over the injustice of so many frustrations, had underlined the dealer’s right to move ahead, especially considering that a big new opportunity was up for grabs. “What do you mean?” a puzzled Willy had asked. And Naguib had the nerve to make the incredible proposal during lunch at the 21 Club last July, across the street from Casino de Capri.

  Astonished beyond words, Pires had limited his reaction to getting to his feet and leaving the place. But that night after work, as he lay awake in bed, he had started ruminating about the plan. What he’d considered the beginning of a friendship had in fact been the cool scheming of a mobster. But who the hell was he working for? What were the ethical standards of his employers? How did they start their careers? Where did all the dough the suckers bet go?

  Naguib had already registered a misjudgment when Willy called to say he wanted to discuss the deal. The Lebanese accused him of going with the story to Di Constanzo, threatened him with all kinds of horrible deaths, but when he was reasonably sure that greed had turned the dealer to his side, Naguib explained that all Pires had to do was watch and report. Only Naguib would know of his involvement, and Pires’s cut—25 percent of an estimated four hundred thousand dollars—was more than enough to get him back to Portugal, where he could buy a farm and live like a prince for the rest of his life.

  Between secret meetings, as he measured distances, drew sketches, and gathered information, Willy Pi had developed strange ideas. In the beginning, he had just considered himself an indispensable member of the team. By August, he’d felt he was the crucial element. In September, he came to believe he was the brain directing operations. Naguib had read in his eyes and heard in his voice the transformation from baby goat to jungle creature and took precautions, one of which was having a true wild beast guarding his back a few steps away.

  “Is everything okay, Elias?”

  “Everything’s perfect.”

  “Will they suspect me?”

  “Of course not. You’re clean as a whistle. Take a seat.”

  “They ordered all of us to go tomorrow morning to some place and take a look at mug shots. Is it true the job was pulled by an invalid and his father?”

  “Of course not. An invalid indeed!”

  “Well, that’s the rumble. I dealt for these two guys and I don’t think—”

  “There’s your cut,” Naguib interrupted, pointing to the money on the coffee table.

  “All that?” a flabbergasted Pires asked.

  “Sure. Wanna count it?”

  “I … think I will.”

  “Go ahead. White Horse and soda?”

  “Okay.”

  During the brief exchange, both men crossed the door slot and Contreras recognized the dealer. Mild surprise made him smile. But Willy’s comment pointed to police intervention, quicker than he’d expected; he would speak to Naguib about it later on. Unable to see them now, he strained his ears while gazing at the dark window. For another six or seven minutes all that could be overheard were impersonal noises: ice clicking in a glass; a Zippo lighter being opened, worked, and closed.

  “It’s a fortune,” the dealer said at last.

  “All yours, Willy.”

  “All ours, Elias. Your cut must be somewhere around.”

  “True.”

  “I hope this bag can hold it all.”

  All ears, Contreras registered a zipper running. There was a brief interval, followed by two sharp reports, the way corks popping from bottles of champagne sound, then a liquid discharge, as if a spout of fluid had shot out of a pipe. In the ensuing silence the Cuban’s mind twirled, went back to normal,
twirled again. With his right had he drew the Colt and turned swiftly to look through the slot. After a few seconds, Willy Pi stepped backward into his field of vision, pale as Abo had been the previous night, gripping a gun with a silencer attached, eyes glued to where Naguib probably was. Contreras’s reasoning powers were blocked. Then he saw the dealer approaching the bedroom, and self-preservation washed away his remaining traces of prudence. The second Willy Pi gained entrance, he lifted the revolver, aimed it point-blank at the dealer’s temple, and pulled the trigger.

  The explosion deafened him. A tiny fragment of the victim’s right temporal bone scratched his forehead. Pires died instantly, collapsing onto the floor and remaining motionless there. Contreras stared at him, gradually recovering his reflective ability. He stepped over the corpse, left the bedroom, and reached Naguib, now slumped on his seat. The Lebanese’s death was almost accidental. One bullet had run through muscles above his right collarbone and left without doing much apparent damage. The second slug wouldn’t have been fatal either, if it hadn’t pierced the right carotid, freeing a powerful jet of blood that landed a yard away, then gradually weakened until soaking into the armchair’s brocade and the man’s clothes.

  Contreras took a deep breath. Staring at Naguib’s half-closed eyes, he saw the tight spot he’d been wedged into, from which he had no idea how to extricate himself. He pondered his next moves for almost a minute. Upon making his decision, he reholstered the gun, returned to the bedroom, and reached for the bag on the bed. Back in the living room, he packed into it all the stacks on the coffee table, approached the front door, and closed his eyes to concentrate on hallway noise. Voices in close proximity were hypothesizing on the probable cause of the explosion. Contreras unlatched the door, went out, and spied two middle-aged men in pajamas giving him the eye, as if he could explain things. He turned to face the door, waved good-bye to Naguib’s corpse, and wished him good night loud enough for the tenants to overhear. Then he pulled the mahogany door shut. As he approached an overweight man who was obviously getting ready to question him, he seized the initiative. “That noise we heard—was it around here?”

  “No sir,” answered the tenant. “Wasn’t it in 35?”

  “No. We thought it came from over here. Oh, well. Must’ve been kids playing with firecrackers. Good evening.”

  Repressing his urge to flee, Contreras took the stairs. Other residents might not be placated so easily, and he wasn’t sure whether Naguib’s front door, when closed from the outside, bolted itself. He traversed the lobby and stopped by the reception desk.

  “Señor Naguib asked me to report that his extension is dead and to please send the repairman in the morning.”

  “Thank you, señor,” the clerk replied. “Did you hear anything strange?”

  “Yes—a bang, sort of. Señor Naguib thinks it was a firecracker.”

  “Several tenants reported it.”

  “I see. Well … good evening.”

  “Good evening, Señor Toro.”

  As he left the building, Contreras felt certain that the desk clerk wouldn’t give his description to the cops. No, he’d give them a color snapshot, including the tufts of hair sticking out of his nostrils. Twenty yards away he heard the Chevy start up, and hope bloomed. He refrained from dashing for the heap and, after what seemed like an eternity, finally reached it. He hopped in, placed the travel bag on the seat, and pulled the door closed.

  “Get going, Gallego.”

  “Everything okay?”

  “Everything’s not okay. The shit hit the fan.”

  “Whaddaya mean?”

  “Gallego, for your mother’s sake, get going. There’re two stiffs in apartment 35, three-hundred-odd thousand in this bag, and I got myself into the biggest mess of my whole life.”

  When nobody answered his insistent buzzing and knocking, the aparthotel manager put two and two together. There had been an explosion of unknown origin, tenants were alarmed, the visitor who walked away had reported a malfunctioning phone. Dialing 2-1195 was justified. Thirty minutes later Corporal Francisco Polo, of the Fifteenth Police Station, called the officer on duty from the manager’s office and reported his findings. Second Lieutenant Tomás Hernández, well aware that a double murder went beyond his station’s capabilities, notified the Bureau of Investigations. At 5:10 A.M., experts from the National Identification Cabinet and the Legal Chemistry Laboratory concluded their forensic, anthropological, ballistic, fingerprinting, and photographic preliminary routines, collected their gear, then had a hearty and free breakfast at the Château’s still unopened cafeteria.

  Six

  Colors gradually reemerged at the break of dawn. Clean air scented with the fragrance of flowers and the volatile aroma of dew permeated the country house. Chirping birds, clucking hens, and barking dogs supplanted the meowing cats and screeching mice and bats that roamed the place before sunup.

  On the living room floor, Mariano Contreras and Fermín Rodríguez slept soundly. They had dumped the Chevy on the third floor of a modern parking service on the corner of Concordia and San Nicolás Streets. From there a cab had taken them to Zanja and Belascoaín, where at the O.K. Bar they gobbled two huge Cuban sandwiches each, washed down with Mackeson’s black ale. A second taxi had dropped them in La Palma, where they took a Route 1 bus and got off at its last stop: the Quinta Canaria. A mile and a half on foot along the shoulder of the highway and they reached the place that a few hours earlier both had thought they would never go back to. At 2 A.M., exhausted beyond words, they had relieved themselves, taken off their jackets, rolled them into makeshift pillows, removed their footwear, and lain back down.

  Four and a half hours later, Contreras was dreaming of having sex with a woman he hadn’t seen in fifteen years. They were naked in bed, she was ready, he was ready. In the dream, his calves were tangled up in the bed linen; with one foot he tried to free himself. In reality, eleven red ants curiously exploring the unprotected skin between his sock’s elastic band and the hem of his trouser felt attacked. This compelled them to bite and transfuse formic acid. Torn between his desire to ejaculate and the burning sensation in his leg, Contreras tried to hang on to the dream. Several seconds elapsed before he lifted his eyelids and glanced at the strange living room in confusion. Then he slapped at his invaded calf and insulted the insects with his worst prison vocabulary.

  The rapid-fire succession of slaps and the flow of invective woke Fermín. He learned of the ants, inspected his own calves, then grinned. He marched to the toilet at 6:36 A.M. Contreras ambled over to the kitchen, found out that there were no groceries around, washed his face in the sink, and then wiped it dry with his handkerchief. He urinated as soon as the bald man left the bathroom, and a few moments later they reunited in the living room. Having run out of cigars, Fermín accepted the La Corona offered by his pal. For a while they smoked in silence, looking at the trees and plants. A fluttering bee hummingbird, its long thin beak inside a daffodil, provided a few moments of total obliviousness to their imbroglio.

  “It never crossed my mind we might come back to this place. Otherwise, I would’ve left some coffee and sugar in the cupboard,” Fermín said, breaking the spell.

  “Yeah, and what happened last night never crossed mine,” Contreras said dourly. “Otherwise we wouldn’t have pulled the job.”

  Fermín squinted, turned his head to stare at Contreras. “Why, compadre? Now we’re rich.”

  Contreras sighed and decided that Fermín deserved to know. “Chances were Lansky wouldn’t report it to the police. Naguib had said to me: ‘It’s considered dishonorable to go to the police. He’d be the laughingstock of the U.S. underworld.’ It sounded right to me; made sense. After all, that’s our code too. He’d come after us with his own people. But if he did go to the police, the case would be assigned to the Bureau, and the Moor had Grava on his side. Don’t ask what he had on the sonofabitch, I don’t know, but Grava would just pretend to be chasing us.”

  “Coño,” Fermín s
napped.

  “What?”

  “You didn’t tell us a fucking word about that.”

  “I didn’t want you guys to become cocksure and give yourselves away. Look what happened. It’s a different ball game now.”

  Fermín mulled this over. “Why should it be different? Maybe Lansky won’t report it.”

  “Police will dig it out anyway. They’ll try to find out what the Moor and this Capri dealer were up to, how come they were together, who’s the gray-haired schmuck who got away.”

  “And they’ll pay a visit to the casino.”

  “Go back, you mean. They must’ve been there yesterday to pick up Grouse’s body.”

  “True. I wonder what Di Constanzo told them about Grouse.”

  Contreras curved his lip and lifted an eyebrow in speculation. “It depends. If they want to keep the heist under wraps, he’ll feed them crap. A desperate loser went after him and then got away, a jealous husband, anything. But now, after this dealer, coppers will wonder what the fuck is the matter with casino staff. Ask a lot of questions.”

  “You sure you didn’t leave your calling card at the apartment?”

  “I’m sure. The Moor washed my glass; I heard the splashes in the sink. And I didn’t touch anything else, except my gun. I lit cigarettes with this matchbox, my chair had no arms, I didn’t …”

  A recollection flickered on his mental screen. He paused in mid-sentence.

  “The door handle? As you were coming out?” Fermín guessed.

  Contreras nodded slowly, eyes nailed to the floor, recalling his mother’s favorite saying: “The worst damages are self-inflicted.”

  Fermín’s expression was grave. “What are you gonna do?” he asked after taking a drag on his cigarette and blowing out smoke.

  “We’ll split the money and get lost. Return the keys of this dump to the landlord and stash yourself away. Everybody knows you, Abo and I are pretty close; cops are gonna come after you, too.”