by Jose Latour
García finished translating. For some strange reason, Eddie Galuzzo liked the guy. He would’ve credited him with the winning combination—balls and brains—were it not for the idiocy of returning his money to save a couple of jerks. Like Cubans liked to say, this dude was a shit-eater.
“Show me the money,” Galuzzo said.
The American hoped to win points with a quick solution. García didn’t have to translate Contreras’s reply. It was an unequivocal smile that made Galuzzo feel slightly uncomfortable.
“Listen, you,” Galuzzo scowled, “the Bureau of Investigations is at our service. The manhunt covers the whole fucking island, and any minute you two can find yourselves surrounded here. You give me the money now and you got a good starting point: Mr. Lansky will call off the Bureau and you’ll be free to go.”
Contreras shook his head before brushing the warning aside. “If it’s done, it’ll be my way or none at all; take your pick. And pray for my safety, mister, ’cause if the Bureau gets to me you’ll never recover those two hundred gees. Bet your life on it. Now, these two envelopes hold twelve passport-sized photos each of the two of us, just in case you guys wanna play ball. On their backs we’ve written the names we’ll use. You’ll have to take pictures of Heller and Rancaño after their release. Maybe the other man too, if he’s found.”
Galuzzo seized the small, cream-colored envelopes and stuffed them into a pocket before speaking. It was good to have recent pictures of the two toads. They would be given to Grava if Lansky didn’t like their offer.
“As part of the deal, Mr. Lansky needs some information from you,” Galuzzo said. “He might forgive and forget if you cooperate.”
Contreras nodded in agreement.
“Who planned the Capri job?”
“A jeweler named Elias Naguib. You know who recommended me to him?”
García was the first one to knit his brow. When he finished the translation, Galuzzo appeared intrigued too.
“Who?”
“Colonel Orlando Grava, the chief of that Bureau of Investigations that’s tracking us down.”
García was too astonished to translate. Galuzzo prodded him in the arm. “This guy says Colonel Grava recommended him to Naguib.”
García and Galuzzo locked gazes in full stupefaction. Then the American lowered his eyes to the tabletop, searching for a plausible reason for Contreras to have made up such a lie, but couldn’t find any. Either the man had gone bonzo or he was telling the truth.
“Grava introduced you to Naguib?” Galuzzo asked in a low tone.
“No. Five months back Grava told Naguib how to contact me, public places where I used to hang around.”
“Are you implying Grava knew that Naguib was planning a hit on us?”
“I don’t know that for sure. But Naguib promised the police wouldn’t chase us ’cause he’d talk to Grava after we pulled the job.”
Galuzzo shook his head. “Your story can’t be verified. Naguib’s dead.”
“I know. I was there when one of your dealers shot him. I believe I did you a small favor. For free.”
The ensuing silence was becoming a little embarrassing as Fermín relit his cigar. García wrinkled his nose when the smoke reached his nostrils.
Galuzzo got up. “I’ll tell Mr. Lansky your demands. When will we meet again?”
“We won’t meet again before the last day, at the airport. But I can phone.”
“Okay. Call 2-4500 at two sharp on Tuesday morning. If Mr. Lansky has made up his mind, he’ll let you know.”
…
At 10:50 P.M., in the Riviera suite, Galuzzo and García finished telling the story. Lansky stared at the photographs. He experienced the satisfaction of a crossword fan who’s just filled in the last word.
“Our colonel is a bagful of tricks,” Lansky mused.
“If the man told the truth,” Galuzzo said.
“Oh, yes, it’s true,” Lansky stated. “My nose confirms it.”
Galuzzo and García exchanged a glance.
“On the way back we went over the split again, ’cause something’s wrong …,” Galuzzo began.
“We won’t keep you any longer, García,” Lansky interrupted, turning to the lawyer. “Thanks a lot. Would you mind handing over the notebook page with the amounts Contreras mentioned?”
Feeling excluded, the lawyer ripped the page out and handed it to Lansky.
“Thank you. I’d appreciate it if you’d come to my house tomorrow evening to interpret for me,” Lansky said.
“Sure, Mr. Lansky.”
“Okay, you may leave now.”
After the lawyer departed, the boss lit a cigarette and asked Galuzzo for two sheets of hotel stationery. Lansky slid his backside to the edge of the armchair the better to reach the low coffee table, then produced and uncapped his gold-plated Parker. On one sheet he jotted down from memory the amounts returned by Grava. On the other he copied Contreras’s version. Smoking placidly, he spent a few minutes moving his eyes from one set of numbers to the other and making calculations.
“According to Grava, the bald guy only had 58,000 on him. Contreras says 215,000. The difference is 157,” he said distractedly.
“So?” Galuzzo prodded him.
“That’s pretty close to what was found at Naguib’s apartment.”
Staring at the two papers, Galuzzo lifted an eyebrow. He was at a loss. “Excuse my stupidity, Mr. Lansky, but I can’t understand what you’re getting at.”
“Let’s suppose Contreras is feeding us bullshit to incriminate Grava—Grava never met Naguib; he’s a white lily. Okay?”
“Okay.”
“They found 162,500 at Naguib’s,” Lansky went on. “That’s exactly twenty-five percent of 650,000. Now, let’s further suppose that the morning after the heist Naguib heard from somebody, Willy Pi probably, that Contreras had taken 650 from the Capri. Let’s also suppose that for some reason Naguib wasn’t expecting to get his cut in the next few days and that Willy’s cut was twenty-five percent of the take. If Willy was in a hurry to collect, Naguib might have secured Willy’s share from his own dough, brought it to his apartment, and told Willy he could pick it up that same evening. Then Contreras suddenly knocks on Naguib’s door with 313,500. You follow me?”
“So far, yes.”
“Good. Something happens then—maybe there was an argument over the split, who knows? The thing is, Willy shoots Naguib, Contreras shoots Willy, and leaves with the money he brought in. Contreras didn’t know there was 162,500 stuffed in a drawer. He splits Naguib’s and Willy’s money with the bald guy. Half of 313,500 is 156,750. The bald guy had 213,000 stashed away—the 60 he first got and this new bundle. You with me?”
“Yes, sir. But it doesn’t add up. He should’ve had 216,750.”
“He had 1,800 on him, according to Contreras. Police pocketed some money, or he gave his mistress a few hundred, that’s not important.”
“Probably.”
“When White Lily grabs that money he starts doing what I just did and realizes there might be a surplus. How come? He’s got the bald guy’s statement. He knows what they took and how they split it. The only possible explanation is that the cash found at Naguib’s had nothing to do with the heist. Since everybody assumed that that money belonged to us, he decides to keep us in the dark so he can pocket the 156,750 Contreras had given the bald guy.”
Galuzzo stared at Lansky as parts clicked into place in his brain. “Sonofabitch,” he hissed.
“Now, let’s suppose Contreras told the truth and White Lily is in fact what you just said. Let’s suppose he did recommend Contreras and knew Naguib was organizing a heist on us.”
“No!”
“Just a supposition. In this scenario, the motherfucker has been buggering us since God knows when.”
“We can bring a couple of boys from New York or Chicago and get rid of him,” Galuzzo said.
“No. This is just business. Maybe he even got the driver’s cut.”
“T
he fucking sonofabitch!”
“Leave me alone now. I’ve got to figure out which of the big fish I ask to have a heart-to-heart talk with Grava, make him understand he has to return our money and let go the two creeps he’s got in the clink. Wouldn’t it be great if we make a profit on this?”
…
At dawn on Monday, November 3, as members of the Cuban Army, Navy, Air Force, intelligence services, paramilitary organizations, and the police got ready to implement an artificial normality for the day’s general election, three black, brand-new Cadillac sedans came to a stop in front of the wide stairway that led to the Bureau of Investigations’ main entrance.
From the one with official plate number 3 emerged Major General Francisco Lavernilla, chief of the General Staff and father of the Air Force’s commander-in-chief. Second only to Batista, the man preserved a proud countenance despite a serious liver insufficiency and a lost war. Three drivers and three bodyguards remained in the vehicles.
Escorted by a captain and two lieutenants toting Uzis, he hurriedly climbed the stairway as his brown eyes absorbed details. Stress had reduced his lips to thin, wrinkled lines. Under the visor of his cap, his forehead showed deep lines from permanent concern. The two startled policemen standing guard at the huge doorway presented arms imperfectly. The duty officer came around the two-foot-high wooden platform on which his desk stood and guided the four men through an immaculate gray hallway as he stammered words of welcome. In Grava’s office, the nonplussed cowardly aide managed to click his jaws shut after realizing Lavernilla didn’t need to make an appointment. Without knocking, he turned the handle of the colonel’s inner sanctum.
“Major General!” the astonished Bureau chief said as he quickly came to his feet and flashed his most appealing smile. He had showered and shaved at home and was overdressed in a splendid Prussian-blue gabardine suit. On the writing desk, an Esterbrook pen, documents, an evenly burning cigar in an ashtray, and a half-cup of espresso attested to his habit of beginning work early. Lavernilla closed the door in the faces of his aides-de-camp, took his cap off, placed it under his left armpit, and glared at the colonel.
“Please, sit down,” Grava begged, his mind frantically searching for what he had done wrong.
“No,” with an imperious tone.
“Let me take your cap.”
“No.”
Grava raised both eyebrows, his eyes seeping humility. His smile was quickly becoming a grimace. “A cup of espresso maybe?”
“No.”
“And … uh … to what do I owe the honor of your visit, Major General?”
“I came here this morning,” Lavernilla began in a soft voice as he lifted his eyes to the ceiling and rocked on his heels, “to take a crap on your mother’s cunt, Gravita!”
The second part of the sentence had been shouted at the top of the general’s lungs, flaming eyes drilling into Grava’s. The three men standing in the waiting room had mixed reactions. The police lieutenant paled; the Army officers smiled.
The colonel’s knees wobbled. Forgetting protocol, he collapsed on the high-backed Mexican chair.
“Major General, I can’t imagine why—”
“You’re a shit-eater, Gravita.”
“But, Major General, what have I done?”
“Pick up all the money you siphoned out of Meyer Lansky and take it to his home right now.”
Grava felt his hands sweating and trembling uncontrollably. “The money that I siphoned?” he asked feebly.
“Were you in cahoots with the Moor who planned the Capri heist?”
“Who? Me?”
“ON YOUR FEET!” Lavernilla bawled.
Looking sickly pale, Grava jumped to attention.
“Answer me, asshole,” Lavernilla demanded, his flabby cheeks trembling with anger. “Did you participate in the planning stage?”
“No, Major General, sir!”
Lavernilla inhaled deeply and let his eyes roam around the room. “What’s the stupidest animal on the face of the earth, Gravita?”
“I don’t know, Major General, sir!”
“Of course you don’t. How could you if you belong to the species? It’s the donkey. You’re a donkey in a business suit. Fucking the man who advises Fulgencio on a million things, from where to invest abroad to where we can buy weapons now that the fucking Yankees support the Party comrades. Give back everything, down to the last penny, you hear me? The percentage he paid you and the money you stole from him. Is that clear?”
“Major General, allow me to—”
“You wanna keep being boss of this stinking slaughterhouse?”
“Major General, I—”
“Yes or no?”
“Yes.”
“You have until ten this morning—almost three hours,” Lavernilla said after glancing at an impressive Patek Phillipe on his left wrist. “Also give him the two suspects you collared. He wants to question them and … I don’t care what he’ll do to them when he’s finished.”
“As you order, Major General, sir.”
“Go to hell, Gravita,” Lavernilla said, putting on his cap before turning around, yanking open the office door, and stalking out.
…
Lansky humiliated Grava by refusing to see him personally and was sleeping soundly when a smiling Eddie Galuzzo faced the grim-looking colonel at the Fifth Avenue mansion a little before ten.
“My dear colonel, how nice to see you,” said Galuzzo sarcastically.
“I no spik Inglish,” Grava said.
“Well, I certainly don’t speak your gobbledygook, motherfucker. To what do we owe the pleasure of your visit?”
“Mr. Lansky, plis.”
“No Mr. Lansky, you dickhead. Mr. Lansky sleep,” Galuzzo scoffed, joining the palms of his hands, resting his left cheek on top of them, and closing his eyes for a second.
Grava fought for control by emptying his lungs with ballooning cheeks. The son of a whore is in the know, he thought. “Mony here,” the truly irked colonel said, slightly lifting the two embossed-leather Mexican briefcases he held.
“Good, good, money good.” Galuzzo was having the time of his life. “Give me,” he said, extending his hands.
Grava kept his arms at his sides. “García, plis.”
“No García. García sleep too. ‘Sleep,’ you understand?” He repeated the mime act before closing the smile and deep-freezing his gaze. “Give me the fucking money.”
Grava frantically searched in his mind for the translation of recibo into English and didn’t find it. “Recibo,” he said.
“What?”
“Re-ci-bo. You take mony, you give mi re-ci-bo.”
“Oh, ‘receipt,’ you mean? Sure, I’ll give you a receipt. Let’s go to the library, we’ll count the money, and I’ll give you a signed receipt. This way, scum.”
At half past ten Galuzzo signed a receipt for 209,000 pesos.
“Okay, motherfucker, here you are. Now, I was told you’d also hand over two scumbags. Where are they?”
“I don unnerstan.”
“Prisoners. Cuban prisoners, from the Capri job?”
“Ah.”
Grava stormed outside, waved to the escort vehicle in the driveway, boarded his own car, and slammed the door shut. From the second Cadillac two plainclothesmen stepped out and signaled Heller and Rancaño to do the same. Unable to understand what was going on, Abo and Meringue were guided to the mansion’s doorway, where their handcuffs were removed. As the cops returned to the car, the prisoners took in the well-appointed living room, then exchanged wide-eyed expressions and curled their lips in total incomprehension.
Galuzzo wiggled his fingers at Grava’s car. “Bye-bye, cocksucker. Don’t you ever think of fucking us again. Hope somebody’s arranging a hit on you.”
The two cars burned rubber on their way out as Galuzzo turned and closed the door.
“Well, well, what have we got here.”
The prisoners thought it proper to remain silent.
&nb
sp; “García, come over here,” Galuzzo yelled.
The Cuban lawyer had been waiting in the living room, out of sight.
“Yeah, Eddie.”
“Take a look at the creeps,” Galuzzo sneered as he pointed at the two prisoners. “Jesus, they stink! For your own sake, have them take a shower before you begin.”
Armed with a tape recorder, the Cuban lawyer separately questioned the stupefied prisoners. By late afternoon he reunited them in a bedroom whose only window was protected by an ornate iron grille painted white. García told them to take a seat.
“Now, listen to me. You’re in the safest place you can be. You manage to escape from here, you’re dead. Understand? Dead. And it’s not my people who will shoot you. It’ll be the police. So, the best thing you can do is to take it easy for the next few days. When and if there’s any news, I’ll let you know.”
That evening Silvio Molledo was having his usual double shot of Palma rum at the Two Brothers when the barman told him somebody wanted him on the phone. Molledo glanced at the pay phone on the opposite corner. No, not the pay phone, the barman explained; the man had dialed the private number in the small office at the back. Molledo pulled out the gold pocket watch he had used for twenty-three years. It read 7:19. The barman led him to the office and left.
“Hello,” Molledo said into the mouthpiece.
“Hi, friend. I keep spoiling your drink every coupla days.”
“Good tippers are allowed to.”
“How are things going?”
“I’ve talked to a few people. They think it can be done, but I don’t have anything firm, what with the holiday. The offices with all the rubber stamps were closed. The guys who sign the papers were casting their ballots. Maybe tomorrow I’ll be able to get something done.”
There was silence at the other end. “Then I suppose I’ll have to call you again the day after tomorrow. Same time is okay with you?”
“Yeah.”
“Sorry to bother you so much.”
“No problem.”
“Bye.”
Observing the holiday, the casinos didn’t open that evening. After a late dinner at the Fifth Avenue mansion, Bonifacio García translated the highlights of the taped interrogation for Lansky. Nothing new, the boss commented at the end, just corroborative statements. Learning that Abo had been collared at the dog races or that Rancaño was the guy who wanted to set up a gambling parlor didn’t mean a thing to him.
