by Mel McKinney
“What’s on your mind, Peter?” There, right to it. Wish people would treat me like this, he’d thought.
There had been a pause. Surprising. When the White House wants something, they usually slam you with it. This must be a doozy.
Then, in silk, Swindt had asked, “Joseph, do you know about the ‘Trading with the Enemy Act?’”
Joseph had tensed. This sounded serious. Was one of their companies dirty? If so, some sonofabitch’s head was going to roll.
“Well, Peter, I can pretty well guess what it is. Sounds self-explanatory. Don’t do business with the bad guys, right?”
Swindt had chuckled. “Something like that. In this case the bad guys live in Cuba. Tomorrow the president is going to announce an extension of our policy regarding Cuba. Part of that policy will involve U.S. citizens traveling to Cuba. That will be illegal.”
So far, so good, Joseph had thought. Doesn’t sound like any of our operations are involved in anything they shouldn’t be. In the old days, there would probably have been an opportunity here.
“This means many things, Joseph. But there is one specific application that will affect the president personally, something I am sure, as a cigar lover, you will understand.”
Downshifting for a curve, Joseph recalled the feeling of a curtain lifting as the president’s aide had revealed his hand.
Bingo, he had thought. That Peter. Lays the bullshit on for the public so thick it hides him. Then, when he wants something, be cuts through it like a hot knife through butter. Better make it easy for him, whatever he wants. At least it sounds doable.
“How can I help, Peter?” he had asked.
There had been no pause that time.
“The president has asked me to see that his stock of Cuban cigars, particularly pre-Castro vintage cigars, is well supplied. After tomorrow the travel restrictions and trade embargo will make it impossible for him to replenish.
“Now we do not envision these restrictions will be in place very long, but one never knows. Because of the president’s duties as head of state, demands are made on his stock of cigars, making it imperative that an adequate supply be secured before the restrictions take effect. Following his announcement tomorrow, we anticipate a run on all domestic sources, which will rapidly deplete them. By the day after tomorrow, it will be impossible to purchase Cuban cigars in the United States.”
Joseph had nodded, thinking. This meant little to him. He had inherited a humidified warehouse full of the finest cigars in the world, reputed to include the single largest collection of vintage Cuban cigars in existence. After that unfortunate business with old Salazar, the Don had sent most of the old man’s cigars to New York. And then, to hedge his bet as to which way Cuba’s political winds would blow, he had prudently sent the rest of the Noches Cubanas collection north. It had been the Don’s intention to preserve them to draw upon as gifts for whichever faction prevailed. As it turned out, Castro had no use for the Bonafaccios and had plenty of his own cigars.
“So, I repeat. How can I help you?” Joseph had asked, sensing where the conversation was headed.
“A donation, Joseph,” Swindt had replied. “A cigar donation. The president has set some modest guidelines for me to follow. One thousand of the finest Cuban cigars. I will arrange to purchase some immediately, but do not wish to attract attention before the announcement. The acquisition of these cigars must be treated discreetly, as the public would not understand. If you would contribute some cigars to this effort, the president would be very appreciative.”
“Done, Peter,” Joseph had responded immediately, pleased that the administration had turned to him with this sensitive request he was uniquely equipped to satisfy. “Five hundred cigars. All vintage pre-Castro Cubans. That’ll be twenty boxes. How’s that sound? Need more?”
“No, no, Joseph. That’s plenty. Very generous. Most of the president’s stock of cigars is kept in Hyannisport. I will contact Mr. Romelli with delivery details. Is that satisfactory?”
“Sure, Peter. That’s fine.” Then Joseph had frowned, thinking. Something had bothered him, something from the past, something about Kennedy when he was a senator—in Cuba, at Noches Cubanas. Something to do with Kennedy and cigars and old Victor Salazar before the Don had discovered Salazar’s embezzlement and before they …
“Peter! You won’t believe this!” He had laughed, pleased with himself. “I have some cigars from a very old Cuban cigar factory, one that’s no longer in business. I remember when the president visited Havana once back in the fifties; he loved these cigars. I’ll see they are part of our gift. Don Salazarios, that’s what they’re called, Don Salazarios.”
So, Joseph thought, knifing the Porsche through the lower Hudson valley, our president wound up with some fine old cigars he didn’t get to enjoy. I wonder if he smoked any of the Don Salazarios? Probably not. He would have called me. Hope Teddy or Bobby enjoy them. Wouldn’t hurt if they knew where they came from. Sure remember the big deal about them when the senator was in Cuba. Haven’t smoked one since then. Maybe I should in honor of the poor bastard. I think there’s still a box of ’em in the humidor room at the office.
The thought cheered him and he pulled over to light the Churchill. As he did, he thought again of Victor Salazar. The miserable wretch had died horribly, taking his three-million-dollar secret with him.
EIGHT
CENTRAL PARK SPARKLED below, the full moon refracting particles of November frost into infinitesimal points of light. Joseph Bonafaccio collapsed onto the massive leather couch, worn by the monotonous drive but anticipating the Manhattan night ahead. First Sardi’s, then the Stork Club, then, well, the evening would take its own shape. It always did.
But first, a shower and a cigar, a Don Salazario.
Still wrapped in a thick terry cloth robe, Joseph toweled his hair and crossed to the couch, humming. Dominick Romelli stepped from the walk-in humidor and closed the glass door etched with a lazy, gracefully curved palm tree.
“I found them, Joseph. You were right. There was one box left here. Presidentes. The other three boxes from the warehouse went to Hyannisport for the president.”
Joseph beamed. Discovering a lost vintage cigar was like a personal rebirth.
Carefully, he pried open the box. Then he lifted the lid and absorbed the rich fragrance that had waited inside for at least ten years.
“Ahhhhh! Dominick, take in some of that,” he said, offering up the opened box. “Better than—well, lots of things.” Joseph still struggled with vulgarity in front of the man who had virtually raised him.
He pulled the ribbon that released the first cigar. Then he teased out another, for Romelli.
Joseph lapsed into silence, letting the luscious smoke spread around them. Havana seemed so close again. Those slow, wonderful days; the long, tropical nights …
Romelli followed his lead and the two smoked in silence, the twinkling lights below as jewels masking the city’s darker secrets. Finally, Romelli spoke.
“Joseph, you’ve had something on your mind, right? I’ve noticed, this past month, something’s eating at you. What’s up?”
A long hush of smoke escaped Joseph’s mouth. He rose and walked to the picture window framing Central Park. He leaned his forehead against the glass, his hands clasped behind him. The Don Salazario rested between the thumb and cupped fingers of his right hand.
“Dominick, you don’t miss much,” he said, looking out over the park. Then he turned and faced the man his father had trusted to shield him from the past.
“It started before Kennedy was killed, but since then it’s become ten times worse. It’s—it’s this business, you know? Here I’ve got these goddamn degrees from Columbia, I run an empire of movie companies, trucking lines, theaters, two casinos, and an insurance company—I’m chairman of the board of four companies and on the boards of ten or twelve others, not to mention the goddamn charities—shit, I can’t even remember them all. And you know what?”
Ro
melli started to nod, his eyes closed.
“Right. You do know, don’t you?” Joseph asked. “I’m going crazy! I feel so goddamn useless!”
Romelli laid his cigar in the onyx ashtray on the thick, glass table in front of the couch and spread his hands across his knees. “Joseph … ,” he began.
“Wait. You asked. Let me finish,” Joseph said.
“All I do is manipulate numbers with loaded dice. This—this conglomerate my father started—hell, he would’ve ended up a screaming lunatic in a padded cell if he’d had to run it. In his day, business was cash, business was people, and, yeah, sometimes business was blood.
“I’ll tell you, Dom, I would’ve been a hell of a lot better at doing things my father’s way than I am in this world of bean counters and ‘Yes’ men.”
Joseph stopped and drew on his cigar. He continued in a flourish of smoke.
“Tell you something else, Dom. The Don would have known by now who was responsible for that mess in Dallas and would be doing something about it. He wouldn’t be sitting back watching Warren and these old ladies with their goddamn commissions and investigations pussyfooting all over the place while the assassinating sonsabitches who shot our president are getting away with it. Hell, we know that commie Oswald was just a stupid triggerman.”
Their eyes met.
“Sorry,” Joseph mumbled. “No offense. What I meant was a real pro like yourself would never have been caught. Somewhere out there the assholes who orchestrated the thing are laughing at all of us. Oswald was a joke. No way he did this alone.”
Another long draw on his cigar. Then, a caged cat, Joseph began pacing the span of the window, smoke trailing, words spewing.
“Not only was my father close to Kennedy’s father, he knew about government and business, his business. You’ve got to have stable government to do good business. Anarchy is bad for business. Can’t have assholes running around shooting the president. Just can’t have it! Shit, you’ve seen what’s happened to the stock market since the assassination. We’ve lost millions! I know things’ll straighten out, but the peaks and valleys that follow this kind of thing are terrible. We’re not in control when some kook with a rusty rifle can blow everything to shit in a few seconds.”
Joseph shook himself and sat down. “So, you wanted to know what’s been bugging me? Now you know. I feel like a goddamned eunuch!”
The ash on Joseph’s cigar had reached a full two inches. He reached across the gleaming receptacle and let the spent leaf fall. But it didn’t just fall, it clinked.
Joseph stared. Ashes do not clink.
There, in the crumble, shimmering against the ebony of the ashtray, rested a large diamond.
For Joseph Bonafaccio, with the millions he controlled, the sparkling gem was, at first, simply a puzzle. Pondering it, shards of memory triggered by Kennedy, Havana, and the Don Salazarios crackled electrically into life. Suddenly they spelled a name: Victor Salazar.
Under the startled gaze of Dominick Romelli, Joseph shredded the remains of his cigar. The rubble of tobacco produced nothing more. Then he snatched Romelli’s and began to tear it apart. Another glistening jewel rolled from the tattered leaves.
In silence, Joseph and Romelli destroyed the remaining Don Salazarios. Each yielded a clear, sparkling diamond. When they finished, a mound of twenty-five gems shot lasers of red, blue, and gold off the surface of the onyx bowl.
While Joseph had little doubt the diamonds were genuine, he had to be sure. Herman Meyer, jeweler to the Bonafaccios for decades, and their fence when necessary, was a phone call and twenty-minute cab ride away. Joseph picked up the phone.
Within the hour, the short, bald jeweler sat before them. Beads of sweat oozed from the wrinkles of pink skin mounded above his sparse eyebrows. At last he looked up, relaxed the ocular pressure clamping the jeweler’s loupe in place, and let the silver tool tumble to his chest.
“Oh, my. My, my, my, Joseph, I will not even try to find a reason to discount these. They are perfect. All of them. I will be honored to purchase them from you. And, the rest, as you say, when you acquire them. My price to you, tonight, $30,000 each. $750,000 for these twenty-five stones. I have clients and associates who will be pleased to purchase them from me. If the rest are of the same quality, you may count on that price for them. How many did you say? Seventy-five?”
The lumpy jeweler squeezed his eyes shut for several seconds, then opened them, smiling. “That would be $2,250,000.”
Joseph sat back, his fingers peaked beneath his chin.
Meyer continued. “Such cutting! I tell you, a master did this work. A true master. There have been only a few with this talent in the past several decades. I suspect, but cannot be sure without actual comparison, that these stones were cut by Javier Menendez, a Spaniard who worked for Winston’s here in New York. These stones are what is called ‘Ideal Cut.’ Winston’s perfected it.
“This fellow, Menendez, absconded with a fortune in uncut diamonds about fifteen years ago. There were rumors he turned up in the Caribbean and possibly Cuba. But they were only rumors. These twenty-five stones and the seventy-five more of them you mentioned would approximate what he got away with. Then the retail value, when cut, was around $2.5 million.”
Yes, thought Joseph Bonafaccio, that crafty old Victor Salazar embezzled three million dollars from my family, converted it into diamonds, and had that tobacco farmer father of his roll them up in cigars to get them out of Cuba. Only he’d run out of time. Salazar had fed the sharks, and the cigars slept for all these years in the vast Bonafaccio collection. That is, until three weeks earlier when Joseph sent Dominick to Hyannisport to personally deliver three boxes of them to the president. Jesus!
Joseph felt the flare of a raging heat, the blood of generations of men who were never bested. The urge for vengeance and restitution seized him. Finally! A chance to show some balls!
Though Victor Salazar had paid horribly for his treachery, the fruit of his crime had now surfaced. What had been stolen from the Bonafaccio family would be retrieved. But there was the problem of face: approaching the Kennedys and asking that the three boxes of Don Salazarios be returned was unthinkable.
“Fingers! Goddamn it! Get some soldiers together. You’re going to Hyannisport! Now!”
NINE
RAUL CLOSED THE doors to the private banquet room and turned to greet his guests, Juan, José, Pedro, and Jorgé. The four sat sprawled with the arrogance of conquerors. The box of Romeo Y Julieta Fabulosos Raul had instructed Paulo to leave on the table was open, and a dizzying ether of rum and smoke filled the room.
“Heros! Welcome!” Raul cheered, circulating and hugging each of them. He lit one of the cigars for himself and poured out a generous helping of rum. Then he settled into one of the overstuffed chairs, leaned forward, and, in the conspiratorial tone of a pirate, said, “All right, lads. Out with it. The whole story.”
Four sets of gleaming teeth flashed back at him. Finally, Jorgé spoke. “Ah, Raul, Raul. From such a troubled start to such a glorious finale. Your call to us that day, the day of the assassination, masterful! We were packed, ready to leave the motel, on our way to the airport, our heads hanging in shame and failure. Two weeks we had waited, working, searching for a way. I mowed lawns. Juan washed dishes and helped with the mowing. José cleaned fish at a market. Pedro, well, Pedro, he … what did you do, Pedro?”
Robust laughter erupted from the three. Pedro shook his lowered head.
“Oh, yes. I remember! Pedro met a señorita! What was her name? Ah! Felicia! She works for the Kennedys, a maid. So he was trying to do his part. And, as it happens, he did, or she did. You will hear.”
Clearing his throat with rum, Jorge continued.
“The place was impossible! People everywhere. Policia, guards. The skinny brother’s wife was there with her kids. Dozens of them! These people breed like Puerto Ricans! Then, just as we were prepared to give up, to crawl back to you in disgrace, Dallas happened, and you called. I will
never forget your words. ‘When they leave for the funeral, you go.’ Just like in a commando movie.
“We went in three nights later, after the place emptied out. We knew exactly where to go. Pedro’s señorita, the maid Felicia … Oh, but I will let the lover, Pedro, tell you that part.”
“No trouble? None at all?” Raul asked.
“None!” Jorge proclaimed. Then he darkened. “Well, there was the door, but …”
“Door?” asked Raul, preparing for the worst.
“As we were leaving, an old door for storms, a door to the basement where the cigar room was. It came down on poor Juan’s head. So he …”
“I smashed it,” Juan muttered sheepishly. “With a rock. Then I threw the rock into the sea. No prints.”
“Is that all? A smashed door?” asked Raul.
“Well, there was my head,” Juan said ruefully.
“And the cigars?” asked Raul. “I presume they are safe?”
“Sí, Raul,” replied Jorge. “As you told us, we stored them up there. The motel had no business and the goofy cabrón that owned it was happy to rent us a room for another two weeks. The cigars will be safe there. It would have been too risky to carry them with us or send them down here. We can deliver them to Señor Gessleman up there. Let him live with that risk. You were right.”
Jorge smiled and looked at his three comrades, who all nodded, encouraging him. Raul could see there was more.
“What else?” he asked.
Jorge winked. “On the count of three,” he said to the others, his wide grin growing impossibly wider. “Uno, dos, tres!”
With that, he reached behind his chair and produced a box of cigars. Pedro and Juan did the same. The three men extended the boxes to Raul, who gasped, recognizing at once his grandfather’s distinctive marque.
“Madre de Dios! Don Salazarios! And Presidentes at that! Where have these come from?”
Pedro proudly answered, “Ironic, eh? They were part of the president’s cigars. We knew you would want them, so we brought them with us. They should be yours, not this Señor Gessleman’s.”
