She wasn’t a party girl, I was sure of that; she lacked that wide-eyed, silly-grinned, dazed look of having hot Latin music constantly beating in her head. Instead, she looked like a woman who knew how to use her mind—and that was no small accomplishment.
It was a man’s world all over and particularly in the Latin part of it. For men at the top, women were little more than sexual toys. Some sage at a nightclub last week had claimed that someday women would have the same rights and opportunities as men, but that got a big laugh, even from the women present at the table.
Maybe because my mother had been a strong-willed, intelligent woman, I didn’t find myself attracted to women who thought their greatest worth was in bed.
The woman who looked like she knew her own mind caught me staring at her. She frowned and looked away, her nose up a couple inches to let me know I was beneath her.
I chuckled to myself. She was no doubt right about my social status—I ranked somewhere above common criminals and far below old money—but I’d make her pay for that snub.
The cockfight was about to begin when I looked over and saw the young woman who had turned her nose up at me leave the group and go down the steps to an exit tunnel.
In the ring below, the two trainers sent their birds at each other. The entire audience went to their feet with a roar. My two companions were busy foaming at the mouth as blood and feathers splattered the referee in the ring.
I was already down to the bottom of the steps by the time the first blood flowed. I went out the exit passageway to the dirt parking lot. The place was loaded with gun-toting soldiers. It wasn’t uncommon to see them. There was no place you could go today in Havana without running into them. With the son of a neighboring dictator in attendance, the arena was crawling with even more of them.
My blond hair got me by as a non-Cuban, which took me out of the revolutionary category, so the guards just gave me cursory glances as I strolled by them.
The woman with the intellectual face and cold nose was smoking a cigarette, leaning against a car. She looked even better up close.
“May I join you?” I asked.
She looked me up and down, head to toe, with steel eyes. “No.”
I guess she didn’t like what she saw. She turned her nose up again.
“You keep lifting your nose up that high, and you’ll have to cut it off because it’s frostbitten. Happened to me once.” I showed her my hand with the missing little finger.
She could have cared less as she took a drag on her cigarette and slowly let it out.
An argument broke out in the parking lot, a couple of putas yelling at each other. The yelling quickly turned into screaming and it looked like any moment a cat fight would erupt. As the guards moved toward the two combatants, I turned away from the woman with her nose in the air and started back to the passageway. I was at the entrance tunnel when a man carrying a paper bag hurried quickly toward the entrance. He wore a straw hat pulled down low on his head and a red bandanna almost pulled across his face.
“Hey, wait a minute,” I said, “what do you have in the bag?”
He started to brush by me and I grabbed at the bag. It fell at my feet and he turned and ran. The smell of gas filled the air.
I followed after the man as he disappeared into the darkness. I heard the girl with the cold nose yelling for the soldiers. They turned and hurried back, forgetting about the two putas who by now had also taken a powder.
“Over there,” I said, in Spanish, “he went in that direction.”
They ran in the direction I pointed as I came trotting back to where the girl was standing. Already the place was starting to swarm with plainclothes cops, uniformed police and militia. A policeman had torn open the bag to expose a broken wine bottle that had been filled with gas.
“What is it?” I asked.
“A Molotov cocktail,” the girl with the cold nose said.
“A what?”
“A bomb, a bottle filled with gas. Light the wick, throw it, boom.”
Ramfis, Rubi and the rest of the Dominican Republic clan came out of the exit tunnel surrounded by guards.
“Luz, we’re leaving,” Rubi said to the young woman I was talking to.
“This man made the bomber drop his bag,” she said.
Rubi spoke to the man next to him. “Get his information.”
A great roar erupted in the arena. Some chicken must have gotten it.
The woman named Luz glanced back at me as she got into the limousine. It wasn’t an unfriendly look, but there was a hint of puzzlement in it.
As I watched the San Dominicans pour into limousines, the man who Rubi Rubirosa had spoken to approached me. He was a toady character, very dark, short, with black unfriendly eyes and thin, cruel lips. He introduced himself as Johnny Mena.
“I am a security officer with the Dominican Republic,” he said. “If I may have your name and address, por favor, I am certain my superiors will want to show their appreciation for your quick action.”
I gave him the particulars he wanted.
“How is it that you spotted the man as a potential assassin?” he asked.
“I smelled gasoline as he brushed by me. And it looked like the bag he was carrying was half-soaked with it.”
“If I may be permitted to ask a question…”
“Of course.”
“Why did you leave the cock fight just when it was beginning?”
I grinned. “I had been giving a pretty girl the eye earlier. When I saw her leave, I thought she was signaling me to join her.”
“Ah, I see. And was she?”
“Of course. She just wants to play hard to get.”
“Well, señor, I wish you luck on your chase. This woman is noted in my country as one who uses her mouth to tell off a man as quickly as some women use theirs to give pleasure to a man.”
“Gracias.”
He saluted me. “De nada. You will hear from my superiors, I am certain.”
I stood and watched as he and the last of the Dominican Republic limos left. As I turned to go back inside to rejoin my bloodthirsty friends, a man came up beside me.
“Such excitement. And you are a hero,” he said, grinning.
“And you stink of gas,” I said. “Get out of here. I’ll send the rest of your money over by messenger.”
I went back inside, thinking about the look Luz had given me. Her name meant light. I liked it. It fit her. But I was bothered by the look she had given me. Had she seen that I sent the police in the wrong direction to find the “assassin”? Or had I slipped up another way with my charade and made her suspicious?
Whatever it was, I hoped she didn’t blow my game. I had spent a lot of money and took a hell of a risk to pull off my “heroic” save of Ramfis Trujillo’s life. Besides the actor carrying the Molotov cocktail, the two putas arguing in the parking lot had also been part of the crew.
I had big plans for the Dominican Republic.
But the look the woman gave me was disturbing.
It was as if she had looked into my soul and seen every dirty trick I’d ever pulled.
35
I got rid of Vincent the casino man and Jose the corrupt government official by joining them with the twins—almost literally—and put myself into a tux. It was time to follow up on my heroics at the cockfight by showing up at a casino—not the Tropical Paradise that Vincent was trying to get me to buy into but the Grand Presidente, the classiest hotel-casino in Havana. The fact it was owned by mob money and Batista got a cut of every dollar that went across the tables was just par for what passed for culture and morality in Cuba. I fit nicely in the mold.
As I came up the steps of the casino, I recognized a couple of the plainclothes security men that had been protecting Trujillo, Jr., and his crew back at the cockfight. I nodded to them, hoping one of them would report my arrival.
The floor manager greeted me and shook my hand. “Do you wish company tonight, Señor Cutter?”
He wasn�
�t talking about a tour guide. The lounge had putas lined up at the bar like horses at the starting gate.
Not having whores hanging around loose was the mark of a classy joint.
“No, I’m just going to drop a few pesos and have a drink.”
Careful not to be caught staring, or even acknowledging their presence, I spotted the Dominican Republic group in a roped off baccarat area. The men were playing cards, smoking cigars and drinking, while the women were hovering around, looking beautiful, picking at the banquet that had been set out for them. Luz was with them, but her frozen features signaled that she was bored by the whole thing.
I headed for a roulette table on the other side of the casino. I wanted to be spotted, but I didn’t want them to know it.
I loved the excitement of casinos—all that lush money and naked desire for it—but I didn’t like to gamble. A universal law of mathematics turned me off from tossing my own money on the green felt tables—the odds always favored the house. For everyone who had a run of luck and won a few bucks, a hundred others lost.
I sat down at a roulette table, tossed a wad of bills across for chips, and ordered vodka. In Russia, vodka was soul food. In the Caribbean, they had hardly heard of it, and as Sarita pointed out, weren’t ready to turn in their rum for it. But I had a case of Moskovskaya stashed at every casino in town, making sure they kept a couple bottles in the freezer at all times to be ready when I walked in. Despite my aversion to gambling, casinos were a great place to do business—and make payoffs. I deliberately drank vodka not only out of personal taste, but for its mystique—vodka was suddenly popular in the West because a British writer named Ian Fleming was writing books about a spy named James Bond who liked his vodka martinis shaken, not stirred. On more than one occasion, business people I’d been introduced to at a nightclub or casino remembered me because of the frozen vodka. I still sold the stuff in the states, but it was a cheap knockoff, rotgut I wouldn’t drink myself.
My buy-in at the roulette table had dwindled in half when she came up and sat down next to me.
I grinned at Luz. “We meet again.”
“Life’s full of coincidences.”
“Maybe it’s fate that our trails keep crossing. Aren’t there people in India who think everything’s predestined? That a person’s kismet determines what their destiny will be?” I leaned closer to her, drinking in the arousing scent of jasmine. “Do you suppose that you and I are meant to be lovers?”
She leaned closer to me, until her lips were only a kiss away.
“If that’s true,” she whispered, “I’ll cut my wrists.” She got up. “Ramfis wishes to thank you personally for your assistance.”
“Ramfis?”
“Rafael Trujillo, the son of General Trujillo of the Dominican Republic. You remember, don’t you? The cockfight, the Molotov cocktail, you being proclaimed as a hero?”
I followed her across the casino floor to the dictator’s son and his entourage. I wondered what it was about her that let her read me so well for the lying, conniving bastard that I was.
Along the way, I asked, “Is there something about me that caused you to hate me on sight? Or are you a bitch to everyone?”
“Rubi had you checked out with the Cuban police,” she said, without missing a step. “You claim to be a businessman, but you’re also a bootlegger, smuggler and opportunist. You might be British or Russian, no one knows for sure exactly who you are or where you’re from, the certainty is that you know how to make money and it’s not always done honestly.”
“And those are my good traits. I also cheat old women, kick dogs and take candy from babies.”
She stopped and faced me before we reached the inner sanctum and spoke in a low voice. “I don’t know what your game is, Señor Cutter, and I don’t care. Deal however you like with the others, but don’t think you fool me. I smelled trouble from the moment I saw you at the arena, and it wasn’t coming from that bottle of petrol. What do you call them in your native country—Molotov cocktails?”
“Jesus, do you have my number.”
She did a double-take and for once didn’t know what to say. The others couldn’t have heard our conversation but they were laughing as I came into the inner area.
Fuck your mother! Now that she knew I was Russian, she was able to confirm that her initial assessment of me was right. She had me down pat because she knew I had lied about something back at the arena. The fact I’d blown it had slid right by me because I didn’t realize I would be dealing with a woman who had brains and street smarts. She had called the bottle of gas a Molotov cocktail back at the arena and I had played dumb and acted like I didn’t know what the phrase meant. Jesus H. Christ. She now knew I was born and raised in Russia. I had to know what the hell it was, it was named after the Soviet foreign minister, probably the most famous man in the country after Stalin. Every Russian schoolboy knew what a Molotov cocktail was.
She had good suspicion that I lied. But what else had she surmised? Did she know I had set the whole thing up to meet Ramfis? That sounded like to much of a leap even for a smart girl like her to make.
Ramfis offered me a limp-fish handshake, about what I expected. My research revealed that he had been made an army colonel at the age of five and a general by the time he was ten. Some people would call that “soft-landings.” Regardless of what you called it, having a dictator father who robbed and raped a country was not the best character model for a child.
He was tall, much taller than Rubi, and very Latin looking with a thin black mustache and pleasant mannerisms.
“You have my apologies, Señor Cutter,” he said, grinning. “We could see that Luz was chewing on your ear as she brought you over. You must forgive us for sending our ice princess with the invitation to join us. We had hoped that because you were acquainted earlier, she might warm up to you. But, alas, you are another of the many men whom she has cut the cojones off of.”
That got a good laugh from everyone but Luz. I couldn’t help but wonder if she had ratted on me about her suspicions. I didn’t think she had because Ramfis didn’t seem on guard while talking to me.
“Is her father rich?” I asked.
“Rich?” The question stumbled Ramfis. It got another double-take from Luz.
“I was just wondering. I imagine he would have to be a very rich man to afford the dowry that would be necessary to get her married.”
Another good laugh from the crowd—even Luz’s lips trembled. I hope it was caused by trying to hold back a smile and not rage.
Rubi stepped up and gave me a warm, firm handshake. “Now, amigos, you shouldn’t say such things, you are embarrassing poor Luz. It is not her fault that she has both brains and beauty. She is the loveliest flower of our country—and the most intelligent. What more could any man ask for?”
Luz gave Rubi a kiss on the cheek. “There is one true gentleman left in the world and it is you, Rubi.”
Why couldn’t I come up with things like Rubi said to women?
Rubi said, “Señor Cutter—Nick, if I may?”
“Certainly.”
“Nick, we are truly in your debt for your quick action tonight. I am especially grateful to you. Had I reported to the general that his beloved son had been harmed while in my custody, he would have had my skin peeled off, piece by piece.”
I was given a drink, a cigar and a chair, and we settled in for a blow-by-blow account of how I had thwarted the fire bomber. Unfortunately, Luz was in earshot range so I couldn’t color my actions too much. I basically gave them an honest description—leaving out the fact that I had hired the man. I was a little nervous at first, but lightened up when it became clear Luz hadn’t shared her suspicions about me with them.
In terms of my deeds, I didn’t have to color the story—Rubi basically repeated it, but when it came from his mouth, it sounded like I had single-handedly taken on Fidel Castro and his rebel army.
The guy oozed charm, both to men and women. When Ramfis made an off-color joke
about the bust size of one of the women hanging onto him, Rubi smoothed it out with a compliment. As Luz said, he was a perfect gentlemen. But I knew that coming in. I had thoroughly checked him out. Ramfis was my ticket into the Dominican Republic, but Rubi was the man to open the door so my ticket would get stamped.
It was definitely a man’s world, and Rubirosa managed to be both a man’s man—and a ladies’ man. He was as famous for his daring stunts on the polo field as he was in bed. Polo might be a rich man’s game, but galloping around with a thousand pounds of horse between your legs while swinging a big mallet wasn’t for the faint of heart. It wasn’t for me—I’d just as soon ride a torpedo than a horse.
Rubi’s family’s owned a coffee plantation in the Dominican Republic. His father was appointed counselor to the embassy in Paris, and Rubi grew up in Paris, getting a worldly education that wouldn’t have been possible in his own country. Good looking, multilingual with impeccable manners, he moved smoothly in social circles.
His first marriage was one that would help him for the rest of his life—Flor de Oro, Trujillo’s Flower of Gold. The marriage was a stormy one and soon ended in divorce, but Trujillo must have understood that his daughter was not easy to live with because he forgave his now former son-in-law and provided him with diplomatic posts and personal wealth. Trujillo was smart—his country was noted for little more than him being a brutal dictator before Rubi became an international celebrity.
From my contact I found out that Rubi had other qualities that made him irresistible to women besides the reputed size of his cock—he shot blanks, so a woman didn’t have to worry about getting pregnant, and he managed to give a woman an exceptional amount of sexual pleasure before he shot off.
“I’ve heard he jerks off in the afternoon before sleeping with a woman at night,” my feminine informant told me. “That way he comes across in bed as if he can last forever.”
My evaluation of the two men was interrupted by the sinister-looking dwarf who had introduced himself as a Dominican Republic security officer back at the cockfight. He wasn’t really a dwarf, though he was a bit short and heavy set. Rather than his height, it was his dark persona, accentuated by slightly slanted eyes and slightly receding double chin, that left the impression that he was in some way darkly different than the rest of us.
The Betrayers Page 20
