Havana Nocturne

by T. J. English

  In Chicago, Al Capone adored the music and fostered an entire generation of musicians. In Harlem, the Mob-owned Cotton Club had as its house band the sophisticated Duke Ellington Orchestra. Kansas City had an entire district of jazz clubs and after-hours joints that spawned their own version of the music known as “dirty jazz,” a Delta blues–influenced sound that gave birth to McShann, Basie, and Charlie “Bird” Parker, among others. This flourishing jazz district in Kansas City—which existed from the early 1920s into the 1930s—was made possible by a corrupt political machine that served as a model for the Havana Mob as constructed by Lansky, Batista, et al.

  It was in the late 1940s that jazz great Dizzy Gillespie first traveled to Havana on a musical expedition that would give birth to Latin jazz. The music was a cross-pollination of African rhythms as interpreted by the offspring of Cuban and American slaves. Gillespie discovered Chano Pozo, a legendary conguero with Afro-Cuban rhythmic patterns surging through his veins like ectoplasm. As a composer, Dizzy brought the percussive brilliance of Chano Pozo together with bebop, a challenging, virtuosic form of jazz pioneered by himself and Charlie Parker. The result was historic; among the many compositions that became cubop standards throughout the 1950s were “Manteca” and “Afro-Cuban Suite.”

  Jazz musicians from the United States flooded to Havana, and Cuban musicians headed north to play in the orchestras of Machito, Mario Bauza, and Tito Puente. The music they created was sultry, adventurous, lusty—the perfect sound track for an era marked by gambling, drinking, dancing, and fornicating into the tropical night. The music scene in Havana offered something a sterile, manufactured environment like Las Vegas could never hope to provide: an organic, exotic foreign culture mixed with the most adventurous aspects of Afro-Americana. Compared to Havana, Las Vegas was for squares—hillbillies, cowboys, and people “out west” who had lost touch with their ethnic roots.

  The Mob did not consciously create this environment any more than it scripted or composed all the great music that grew out of the Jazz Age. But the gangster culture did undeniably foster its development—not only through the financial patronage that made the bands and clubs possible but also by understanding that jazz—in this case Afro-Cuban jazz—was the right sound at the right time. Latin jazz was the evolutionary music of two slave traditions—Caribbean and North American. It was something original. Unique. And it further elevated the era of the Havana Mob into the realm of mythology.

  It is ironic that the mobsters and politicians who presided over this epoch were anything but hipsters. Lansky preferred danzón, a classical style of dance with its roots in French music that was romantic in a highly traditional way. Trafficante did have a taste for jazz, but he was by nature a reserved man who rarely took to the dance floor. Batista, who was a public figure most of his adult life, only danced when the music was a formal contradanza, a kind of Cuban waltz. The trappings of the era were peripheral to these men. Above all, they were businessmen.

  Lansky, Trafficante, and Batista did not care what kind of music played as long as the revolutionaries were kept at bay and the money flowed from the casinos and nightclubs into their own private bank accounts. The sound of the conga drum was secondary to the sound of the casino counting room, where the daily drop made its own beautiful music.

  chapter 12

  A HANDMADE WOMAN

  ON THE NIGHT OF DECEMBER 10, 1957, MEYER LANSKY surveyed his greatest creation—and it was good. The Riviera hotel and casino was officially open for business. It was the largest and most glamorous facility of its kind in Havana so far. Located off the Malecón, on the Vedado side of the Almendares River, the Riviera was chic and exciting. From the outside, the building was immaculately landscaped, with modern garden sculptures and an elegant green, gray, and black color motif that blended well with the sea and sky. Inside, the lobby was sleek and futuristic. Marble floors gave way to walls of turquoise mosaic and a speckled stucco ceiling. The building reminded some of Miami Beach with its art deco architecture, others of Las Vegas with its glitz, but what Lansky had in mind was something unique: an architecturally adventurous, spare-no-expense example of Havana at its best. On top of everything else, the hotel was the first major building in the city to have central air-conditioning as opposed to individual air-conditioning units. The building breathed cool air and shone like a jewel. It was Meyer Lansky’s masterpiece.

  Along with the hotel’s luxurious rooms, huge pool, restaurants, and bars, there was the casino, a classy egg-shaped lair with deep carpets, a high ceiling, glass chandeliers, and gold-leaf walls with no windows. Across the lobby from the casino was the Copa Room, a performance space modeled after the Copacabana nightclub in New York.

  The opening-night festivities were lavish. Headlining at the Copa Room was Ginger Rogers, the movie star and entertainer whose career had reached its peak when she starred in a series of wildly popular movies with Fred Astaire in the 1930s. Although past her prime as an ingénue and dancer (she was forty-six years old at the time), Rogers was a star from Hollywood’s most starlit era. She may have been a top-flight entertainer, but her talents were not necessarily comprehensive enough to impress the inscrutable Lansky. After witnessing her opening act at the Copa Room, Meyer allegedly declared, “She can wiggle her ass, but she can’t sing a goddamn note.”

  Lansky was the boss. Everyone knew the Riviera was his baby, though he preferred to maintain his reputation as a behind-the-scenes mastermind. There was no reason Meyer couldn’t have listed his name as the owner of the Riviera—perhaps out of habit he chose to hide behind front men, in this case the Smith brothers, Harry and Ben, two Toronto hoteliers with whom Lansky had negotiated the management contract. The casino license was in the name of Lansky underling Eddie Levinson. The only place where Lansky’s name appeared on the paperwork was as director of the hotel’s kitchen.

  The Riviera hotel and casino was an extension of Lansky’s ego, but it was also conceived as a showcase for the Havana Mob. According to the plan, as concocted originally by Lansky and Luciano, Havana would one day resemble Monte Carlo, with a series of luxury hotels along the Malecón. The Riviera was the first to be overtly linked to the Havana Mob. As a show palace, it was state of the art, and its attributes would soon be beamed into living rooms everywhere via a major American television network.

  On January 19, 1958—just five weeks after the hotel opened—the popular Steve Allen Show aired a one-hour special that showcased much of the facility. Elaborate dance numbers were staged in the lobby and pool area, and the show’s host relentlessly promoted the Riviera. The entire program was one long advertisement for the hotel.

  At the time, Allen’s show was considered the hippest of the many variety shows on American television. Allen featured jazz musicians and cutting-edge comics that more staid shows, such as Lawrence Welk and Ed Sullivan, would not go near. His own material was sometimes gently political and he saw himself as a truth-teller in a satirical kind of way. The opening line of Steverino’s monologue was as follows: “We are in Havana, home of the pineapple and Meyer Lansky. And we’re happy to be here.” The show had only just begun, and Allen was already tipping his cap to the boss of the Havana Mob.

  The show went off without a hitch. Allen strolled through the casino surrounded by gamblers in evening wear. The seductive Tybee Afra danced, the camera following her out to the pool. Onstage in the Copa Room, ventriloquist Edgar Bergan scolded his dummy, Charlie McCarthy, for gallivanting around Havana. “What were you doing out all night?” Bergan asked his talking dummy. “It’s a long story—and a dirty one,” answered Charlie. The audience laughed. Comic actor Lou Costello performed a skit entitled “The Dice Game,” about a rube tourist who is actually an expert practitioner of razzle-dazzle. The show was filled with wink-wink sexual innuendo and veiled references to gambling and mobsters.

  The Allen show was a breakthrough for the Havana Mob. The best they had to offer was being beamed to millions around the United States and Canada, and it did
n’t seem to matter that notorious Mob figures were involved. In fact, it added to the allure.

  Lansky was seemingly at the top of his game. From the day it opened, the Riviera was booked to capacity throughout the entire 1957–58 tourist season. And the hotel’s casino quickly established itself as the home of the high roller. Tourists and pleasure-seekers scoured the city, but serious gamblers traveling the circuit from Monte Carlo to Vegas spent their evenings in the casino at the Riviera. “Lansky’s reputation attracted the high rollers,” remembered Ralph Rubio, credit manager at the casino. “He didn’t even have to show his face; the name of Meyer Lansky was enough to attract serious players from around the world.”

  Lansky’s stature in Havana may have gone to his head and driven him to engage in behavior more representative of Luciano, Trafficante, and other gangsters. Sometime in late 1957 and on into 1958, the Jewish Mob boss embarked on an affair with a local Cuban woman. The affair was unusual for Meyer, and also risky. His wife, Teddy, was a frequent visitor to Havana, though she usually stayed separately from Meyer at the Focsa, a massive, newly constructed apartment complex not far from the Hotel Nacional. Lansky, of course, did not want his wife to know he had a paramour. Equally important, he did not want his business associates to know. Meyer had been critical of others who took unnecessary risks to maintain secret affairs. He felt that it projected an aura of weakness. To Lansky, appearances were everything.

  The woman’s name was Carmen. He met her at El Encanto department store. Lansky’s driver, Armando Jaime Casielles, often dropped his boss off at the big house on Paseo del Prado where Carmen lived with her mother. She was around twenty years old, and Jaime thought she was one of the most beautiful women he had ever seen:

  [She] was olive-skinned, medium height, with curly black hair that fell down her back to her waist…She was a really pretty woman, with a graceful and pleasant stride, well mannered, soft-spoken, always keeping her voice down. She had the hands of a pianist, with fine long fingers and a well-shaped body. Her breasts were medium-sized and straight, didn’t need a bra. She was completely covered with fine, fuzzy hair, barely visible, on her arms and her thighs—not too much, delicately scattered. Her knees and toes were adorable. She was a handmade woman, as we say in Cuba.

  Jaime often found himself driving Lansky to and from the house on Paseo del Prado. One evening in particular, Lansky asked Jaime to come inside with him.

  The apartment was located over a jewelry store. Jaime followed his boss up a flight of stairs. Lansky rang the doorbell and almost immediately the door opened, and there was the woman Jaime recognized from El Encanto department store. They entered the apartment.

  “We’ll have coffee,” Meyer said to Carmen.

  She nodded and headed off. Lansky then turned to Jaime and explained, “Nobody, absolutely nobody, can know that I’m here. Not Joe Stassi, not Trafficante, not Norman Rothman. I’ve told everyone that I’m going on a little trip to Caracas or Costa Rica. So nobody will think it’s strange if they don’t see me for a while. Nobody should bother you, but if anybody tries to ask questions where I am, tell them nothing. Understand?”

  “Of course,” said Jaime. For the first time, he realized that it was Lansky’s intention to spend days, perhaps even a week or more, here in Carmen’s apartment. Lansky had brought no bags or luggage; Jaime got the impression that everything his boss would need—a change of clothes, toiletries—had already been transferred to Carmen’s place.

  Lansky lowered his voice and spoke conspiratorially. He explained to his driver that a man was never more vulnerable than when he was having a clandestine affair. His enemies might use the opportunity to attack. Remembered Jaime:

  I could see he was feeling a little paranoid, telling me things I already knew, like reminding me that when I went out to get the car I need to check the area closely. You have to check the lobby, he said, the gardens, the entrance to the hotel. And you have to do all this as if it weren’t important at all, like something ordinary. And watch out, Jaime, if you see something strange, or something you think doesn’t check out. And when you start the car and warm it up and come to pick me up, keep the engine running all the time until I arrive. Then take off right away.

  Lansky explained to Jaime, “I want you to come here to visit me every other day. For the time being, it’s probably best to leave the car and walk. Make sure you aren’t followed. Don’t stop to talk with anyone, not even someone asking you for a light. Above all, don’t walk on side streets. Stay on the most crowded streets in Vedado. Under no circumstances should you get caught in deserted places, or dark places, or let any car drive up to you while you are walking.”

  Jaime listened carefully, taking in every word:

  The last thing he made clear, with a gesture, a look, was that from now on the gun shouldn’t be in the car’s glove compartment. I had to carry it with me at all times, ready to use.

  Carmen returned with a tray and two cups of coffee. She set the tray down and handed the cups to Lansky and his driver. Jaime was mesmerized by Carmen, but he didn’t dare look too long or stare in case El Viejo—the old man—noticed. He found her beauty “unsettling.” He said to his boss, “Okay, I’ll come every other day. But what if you need me for something urgent, something right away?”

  “I’ll leave you a message, some word,” answered Lansky. “You’ll receive a signal, a clue, don’t worry.”

  The two men drank their coffee. Lansky then told Carmen he wanted her to bring two drinks, a Campari on the rocks for him and a whiskey for Jaime. He wanted to make a toast. Carmen again headed into the kitchen and then returned with the drinks.

  “Let’s step out on the terrace,” Lansky said to Jaime. They took their glasses and went to the balcony, which looked out over the tree-lined Prado, which was alive with activity even though it was near midnight. Jaime looked down the street toward the Sevilla Biltmore Hotel, with its famous Roof Garden, where Amletto Battisti ran his gambling room. Not far from the hotel was the presidential palace, also in view.

  “I was foolish enough to make a remark,” remembered Jaime years later, “in reference to those buildings; I think I said something like: ‘So close, and nobody can imagine you’re here.’

  “Said Lansky, ‘That’s how it is, and that’s how it should be, Jaime. Don’t you think so?’ I didn’t answer, but I felt that in the darkness of the terrace his eyes tried to reach my mind. Then he put his glass on the small table and said: ‘I want you to go see Don Amletto tomorrow.’

  “‘There,’ I said, ‘in El Sevilla?’

  “‘In his office.’

  “‘At what time?’

  “‘At night. Of course, at night.’

  “‘On your behalf?’

  “‘Yes, on my behalf.’

  “‘And what do I tell him?’

  “‘That nothing we agreed to stands.’

  “‘Just that?’

  “‘Just that. Nothing we agreed to stands. He’ll know what it means.’”

  Jaime nodded. The two men sat in silence for a while, the sounds of the Prado—laughter, singing, car horns, music—wafting up from the street. Jaime sensed that there was nothing more to be said. “I stood up, said goodnight, and left him there in the company of that beautiful woman.” The next day he passed the cryptic message on to Don Amletto Battisti, one of many he relayed for Lansky in his time as valet. Upon receiving the message, the owner of the Sevilla Biltmore nodded his head and said nothing.

  Several times Jaime visited El Viejo in his mistress’s lair on the Prado. The Cuban did not think much of it; after all, for his entire life older men—Cubans, Americans, and Europeans—had been coming to Havana to have younger mistresses.

  Jaime had only known Lansky for ten months; he did not yet realize how out of character it was for the Little Man to take a walk on the wild side.

  IN THE ENTIRE ONE-HOUR airing of the Steve Allen Show live from the Riviera hotel, there was not one mention of Fidel Castro or the Revolutio
n. The Havana Mob lived in its own little world: starlets, gambling, drinking, whoring, killing—but no revolutionaries. Fidelistas were alive and well and living in the Sierra Maestra, but they might as well have been on the planet Uranus. The show must go on.

  In the many decades since the Cuban Revolution, volumes have been written detailing the thinking behind Castro’s guerrilla strategy. At the time, there was fierce debate within the movement about what was the best way to take down Batista and his friends. Many, including, most prominently, members of the Directorio, felt the best way was to cut off the head—i.e., assassinate the leader—as they had tried to do with the attack on the presidential palace the previous year. To take out Batista or someone else high up in his cabinet in one fell swoop might catapult the government into a state of chaos and bring the dictatorship to its knees.

  Castro did not agree. Since setting up shop in the Sierra Maestra, Fidel—and to an even greater extent his intellectual partner, Che Guevara—had come to the conclusion that the Revolution should take place outside of Havana and move inexorably forward. To this end the 26th of July Movement spent the latter part of 1957 and the early months of 1958 establishing a “liberated zone” within the Sierra Maestra. Minifactories were constructed to produce shoes, repair weapons, and make bombs. There was also a butcher’s shop, a fábrica de tabaco (cigar factory), and a hospital. A mimeograph machine was transported into the mountains, and the rebels produced a semiregular newspaper, El Cubano Libre. They also acquired a small radio transmitter and began to broadcast propaganda to the outlying areas.