At night, Batista liked to watch movies in his private screening room. There, in the darkness, he was able to lose himself in a world of fantasy and pat resolutions. His favorites were American horror flicks, especially Dracula movies and anything starring Boris Karloff. On Sunday nights, the president invited his dwindling circle of friends over to play canasta for relatively small stakes (ten to fifty dollars a game). Few realized that Batista cheated. Using a system of codes and secret signs, he had aides who doubled as waiters tip him off to the cards other players were holding.
Among historians, there is a difference of opinion about how fully Batista understood the gravity of the situation in Cuba. Perhaps he had deluded himself into believing he could somehow manage the crisis. In November, his administration had staged an election in which a puppet candidate was elected president. Batista had already announced that in late February 1959, when his term was over, he would be retiring from public life. Although the elections had been denounced as fraudulent by the 26th of July Movement, and even the U.S. State Department would not commit itself to officially recognizing Batista’s handpicked successor, it is possible that the president believed he could maneuver his way through the remaining few months of his term. Perhaps he had come to believe his own propaganda. After all, as long as he had the loyalty of high-ranking officers in the Cuban military, how could he possibly be deposed?
Batista’s faith in the ubiquitous power of the army was rattled to the core when, in early December, he was approached by the head of SIM and told that upper-echelon members of the army were plotting his overthrow. Batista might have dismissed the plot, except that the conspiracy allegedly involved General Martín Díaz Tamayo. The general was one of Batista’s most trusted confidants. He was the man who had backed Batista during the coup of 1952, making possible his reascension to the throne. Being betrayed by Díaz Tamayo was like being stabbed in the back by his own brother. Batista had Díaz Tamayo arrested and successfully quashed the military conspiracy, but it was clear that a mood of sedition had crept into the president’s last true bastion of support—the officer corps.
Worries about dissension at the top were made worse for Batista by the reality of events on the ground. It seemed as though each day a new town fell to the rebels. The most startling thing was that most of these takeovers occurred without much bloodshed; military brigades and townspeople were simply acquiescing to the rebels without a fight. Batista usually received news of the encroaching Revolution with a blank look on his face. He was like a Cheshire cat, his countenance without emotion. When he was asked a question by aides or American diplomats, he invariably began by saying, “You know, last night while I lay in bed reading The Day Lincoln Was Shot, I got to thinking…” It was an opening line that personified the president—detached, disconnected, living in his own world as the government crumbled around him.
On the afternoon of December 17, things changed. Batista was approached by U.S. ambassador Smith at his Kuquine estate. The meeting had been requested by the ambassador. In recent weeks, the U.S. government had been putting pressure on Batista to step down. They had proposed numerous scenarios, including a transition bartered by the Catholic Church, or a government run by a military junta, or government by a committee to be determined by all interested parties, including the 26th of July Movement. Batista rebuffed all suggestions that he step aside. He remained on friendly terms with the Eisenhower administration, but it was clear that he had no intention of willingly turning over the reins to any junta or consortium that included representatives of the enemy.
At the meeting on December 17, Smith detected a change in the president’s attitude. Batista was noticeably subdued. The ambassador had always liked and supported Batista; in fact, he had advocated strongly on the president’s behalf within the U.S. government. But others in the State Department had come to believe that Batista’s tenure was doomed. They wanted the dictator out, and as ambassador, Smith was the man who had to deliver the news. As he sat in the library at Batista’s estate, he reminded the president of the long, cooperative relationship that had existed between him and the U.S. government. It was “like applying the Vaseline before inserting the stick,” Smith remembered years later.
The problem for Batista was that his lifelong benefactor, the U.S. government, not only wanted him to leave the presidency, they also wanted him to leave the island. When Batista heard this news, Smith detected a slight irregularity in his breathing, as if the Cuban dictator had been kicked in the testicles. There was worse news to come. When Batista asked if he would be allowed to enter the United States and live in his home in Daytona Beach, Smith answered, “I’m afraid not.” The U.S. government felt it would be better if he tried some other country, such as Spain or the Dominican Republic. Maybe later, after the dust settled and Uncle Sam was able to broker an orderly transition of power in Cuba, Batista would be allowed to take refuge in his former home state of Florida.
For a man who had served as a vassal of American political and business interests during a world war and through numerous U.S. presidential administrations, it was a cruel blow. El Mulato Lindo had outlived his usefulness.
Batista spoke up in his own defense, but by the time the two-and-a-half-hour meeting was over, Smith knew his friend had finally faced reality. The fact that he was asking about safe passage to Daytona Beach for himself and his family was evidence enough that Batista knew the end was near. Somewhere in the back of his mind he had accepted defeat.
Even so, the president said nothing. In the following days and weeks, he told no one of his change of heart. Through back channels, Batista arranged visas for his wife and children. Publicly, he continued to act as if the rebels would be crushed and he would survive. Maybe earlier he had been living in denial, or been delusional or unaware of the full extent of the Revolution, but now he had willingly chosen to mislead his followers. He had become something else: La Engañadora, the Deceiver. The song so provocative it had inspired Bubbles Darlene to stroll topless through the streets of Havana, “La Engañadora” told the story of a grand deception. Batista fit the bill; he had gone from being a benevolent dictator to an outright fake—a gangster whose own survival was more important than the fate of the nation.
El Presidente did not tell his advisers or, more importantly, his friends in the Havana Mob that he intended to cash in his chips. Lansky, Trafficante, and the others would be left to fend for themselves.
EVEN WITH THE GATHERING tropical depression, Havana remained festive during the holiday season. El Encanto department store advertised authentic Christmas trees—“Nordic pines just unloaded from freezing ships”—at 85 cents a foot. Another store boasted a window display complete with Lionel trains, selling “at Miami prices.” Christmas lights were everywhere, and numerous Santa Clauses rang bells and collected centavos on behalf of the U.S. Salvation Army. Temperatures were mild and the idea of snow nothing more than a Hollywood fantasy, but the spirit was real. Christmas in Havana was a time of good cheer.
The holiday atmosphere continued through to New Year’s Eve, which was traditionally the biggest bash of the year in a city that had earned its reputation as one of the great party towns in the world. Bookings were down, but there were still droves of tourists at the hotels and in the casinos.
Early on the night of New Year’s Eve, the city was calm. News of rebel successes throughout the previous week had led many to believe that the end was near for Batista, but there had been no unusual announcements. At Lansky’s Riviera, the rooms were near total occupancy and the hotel restaurant booked to capacity. All seemed normal, except for a few telltale signs.
Ralph Rubio ate with his family in the hotel restaurant that evening. As was often the case, Lt. Col. Esteban Ventura entered with his two daughters and a bevy of bodyguards. Ventura—dressed in his usual white linen suit—was chief of the island’s anti-Communist and antisub-version squad. He was one of the most feared and hated police officials in all of Cuba. His squad was run out of th
e Fifth Precinct and later the Ninth Precinct, a virtual chamber of horrors where revolutionary collaborators were interrogated, tortured, and sometimes murdered.
Rubio was used to seeing Ventura take his seat at a table surrounded by bodyguards. But tonight he saw something different: the lieutenant colonel’s bodyguards took their .45-caliber pistols out of their holsters and either put them on the table or held them in their laps, covered by a napkin. The guns were conspicuous and ready for immediate use.
The official word at the hotel was that Mr. Lansky’s ulcers were bothering him; he would be spending most of the evening in his room on the twentieth floor. According to Lansky’s driver, Armando Jaime, this was a ruse. Even though Teddy, his wife, was in town, Lansky had chosen to spend New Year’s Eve with his mistress, Carmen. Teddy was left in the company of Eduardo Suarez Rivas, longtime associate of the Havana Mob and the Riviera’s attorney. Mrs. Lansky would dance in the New Year in the Copa Room, while her secretive husband cavorted elsewhere.
Around 9:00 P.M., Lansky was just finishing up a meeting at Joe Stassi’s house when he said to his driver, “Let’s go pick up the women. We’ll have dinner at the Plaza Hotel.” By women, Lansky meant Carmen and Jaime’s girlfriend, Yolanda Brito. Jaime proceeded to drive the open-air convertible by Yolanda’s home in Vedado and then on to Carmen’s apartment building near the Prado. Around 10:00 P.M., all four settled into a booth in the Plaza Hotel’s modest café, near Parque Central in Old Havana.
Built in 1909, the Plaza was an elegant hotel, one of the city’s oldest and most revered. Only recently had a casino been opened there. Its gambling concession was jointly owned by Joe Stassi and his son, Joe Jr. The Stassis had another partner at the Plaza: Anthony Bruno, a Mafia boss from Philadelphia who had recently bought into the Havana syndicate.
Though it was one of the Havana Mob’s chosen spots, the Plaza was not as established as the Riviera, Capri, Tropicana, and other locations. By choosing to spend the evening at the Plaza, Lansky was deliberately hoping to avoid the large crowds that would be gathering elsewhere; he preferred something more discreet and less popular with the high-end tourists and his high-ranking associates in the Mob.
According to Jaime, there was an ominous mood in the air that night. Throughout the week there had been rumors and reports of rebel advancements. Che Guevara and his troops had penetrated the province of Las Villas, on the central highway, and seemed poised to make a move toward the capital city.
“That night,” noted Jaime, “it seemed as though something was happening, something was going on. Everything was tense and disquieting.”
Jaime remembered a conversation he’d had earlier in the week with Lansky. “The barbudos (the bearded ones) are close to winning the war,” Lansky told Jaime. The driver was surprised; his boss did not usually volunteer opinions about Cuban politics. Obviously, he was worried. He told Jaime that although he was familiar with the political inclinations of the barbudos, he didn’t know what the top leadership was going to do. Most importantly, he was uncertain what their position would be on the casinos, whether they would keep them open or immediately shut them down.
Even though Lansky had reason to be on edge, Jaime was struck by how calm he remained. All through dinner, “He was subdued, lost in his thoughts, with the occasional courtesy or compliment for the beautiful Carmen. It was as if he knew everything or foresaw what was going to occur.” The subdued atmosphere at Lansky’s table was in stark contrast to the New Year’s Eve revelry going on around them.
At midnight, everyone counted down the New Year and drank champagne. The louder and drunker the gathering became, the more reserved was Lansky. Jaime was on the dance floor with his girlfriend when, around 1:30 A.M., he saw Charles White enter the bar, scan the room, and then walk quickly over to Lansky’s booth. White leaned down and whispered something in Lansky’s ear.
Jaime knew White to be an important member of the Havana Mob. On trips to the Dominican Republic, White had been the man out front. As manager of the Casino de Capri and other Mob-connected gambling facilities, he was a key player. When the man spoke, Lansky listened.
Whatever White whispered into Lansky’s ear, the Mob boss received the news “with absolute tranquillity.” Lansky stood, then he and White left the table and made for the exit.
“Stay here with Carmen,” Jaime told Yolanda. “I’ll be right back.”
He left Yolanda with Lansky’s mistress; the two women were now sitting with the manager of the Plaza casino. Jaime followed Lansky and White out into the lobby. Lansky motioned for Jaime to keep his distance, as he often did when he wanted to converse privately with an associate.
The two Americans stepped outside and talked quietly, standing in the shadows between two columns of the portico along Neptuno Street. Jaime watched from the front entrance of the hotel. After a few moments, the two men parted, with White hurrying off to find his car. Lansky walked back to Jaime. “He’s gone. The barbudos have won the war.”
The Mob boss need say no more; Jaime knew that “he” was President Batista. The bastard had waited until the entire nation was occupied with the New Year’s celebration and then fled under cover of darkness.
Jaime was startled by Lansky’s reaction: “He remained so unflappable, more unflappable than ever, more than was usual for him. I never before saw him quite that way, not even in the best of circumstances.”
Lansky said to his valet: “We better send the women home to Carmen’s place. Right now, me and you, we got a lot of work to do.”
Carmen’s apartment was only three minutes away. The four of them—Lansky, Jaime, Carmen, and Yolanda—piled into a taxi. After they had been dropped off, Lansky and Jaime made sure the women were safe inside, then headed back toward the hotel on foot. “We better get moving,” Lansky told Jaime. “We have to make the most of what’s left of the evening.”
When they reached the Plaza, Lansky went straight to the casino and spoke to the manager. “Batista has abandoned the country,” he told him. Lansky ordered the man, “Take all of the U.S. money on the premises—safe-deposit boxes, cash reserves, money on the floor—and separate it from the Cuban money. After securing both currencies in something safe, bring it immediately to Joe Stassi’s house.” The manager nodded and did what he was told. Lansky then turned his attention to Jaime. “Get the car,” he said. “Not the convertible, that’s too dangerous. One of the other cars.”
Jaime knew that the Havana Mob kept a number of vehicles in the garages of many of their hotel-casinos. He retrieved a car from the garage and picked up Lansky in front of the Plaza. “Fast,” said Lansky, once in the car, “before the people take to the streets. We need to make the rounds to all the casinos and secure the money. First stop is the Sans Souci.”
It was 3:00 A.M. when Jaime and Lansky sped down 51st Avenue in the direction of the Sans Souci nightclub and casino. The streets were eerily deserted—no cars, no pedestrians, no police. Nothing. Jaime pressed down on the gas pedal and reached speeds of over 100 kph. They were at the Sans Souci in no time. Both Lansky and his valet entered the casino. They headed toward Trafficante’s booth. The Tampa Mob boss, seeing Lansky’s arrival, had risen to meet them.
Apparently no one at the Sans Souci had yet heard the news. Jaime saw Trafficante flinch when Lansky told him that Batista was gone. Lansky repeated what he had been told, that the rebels had taken over Las Villas and could be advancing on the city as early as the following day. In a calm tone, he told Santo, “Make the rounds at all of your casinos. Get the money. All of it. Even the cash and checks in reserve. Take it to Stassi’s house for safekeeping.”
Lansky added: “The best thing now is to pull back, to be absolutely invisible. Close the casinos—and fast. Because at dawn the crowds will take to the streets and nothing and nobody will be able to stop them.”
Trafficante nodded and motioned to someone in the distance. Lansky turned to Jaime. “Let’s go,” he said. “Swing by the Nacional and then on to the Rivie
ra.” The two men left the Sans Souci in a hurry.
Unfortunately for the Havana Mob, neither the manager at the Plaza nor Trafficante fully understood the urgency of Lansky’s instructions. They secured the cash but were slow about closing their establishments. Within the next few hours, both casinos would be trashed.
THE CUBAN PEOPLE DID NOT wait till dawn to take to the streets. By 4:00 A.M., news of Batista’s departure had begun to spread. At first, people merely left their homes and gathered spontaneously in the streets; there was much cheering and singing. People honked their car horns and, as in any good Cuban celebration, buckets, sticks, and cymbals were used as impromptu percussion instruments. As the minutes wore on and the magnitude of what had happened began to sink in, the mood turned angrier. There were sporadic clashes between police and rebel militia, who came out of hiding to begin the process of taking over the city now that Batista was gone. In Parque Central, across from the Plaza Hotel, a wild shoot-out ensued between the rebels and members of Los Tigres. The Masferristas were in a building on Manzana de Gómez Street and the rebels were firing at them, hitting balconies and windows on the second and third floors. People in the street ran for cover.
Havana Nocturne Page 32
