Storm Clouds Over Havana by Mike Marino (novel24 .txt) 📕

The night air was cool and refreshing as we walked the short distance  to Sloppy Joes, fast becoming a favorite saloon of mine, in addition to Lansky’s Tropicana. I spent less time at Lansky’s.  Who needed a hooker on a hot afternoon after shelling out a few US dollars. I had Pilar, the most intelligent, daring, beautiful girl I had ever known, and more importantly...I had love. Who in their right mind needs more? I didn’t. I had a great job, a beautiful woman in a tropical paradise and enough excitement facing me head-on to last me three lifetimes.

We entered Joe’s and after our eyes adjusted to the dim lighting I looked around and found Buster and another figure off at table at the end of the 59 foot bar. He waved us over and as we blazed a trail through  a forest of boisterous drinkers I stopped a waitress and ordered two rum and cokes for myself and Pilar to be brought over.

“Mickey, Pilar you’re early, but then so are we,” he laughed that “I’ve had a few drinks already” laugh. His guest whose back was to us, turned and with a pleasant smile grinning ear to ear he held out his hand. As I took it, my eyes got as big as the coconuts from the palm trees that line the Via Bianca. Buster laughed again. “Mickey, Pilar, meet your captain, meet Ernest Hemingway.” I couldn’t believe what I was seeing. This is the man who outfitted his boat with weapons and went hunting German U-Boats in the Caribbean during the war. I had to face reality. We’re going to storm Castro’s hideaway with the Old Man and The Sea!

I had neglected contacting Hemingway  when I arrived in Havana. I felt guilty that Mailer had gone to bat on my behalf arranging a meet and greet, but everything was so overwhelming upon arrival.  Riots, arrests, establishing my cover had taken priority...and then, a big then….meeting Pilar. Proletarian passion under the palm fronds in paradise. Heaven’s name was Havana.

“Mr. Hemingway, a pleasure, I assure you!” I effused as I shook his hand perhaps a bit too vigorously. “Easy lad, I’m not a water pump in need of priming,”  he shot back with a wink and a broad smile. “Please sit. I’ve been admiring your work for the papers back in New York, and the work you’re doing here for Jorge. I have the New York papers sent to me here weekly. I like to keep up on events back there, you know, the Broadway scene and book reviews, that sort of thing, but honestly I don’t care to be anywhere except here in Cuba to live, fish and write. As for you Pilar, so very good to see you again, here sit next to me. Been quite awhile my dear.”

Pilar knew Hemingway and never once mentioned it to me! What was I, chopped liver?
To a molehill of a writer as I am in awe of a wordsmith mountain of a giant as Hemingway is and   to not tell me you know him was a mortal sin in my Sunday bible! Go, repent and sin no more!

“I’ve known Pilar since she was a rowdy little tomboy tyke. Her dad and I go way back,” he said by way of explanation as the puzzled deer in the headlight look on my face must have given me away faster than a Catholic door prize at the Knights of Columbus bingo night.

I was relieved  when our drinks finally arrived at our table to grease the wheels of conversation  for the  obligatory “get to know you” 20 minutes  of dragged out long drawn superficial pleasantries before we got down and dirty in the CIA mud pit. Buster fired off the first serious round. “Here’s the deal. Hem here has a boat, don’t panic when I tell you it is also named the “Pilar” which it is.” More revelations from on high!  “He will get you to Santiago de Cuba on the ruse you are fishing for marlin. In addition to drinking, Hem loves to deep sea fish, and let’s face it. This is a fishing expedition of sorts.”

“Once there you will be met by Victoria, our rebel contact who will lead you through the mountains to Castro’s camp,” he continued. “She’s already gotten word to Castro of your desire to get his message out to the world, and as expected, his ego is larger than Lawrence of Arabia’s and he was stroked efficiently enough to set his lefty tinder ablaze.”

I could see  the plan coming into focus. Shit with Hem at the helm we might even get a flashback taste of the Spanish Civil War back when Hem was tolling the bell for thee.

I noticed out of the corner my eye, Hem and Pilar already deep into conversations of an obvious nostalgic nature were completely oblivious to the Buster and I, the peasants, and deep in a conversation of old times.  I was still confused. She knew him and never said a word! I was distracted, but got back on track. Business before confusion. I had not just a few questions poking around inside my cranial cavity rolling around as loose as  ball bearings in a mess kit cup.

“How do I get my news copy sent from there to New York.?” I asked Buster sarcastically. “Seems a little remote. Perhaps a sea going donkey will ride the currents into New York Harbor and waltz in on all four hooves into Blake’s office, you know sort of a CIA programmed to speak in code Francis the Talking Mule.

Buster leaned in close and lowered his voice letting the cacophony of the crowd, the low murmur constant sound that a hot rod idling in neutral would make.  Sloppy Joe’s is famous good times, laughter, and the attendant mask of noise just enough to hide those secrets uttered by international spies and philandering husbands and their married mistresses. Believe me at Joe’s there plenty of both lurking in the dark recesses of the bar hiding secret plans of assassinations as well as sexual assignations. Either way, someone was going to get fucked. Figuratively and literally.

My imagination shifted into first gear. In the corner, over there, the blonde Master Race looking fellow with lipstick lightly applied. He’s gotta be a bi-sexual East German agent and former trapeze artist. That woman with the large Ann Sheridan 1940’s Hollywood Hedda Hopper hat standing seductively against the by the wall near the men’s room, I can tell she is from Tel Aviv. An Israeli Mossad femme fatale with a grease gun looking for Martin Bormann hiding out as a bartender in this very bar! I see MI-5 is here too. Fucking Ian Fleming’s James Bond clones licensed to kill and make love to international beauties in skimpy underwear. Damn, even the French SDECA are on hand trying to unmask the perpetrators who switched their croissants with American doughnuts when they weren’t looking.

By the time my mind was about to shift to second gear, Buster answered my query “Not to worry Mickey. We have  a CIA safe house already set up in Santiago de Cuba. It’s outfitted with a teletype machine, two in fact, just in case one goes down we have a backup. You’ll give your feature pieces to Victoria who is in addition to being his chief snoop here in the capital, but is also Castro’s runner. He trusts her implicitly. She’ll bring your news copy for the newspapers to me. I’m also going to supervise this operation myself including coding the pieces at the end with Castro’s movements and plans. These will be sent as duplicates to Havana for Batista’s people to set up counter actions and attacks on the rebel forces. None of this 20/20 hindsight bullshit.  We’ll also have an offshore radio ship fully equipped to backup all information to Miami for distribution to Langley. You just supply us the copy and we’ll code it for the field agents and  Batista.”

It appeared to be a lock and load, but,  guilt  lingered over me about keeping Pilar in the dark about the true nature of the mission. I felt I was betraying her and  was gnawing at me worse than a wharf rat in a Battery Park dumpster. Not only was I deceiving Pilar  I was now pulling a subterfuge mask over Hemingway. The man of the people. The man who saw action against Franco in Spain. The woman I love and the man I admire, and here I was hiding the truth  from  both.

Buster could tell by my face of the turmoil I was feeling. “Ah, Hemingway. I see. Look, Hem may have his heart and soul with the people, but Francisco Santiago was one of his closest friends. As far as he knows you are merely trying to get the facts on Santiago’s killing. He puts politics aside when it comes to friendship. He doesn’t know the CIA reason you are going, and better left that way. Do some fishing on the way down, drink some beer and make love to Pilar under a full moon on a gentle sea.”

I had nowhere to turn at this point. As long as Hem got something out of this, all is well. Justice for him, Sienna and Blake. “OK,” I said, “I won’t sweat it. Look a teletype machine and a radio ship. Man that’s gotta run a few accountants crazy in Treasury.”

Buster had an answer for that too. “It’s not coming out of Uncle Sam’s worn pockets. Your buddy Lansky is footing the bill!” Lansky! I couldn’t believe it. “Why would Lansky even consider that,” I practically yelled. Buster sat back in his chair and  threw back a shot glass of whiskey. “Lansky and Trafficante and the rest of those wise guys have it made now with Batista. Remember, Lansky is a capitalist, not a communist. He’s riding a gravy train now. Almost has his own country here under his control. Castro could put an end to that. He wanted you to go in and kill him, get rid of him. Very similar to what Bugsy Siegel told that Italian count during the war. He offered to go to Berlin and do a hit on Hitler. Lot of balls on that boy. No brains, but balls as big as Texas. Lansky is in … it’s a done deal...our way!”

I was impressed. This supposedly covert mission, known until now to only a handful of FYI people,  now involved a rebel turncoat, the American Mafia and a writer who could whip literature's ass in one round of boxing, except for maybe Norman Mailer.

“I guess it’s under control. When do I meet this