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

……..End Transmission……

Tonite as we were all sitting down, Pilar at my side, enjoying a cigar and beer (my kind of woman) along  with the newest cadre to join Castro’s growing army, Che Guevara walked over to me, standing and toasting. Saluds were everywhere this evening.  I was still feeling the adrenaline rush of bullets and bombs, history in the making and I was a part of it. How could I ever go back to covering the mundane world of muggings, murder and mob bookies on trial in New York.

My mental foraging was interrupted by Guevara. “Senor Russo...Mickey. Our friend. You have helped get our message out on the world stage..with honesty and truthfulness of fact and with a passion I never realized a journalist had. A toast to you...and to your lovely Pilar, may you both be happy and bear many revolutionaries!” My thank you’s were drowned out by a cacophony of laughter.

“Quiet, please,” Che chided. “We now have a special request of you and I feel you can do this. We trust you and have faith in you.” I couldn’t wait to hear this. Maybe it was to make a small speech. I can do that I thought.

“We need you to arrange a meeting in Washington with your President Eisenhower or with a representative of his to meet in Havana to discuss relations with the new Cuba once we take control. We seek recognition from your government as well as economic aid to put the country back in the hands of the people.”

“Uh...hold on Che. I’m  a minor player in this. I didn’t even vote for the man, and can barely spell his name. I don’t see how I can be of any help. I mean I have some contacts and will try, but don’t count on anything coming of it.”

Pilar gave me a small kiss, “You can do it Mickey. You have nine lives, like a cat. El Gato!” to which everyone laughed. “Ok, Ok, I’ll try. I need to get a message to a friend at the US Embassy in Havana, Buster Scalisi.”  I didn’t dare tell them he was CIA or I would have watched all my so called nine lives disappear in front of a firing squad where I would be the guest of honor.

“I also need to meet in Havana with an American businessman, Meyer Lansky. He has influence of a different sort.” Che interrupted, “You mean Meyer Lansky the criminal. American criminals come here all the time, someday maybe we can return the favor and unlock our prisons and send our criminals to Miami. We know who he is. What else do you need from us?

“I need messages to go out to request meetings, and I am pretty sure they will be approved so will a boat to get me to Havana. Me and Pilar, she comes with me.”

Fidel said, “Si, Si, amor!” and then interpreted by Che. “He said Yes, and the girl too. Love is in your heart so you must either have Cuban in you, or have been in a Cuban!” OK, I had to laugh along with the rest of them including Pilar.

“We will arrange for a boat from the village owned by a fisherman and friend of ours to get you to Havana. You will also take Victoria along for safety, yes?”

“I wouldn’t feel safe without her. Yes, by all means.”

“I will get your messages out to Havana tomorrow by one of our couriers, and arrange for your transportation as well. SALUD!”

I was now acting intermediary between a faction of revolutionaries and the Oval Office. I’ve come a long way from the Bronx covering mob murders in courtrooms. I was in the middle of a war and setting up a meeting between a banana republic  rebel leader in khaki with the hero of the Normandy Landing in France. Life will never be the same again..It was getting late so I whispered in Pilar’s ear. “Are you ready to practice producing some little revolutionaries tonight?”

She paused and exhaled a giant cloud of cigar smoke “Practice makes perfect!”

July 27, 1958 11:15 AM

“Jesus Christ Scalisi. What the hell took you so long?” I fumed through the phone. “This war could be over and both of us retired living in Miami with alligators, wheelchairs and a pension!” We had been waiting for almost a week to set the meet with Scalisi and Lansksy to bend Eisenhower’s ear with a deluge of facts of why he should smoke the diplomatic peace pipe with Castro and the rebels.

Buster Scalisi, as evasive as ever was on the phone with me from Havana iceberg lettuce cool and as calm as a mental patient enjoying a meal of tranquilizers at Thanksgiving. “I know, I apologize. Something came up and I had to deal with it.  Are you any closer to solving Santiago’s murder?”

“One thing is for certain. Castro didn’t do it. No proof, just gut feeling.  Call it reporter’s instinct. A lot like a woman’s instinct without the Tampon.  I think the whole thing was a frame up to discredit the rebels, to undermine and castrate the Castro mystique. It probably was on orders from Batista himself.”

Buster used his best practiced psychology major voice of reason...the kind you would employ talking to a madman holding hostages in a bank. “No, if it came from Batista, I would know about it. It was probably some disgruntled peasant thinking it was a sacrificial lamb to lay at the foot of the altar of Castro. What does Pilar think, she’s a journalist and I’m sure she follows in your paranoid footsteps.”

“She agrees. Something not kosher about it. What about Ike? Can you arrange for a meet in Washington or here. It’s important. The way things are going Castro may have to be figured into the equation for the future of our relations here. Business and politics. Gotta keep the Reds out of bed you know. Kruschev may be one ugly son of a bitch,  but if he gets his fat foot in the door in Cuba you’ll see May Day celebrations 90 miles off shore with battalions of commie ballet dancing Bolsheviks and their Bolshoi bullshit hitting OUR fan!”

Buster was as smooth as a can of WD-40. “Well when you get here we’ll examine every facet. One thing at a time. I’ve already sent a letter outlining all this to the State Department. They seem interested so I should have an indication by the time you get here.  Look, I arranged for a small plane to pick you and Pilar up in Santiago de Cuba. It’ll land at a small airfield the CIA has outside of Havana. Looks like no more than a cow pasture landing strip for crop dusters. No one pays it any attention. I’ve arranged with Lansky to have some of his men pick you up there and take you to a house on the coast in Matanzas Too many eyes and ears here. Lansky’s men will run any interference if there’s a problem on this end. Enjoy the ride and if Batista had a hand in the killing, I’ll take care of it through proper channels and protocols. So relax...see you tonight Russo.”

I hung up the phone and told Pilar and Victoria the plan. As far as they knew Buster was working for the New York News Syndicate as my contact in Cuba. Simple, cut, and dried. Pilar was nervous about flying, but Victoria was ecstatic.  “Good, a plane will save me time too. I’ll join up with with some of our friends in the movement after we land. I have business to take care of in Havana before our Fall Offensive if you don’t mind me riding along I’ll make those arrangements now.”

“No, no. Don’t mind at all. We can kill two birds with one stone,” I said as philosophically as a first year Psyche Major trying to impress a bartender. “Bad choice of words,” Victoria mused. I’ll inform Che of the plans. You two better get packed and don’t forget to take all the information you have on the Santiago killing. Get Castro off the hook. The last thing he would do is to kill a press ally.”

The wheels were set in motion. If  Eisenhower would open any door of dialogue it will be a step in the right direction utilizing the compass of diplomacy. I only hoped it wouldn’t interfere with his golf game. If he shot over par because of this, I’d be shot at dawn at Camp David.

6:50 PM

The flight was bumpy. Small planes always made me entreat some unknown entity for salvation whenever I was aboard one. You know, there are no atheists in foxholes, that sort of feeling. I was relaxing now as Havana came into view below. A jewel in the necklace of the Caribbean. THE crown jewel in fact.

As we closed in on the harbor town of Matanzas we began a jerky descent to what Buster described as a cow pasture for crop dusters. He gave it too much credit. It was a cow pie strewn field of manure and hard scrabble. If the pilot could land here he could land on the barren surface of the moon.

We skidded to a stop and gathered our belongings, clothing for a few days, my ever present notebooks and pens, camera and film. Pilar kept the Santiago murder documents in her backpack. Victoria, traveling light as usual with small daypack and pistol in her shoulder holster. No bra, no underwear (one of her quirks) just a Ruger and a full clip.  I swear at that time of the month she probably inserts  an artillery shell or stick of dynamite. She is tough!

We wished each other safe journey and would all meet back in the Sierra Maestra. Members of the underground 26 July movement were there to pick her up in a rusted Jeep that must have seen action at Pork Chop Hill in Korea. Our ride was a black sedan driven by one of Lansky’s gorilla’s along with two others with machine guns.

“Mr. Russo, Meyer’s waiting for you. Get in.” I held the door for Pilar, gent that I am even in a revolution. Chivalry is a virtue for the virtuous. Not that I am, but Pilar is. We drove for 15 minutes in silence. Mafia goombah’s are not much on conversation after all unless they’re ordering pizza or a hit to have someone whacked.

Matanzas is beautiful and the drive through town was enchanting. I could hear strolling street musicians plying their trade for the supper crowd. The beach area was not far and the CIA safe house was minutes away in a secluded area garrisoned with a few Lansky sentinels standing guard.

We grabbed our bags after we pulled up and went inside. Pleasant enough, stark decor designed by a failed decorating student but a great view of Hemingway’s beloved sea.

Inside to greet us were Lansky and Buster.

Lansky, ever the slippery diplomat greeted us with