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

Thankfully, Blake took over. “Russo, during the war, not Korea, the other one, the big one, Sean and I were members of the OSS, or today’s CIA. Our mission was to sniff out attempts in Mexico and Cuba of any overtures the Nazi’s might attempt to gain a foothold at democracy’s gate. Sean was stationed in Mexico, I was resident agent in Cuba. Some Mexicans didn’t trust the US and wanted to back Germany. They were still pissed about Texas for Christsakes, so Sean and others did damage to Nazi feelers and eventually Mexico joined the Allied cause and booted the Nazi’s out. Same crap in Cuba. Except Cuba, Batista that is, kicked the bastards out in ‘41 and fought them with their navy and kicked U-Boat ass in the Caribbean. Now we’re afraid of Soviet intervention in Latin America.”
“And my job is to watch for any Red’s under Cuban beds, yes?”

Sean served the next volley. “Not exactly we have agents on the ground in Havana,” at which point he looked at Blake with the deer in the headlights look waiting for the final blast to come ripping from the barrel, drawing blood. “Not exactly, no. We need a man, a journalist to infiltrate Castro’s rebel army and report on it. Strengths, weaknesses, movements, numbers, weapons…”

I cut him off at this point. “Whoa, wait up cowboy. Infiltrate Castro’s rebels? Who the fuck do you think I am...Claude Rains? I am not the Invisible Man. In case you haven’t noticed, I’m not Cuban. I’m not CIA with decoder rings or whatever you guys use. I have a typewriter and no gun.”

Blake blasted both barrels. “Look Russo. You are going to Cuba to investigate Santiago’s killing, I know you want that along with the fancy title of Foreign Correspondent tag lining your reports. Santiago was more than a fellow journalist. He was my friend. Very close friend. Reports say the Rebels are responsible for his death. I want those bastards brought down. Fuck Ike and fuck the agency..do this for me and for a free press everywhere. Sean called me early this morning about recent developments and we came up with a plan that will make us all happy, and yes, even Ike.”

Sean took the ball from there as I was taking the bait. “You are a journalist so we’re halfway to the goal line. (I always hated football analogies in conversation) You will be looking for Castro to tag along with and tell his side of the story. Like that reporter who hung out with Lawrence of Arabia during WWI. T.E. Lawrence and Castro have one thing in common. Monster egos that need feeding. We have a contact in Havana who will arrange for you to get to the rebels through a third party. A party you will approve of. A female with guts and balls and looks damn good in khakis. Nice ass and smarter than all of us in this room. Oh you’ll have plenty of time to jerk off with your wop mob buddies too and drown in a sea of poontang and booze. So, I will ask nicely, are you in or out? I need your answer now, please. You’re the perfect one to pull this off. Yes? No?”

I thought it over at a hundred miles an hour in 60 seconds. “What the hell...life’s a bitch anyway. May as well get her in the sack for a romp under the covert covers. Yes, OK, I’ll do it, but Blake you better have that byline in bright neon!”

Sean set the timeline. “You’re playing ball with us so we’ll pitch an underhand softball your way. You can go to your game tonight, fuck the teen queen of the prom and stay hungover for a week if you like. You won’t have to leave until Saturday. We’ll have all the necessary papers ready and alert our contact in Havana. You’ll also be given instructions on how to code your reports to us without Castro knowing it. As for your initial contact, he’s a bit of a slimeball, but when you play in the sewers, slimeballs know the best routes to take.”

“Ok Gentlemen,” I said. “I’m taking the rest of the day off and so is Penny. We may do some warming up ourselves before we foreplay ball with each other.” Blake on cue pulled a bottle of his best Mick whiskey from his drawer and three shot glasses. “A toast ...to Cuba!” Blake bellowed. “To America,” cried Sean. “To Mickey Mantle!” I had a series game to root for. Cuba was Saturday. The Yankees were tonight!

My head was still in a Westinghouse spin cycle when I left Blake’s office. This newsroom has been home to me for years, my journalistic port in the storm. It’s as comfortable as a worn pair of Spanish American war boots trudging through mosquito infested swamps. Next week I’d be leaving it all behind in the journalistic rearview mirror as I would begin to burrow underground undercover caught up in the intrigue and politics of a political hurricane in the storm clouds of revolution now forming over Havana. I always wanted to be a foreign correspondent, but, you know the old adage...Be careful what you wish for.

Later…. Right now I had $200 bucks riding on the series outcome tonight and had plans afterwards to, as they say, fuck the prom queen under the bleachers. Penny was that prom queen and Mickey Mantle would unlock her sexual door with a win tonight! Maybe we’d both score, eh, Mick?

“Penny, you ready? Blake said for us to take off and enjoy the game. He must feel guilty about something. Oh, and he also said to take fifty bucks out of petty cash for expenses, you know, beer, dogs, gas and dinner after we win the pennant. I’ll write something about the game so it’s legit.” The voice of Zeus bellowed from Blake’s office. “I heard that Wop! You damn well better write up something or that fucking fifty is coming out of your paycheck or your ass!”

“Yas Bossman. Yas Suh. I unnerstands Massa Blake. Yas Suh!”
Penny smiled, grabbing fifty from the filebox she kept locked in her desk. “Got it,” she said. “Let’s go.”

The day was crisp and baseball was in the air, a high fly day! Let Castro eat shit and drink mud. I’m grabbing a few ballpark bottles of Baltimore’s Natty Boh’s and if lucky, some Nathan’s redhots if I can. If I’m really lucky, Penny Arcade will let me win the Kewpie Doll prize after snatching the toy from the ball diamond between her legs. Christ, a Mickey Mantle series win and a promiscuous passion prize all in one day. That should get my mojo working to make my howlin’ wolf smokestack lightnin’ to mellow down easy.

Baseball is not just MY passion. Penny is such an avid fan of the stick and ball competition she gets all sexed up and ready to romp every time the Yanks win a game. I know this from experience. However, if they lost she swore like a sailor for hours, get piss drunk and somehow the moment would lose its magic. I know this too from experience. It’s bad when your hard-on swings and misses. “Yerrrr Out!”

Both of us were in high spirits. A win was in the air. Overall, it was a bad year for New York baseball. It was announced that the Giants, the elder team statesmen of the tribe would be heading west to take up residence in San Francisco, probably at the Sam Spade Stadium. The goddamned Dodgers were also getting out of Dodge and would seek stadium shelter in Los Angeles at Micky Mouse Stadium. As for Ebbets Field? There goes the neighborhood. The Yanks and Dodgers met on the dirt diamond just last year in a “subway series” and the Yanks kicked their Brooklyn asses four to one in a series. No wonder they left town with their tail between their jockstraps.

Penny and I were high and hopped up on hope like a couple of street junkies that day. We arrived at the stadium a half hour before the first pitch...secured our highly prized first base box seats and got ready for Mantle Mania to send Milwaukee packing back to the Great Lakes. Hell, Warren Spahn was out of the game as he came down with the flu! Milwaukee didn’t stand a chance now! We Yank fans could smell blood and taste victory.
That wasn’t how it turned out. Best laid plans of mice and men and all that. Our best chance came in the sixth inning, we had had runners on first and second with two outs after a Mickey Mantle single and an error by Mathews at third. Gil McDougald then grounded out forcing Mantle at third to end the inning and the threat!

It didn’t get any better. You know the outcome. You read my columns. We lost to those Great Lakes drunks! We were limited to seven hits and one walk. Lew Burdette who flew high in Spahn’s place was eventually named the Series MVP after pitching three complete games and two shutouts. He was the first pitcher since Christy Mathewson to pitch two shutouts in a World Series.

Neither of us were feeling sexy after that Waterloo. We left with the crowd, broken in spirit. We needed a drink so we headed for Toots Shor’s bar on West 51st Street. I drank here often when I was working the sports desk, and still do as it is also where my bookie gets rich off of my misery on a semi-regular basis. Penny and I needed to surround ourselves with the faces of friendly drunken journalists, and who knows, maybe Sinatra or DiMaggio would show up and grace us with a dose of celebrity glamour.

My old friend and fellow crumb bum, as Toot’s referred to us openly, Studs Terkel was there. He was a writer and radio personality in Chicago who pulled no punches. We had met in Shorr’s one night a few years ago when he flew in from Chicago. He was back in town to see the game. A New Yorker by birth and heritage, his Dr. Jeykll soul had been taken over by the Midwest and his Mr. Hyde side had him rooting for Milwaukee now. Sitting next to him was our mutual friend, writer, pugilist lefty Norman Mailer who had recently founded the left leaning Village Voice and in his book shocked the Upper West Siders by his use of a Mailer made up word “fug” as in “fug it” “fug you” “fugging” He has brass balls and a right hook that will knock you cold out.

I was writing as a contributing columnist for the “Voice” under an assumed name, Arthur Burns. Didn’t want to burn my “objective and balanced” journalism bridge or lose my paycheck just yet. I haven’t written “the great novel” yet to sustain my lifestyle. Norm has, and he lets you know it! Blake I