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

secretly to Havana to meet with Meyer Lansky, Santos Trafficante, and other top greaseball mafioso godfathers  to set the wheels in motion by greasing the sweaty palms of Cuba’s double dealing dictator, Fulgencio Batista who opened the floodgates of mob controlled casino’s that filled the coffers of El Presidente with delicious American greenback kickbacks.

Cuba was becoming converted to the new religion of sex, gambling and graft. The three basic economic food groups of a tin horn banana republic in the 1950’s. These casinos and hotels were not the early sleazy carpet joints you saw erupting  in Vegas in the mid to late ‘40’s. These were architectural monuments in pastel. The Pyramids of Giza are formidable imposing structures as is the Taj Mahal. St. Peter’s Basilica in the heart of Rome also very imperial looking and is the Vatican’s answer to Hitler’s Berchtesgaden. That was Rome and when in Rome...you know the saying. This however was not Rome. It was Havana and there was a new pope in town. Lucky Luciano the First and upon that rock he built not his church, but the new Sodom and Gomorrah. He said, “Let there light!” and the island  was at once  bathed in electric neon with an angelic spotlight highlighting a line of long legged mechanical chorus girls singing backup  for the slot machines and roulette tables.

I was walking slowly along the street to soak up as much of this dictatorial paradise living on the sharp edge of rebellion. The island was dangerous and beautiful, just as the islands women were  intoxicating to a degree that would melt lead.

As I approached the entrance I could hear the latin rhythms of Beny More coming from down the street fornicating with the conga music blasting from inside  the Tropicana. I opened the door and the cacophony of delightful decadence hit me all at once. Music, gambling tables, dancing, and one hell of a floor show. Fishnets and feathers fanning my libido .  Gyroscopic Afro-Cuban hips in motion  burning rubber on a sexual fuel injected dragstrip ready to take you across the finish line of the your own quarter mile in under ten seconds.

I spotted Lansky by the poker tables, watching over the green gold. He was the undisputed prophet of profits. Not one nickel would escape his careful, calculating eye. “Mickey! Over here. Please. Anything you want my friend,” he yelled as I jostled  carefully through the crowds of rich Americans, Canadians and Cubans hoping against hope to break the banks balls at some point.

“Meyer, so good to see you, and yes, whiskey neat.” He motioned to one of the roaming waitresses signaling two drinks. “I hear you came down to investigate Senor Santiago’s unfortunate departure. Now tell me the truth. That is the rumour that was passed along to me from Frank Costello in New York.  I hope this is true and that damned Irish prick boss of yours didn’t send you here to look into our business down here for one of his investigative show pieces. That would be bad for business and certain government officials here would react accordingly and I would have no control over that.”

“Look Meyer, it’s revenge for Santiago’s murder. They were very close. We know the rebels had something to do with it so, if I can get hard evidence Castro and his people were behind it, then we can help put a journalistic nail in his political coffin. That alone should put a smile on the faces in those “certain government officials” as well as your people.

Our drinks arrived and I was parched and ready to drown in whiskey all night long. Meyer handed me my drink and put his arm around my shoulder. “Good. This is good. I know you wouldn’t lie to me. We’ve been friends too long for that. Now come I’ll give you the grand tour and if there is anything you want, just ask. Anything, understand.”

“Meyer, I’m being upfront with you. Now, off the record, how the hell did you get such a sweet deal down here. It’s almost a fairy tale.” Meyer laughed his all knowing laughing Buddha laugh. “Grease the wheels my young friend. It’s not a big secret down here that corruption and greed together comprise the two party system of Cuba. In exchange for the rights to build and run our operations, hotels, clubs and casinos, He gets anywhere from 10 to 30% of the profits depending on the gross a property takes in. He get 30% from Georgie Rafts Capri Hotel Casino. I pay a high percentage but is nothing compared to what we gross and skim.”

“So he’s extorting bribes disguised as license fees?” Meyer shook his head smiling that cagey smile that masks the murderous killer he is. “Down here, it’s simply called ...business. This year alone Batista stands to make one million US dollars from the slots alone! He gets paid much more than the General in the White House because he understands business as do we. It’s a perfect setup. Legal and sanctioned by the government. Here we are breaking no laws. In fact….we are above the law!” Chapter Ten - The Princess Hooker

 

The desk clerk came jackhammer  pounding on my door at sunrise. My head was ready to detonate from too much casino booze and all night wise guy comradery at Lansky’s  Tropicana. I had left a wake up call for 6 a.m. which in the aftermath of an all night drinking binge is like shooting yourself in the head. Jesus don’t bless suicide sinners, and the dawning day won’t buy your excuse that the dog ate your alarm clock.

“OK, OK. I’m awake. Gracias,” I managed to yell-grumble in a voice raspy with hungover rum gravel from a drunken rock quarry. I heard the footsteps recede down the hallway, The clerk did his job, the rest was up to me. I had to check in at the newspaper to get my covert cover story in place. They were told I was here as a guest correspondent to cover Cuban  culture and politics, as well as a banging out a few pieces on island baseball for the New York sports fans. Hopefully they would buy the package and not know I was wearing  a different hat trying to pin the tail of blame on Castro’s donkey to get justice for Santiago’s murder for Blake and and to get the CIA monkey off my back. I knew full well, as did they, if I didn’t play ball with them there was a little matter of income tax evasion I was sure they were aware of. The had me by the baseballs!

As I sat up in bed to rise and shine I felt a warmth against my leg I hadn’t noticed until now. I  found  a long warm body lying next to me that had a faint aroma of recent sex. Tossing the covers off the bed I was startled to find a full figured female form laying on her back with dark supple Cuban breasts at full mast in the dawn’s early light. Below her equatorial region there was a thick black jungle that marked the entrance to Amazonia guarded by two delicious coffee colored thighs spread apart awaiting the Trojan Horse to gain entry into her kingdom.

I nudged her gently. Her massive brown eyes opened slowly and a faint all knowing smile emerged as she reached over and pulled me on top of her. “Lansky, I suppose,” I said quietly so as not ruin the moment. She smiled broadly this time with full wet lips. “Yes, Mr. Mickey. I am a gift and you chose me yourself.” I smiled this time. “I can see why I chose you, but please, just call me Mickey. No ‘Mister’, No ‘Senor’. Just Mickey.”

She was a genuine Cuban angel who now pulled me inside of her. I guess I was at full mast already and Old Glory was ready to concede to her vaginal victory.

When we finished we jumped into the shower together lathering each other up and laughing our fool heads off. I found out her name was Hermosa, which means “beautiful woman” and she was just that and more. She was also a head taller than me which didn’t bother either of us. Once rinsed and dried we dressed and headed out the door to the street below. I for my first day of James Bonding, she  to the club to grace the bed of some other fortunate sinner .


“Can I see you tonight,” I asked in a voice a school boy would have when asking the prom queen out on a date in his father’s car. She smiled and kissed me and promised that if she didn’t have any other customers booked that she had to entertain then I could. “I’ll pay,” I said. She held a finger to my lips to silence me. “No, you not pay. We will have date.  Not business.”  I always was a sucker for a hooker. We parted company and I was on my way to ignite the CIA fuse to discredit Castro and the rebels, and in the process get justice for Santiago’s untimely death especially peace of mind and heart for his daughter Sienna.

I walked the few blocks to the Record Bulletin offices. As I walked up to the door I couldn’t help but notice a few bullet holes in the wall that tore out chunks of concrete making the buildings facade resemble the pock marked face of Peter Copy, a kid I went to P.S. 53 and sat across from in elementary school. I always thought his head was a map of the moon, craters and all.

Canvas satchel in hand I entered the Cuban world of the Fifth Estate. There to greet me was Jorge Gallegos, the paper’s new editor and publisher, and as I would find out later, Santiago’s right hand man at the paper for years.

"Ah señor Russo! Bienvenido. Todo el mundo, señor Russo está aquí. Soy Jorge Gallegos, director del periódico. Te voy a presentar a todo el mundo. Pero, en primer lugar, aquí es su escritorio y le dará un poco de café."

Jorge was the perfect host showing me my desk and ordering my first cup of coffee of the day and introducing me to the staff. He had a  broad sincere smile and  a tired, weary face from the pressure of running a newspaper trying to balance “the government and the rebel side of things.” in this hurricane of a political climate.

After all, it is the very same balancing act that got Santiago killed. I wondered if Jorge had the fear now that perhaps journalism in Cuba given the violent nature of the two factions at odds with each other would bring about his own demise. There is a saying, “You can’t please all of the people all of the time.” This is true, yes, but you only have to piss off one with a grudge and a gun and it’s lights out amigo!