by Mel McKinney
“You don’t know, Dom, how much I was looking forward to peeling off those mesh stockings. It’s taken two weeks to get her up here. Jesus!”
Joseph led the way into the paneled library alcove and draped himself across one of two wing-backed leather chairs positioned opposite each other at a marble table. Romelli sat in the other.
Discarding the Rafael Gonzalez, now a symbol of the failed evening, Joseph opened the burled humidor on the table. After lighting an H. Uppman Connoisseur No. 1 Robusto, his favorite cigar for moments of stress or intense concentration, he asked, “Okay, what’s up?”
Romelli leaned forward, his voice low.
“I got a call earlier tonight. A ‘Marinara’ call.”
Joseph stiffened. The “Marinara” code had fallen out of use before the Don died. Employed to identify people designated by the Don as entitled to benefit by the unique solutions he could provide for their problems, the system had simply faded away as the family and its business changed. Joseph had known, but never asked, about the ledger Romelli used to keep, listing those who held “Marinara” privileges. He had assumed it had been destroyed.
“You, ah, checked it out?” Joseph asked.
Romelli nodded. “Yeah, he’s entitled,” he said. “I remember the guy. The Don used to do business with him: textiles, cotton, tobacco, and stuff.
“There was this time your father had to move some goods in a hurry and this guy helped him by taking them off his hands at a good price and mixing them in with his own. The Don was very appreciative. He introduced me to the guy and gave him ‘Marinara’ status as well as this phone number. The Don made me promise to help the guy out if he ever called, no matter what he wanted, know what I mean?”
Joseph nodded. Old business. The kind of stuff that drew on Dominick Romelli’s craftsmanship as a skilled hit man. Not just sloppy jobs with a stubby, mean pistol or the random mess of a tommy gun, but long-range stuff requiring the intricate tools and concentration of the sniper. In the early days, as Joseph Senior built and consolidated his empire, it was occasionally necessary for his father to use terminal persuasion. Anonymous terror became a Bonafaccio trademark.
Joseph felt a surge of adrenaline as he considered Romelli’s story. He imagined how his father must have felt when he dispensed death sentences as favors. The power, the …
“Joseph?”
“What? Oh, hell, Dom, just thinking. Tell me, how does this justify blowing up my night with Laurie-May? I don’t really know how these things were handled between you and the Don, so correct me if I’m wrong. When you used to get a contract, wasn’t that between you and whoever hired you? I mean, if it was family business, it was part of your job, I know that. Like the Victor Salazar thing. But for something like this, didn’t you used to just make your own deal?”
Romelli hunched farther forward, frowning. He had never really trusted the elaborate security safeguards installed at the penthouse. He had preached to Joseph the necessity of assuming all offices and phones were bugged.
“Joseph, we can discuss my arrangements with ‘clients’ later. There’s a good reason I pulled the curtain on your evening with ‘Glory-day,’ or whatever her name was.”
Joseph drew on his cigar, waiting.
“Well,” Romelli continued, “this guy has a job that needs doing, two jobs actually. Real wet work. I told him I was pretty much out of play these days, but that I would think it over. He’s offering one hundred thousand dollars per. I told him I would need to know who the subjects were, you know, make sure there would be no conflicts of interest. That’s when things got interesting.”
Joseph puffed on the Uppman, his head back and eyes closed. Inside, the adrenaline still churned. So much like his father to have made a commitment like that. God, what days those must have been! Not surrounded by a bunch of accountants and lawyers. Just good men like Dominick Romelli, who knew the real ins and outs of the business.
“Joseph, one of the guys he wants taken out is our old friend Raul Salazar. We were just talking about him last night, remember?”
Joseph Bonafaccio shot forward. Coincidence in this part of his business, the part involving the old days, was rare, so rare as to be no coincidence. He stood up, his mind racing.
“You were right to interrupt, Dom. Victor Salazar makes three million dollars of our money disappear, and eight years later diamonds start falling out of his family’s cigars. Now someone wants to take out Victor’s son.”
Joseph crossed to the picture window and looked out over the park and the city lights. Always, when he had to think something through, he stood there, feeling the power of one mind above the anonymous thousands. He knew what he had to do.
“Dominick, the softest thing the Don ever did was let Raul Salazar out of Cuba. There’s got to be a connection. Get a couple of guys, you know, specialists. Let’s go visit Señor Salazar and smoke some of his cigars.”
Romelli frowned. “Specialists? You mean … ?”
Joseph pressed the glowing point of the Uppman into the ash tray, smashing the life out of it. Raul Salazar could well be the key to the three-million-dollar puzzle the Don had never solved. Now it was his turn.
“Yeah, specialists. Guys that can make someone talk. There’s some business that the lawyers and accountants just can’t handle.”
FIFTEEN
THE THIN BRASS nail surrendered to Raul’s gentle pressure with the silver pry, breaking the seal of the embossed cedar box. A row of tan Don Salazario Presidentes greeted him, each ringed by a silk band bearing his grandfather’s marque.
When Cornelius Gessleman duped himself and surrendered the Don Salazarios in favor of the Sancho Panzas, Raul’s conscience was satisfied. That one man’s greed could become another man’s salvation seemed, to Raul, the theme of the cosmic vapor in which this whole adventure was unfolding.
Raul’s mission achieved—Gessleman’s payment—the honest acquisition of three perfectly sealed boxes of his grandfather’s craft seemed to further dress the whole enterprise in a noble mantle. That the Don Salazarios had come to Raul through burglary and theft was refined in the complex smelter of his conscience. After all, the president’s brief ownership of the cigars had not rested on an immaculate foundation. As far as Raul was concerned, the Don Salazarios were a perfect fit into the equation of reuniting his life with Rosa’s. He now had two boxes of the precious cigars they would share to honor special occasions in the years ahead, and a box to one day pass on to their son.
Raul lifted the lid, closed his eyes, and let his olfactory senses transport him back to his youth in the Vuelta Abajo. Whoever had cared for these cigars before the unfortunate president had done well. They were perfectly aged and appeared as fresh as the day his grandfather had carefully laid them in the hand-crafted box.
That these particular cigars had been rolled by his grandfather, he had no doubt. He was delighted to find the old man’s signature striped silk ribbon, scarlet and orange, encircling the first cigar. Raul gently lifted its folded ends, raising the cigar and freeing the others.
He removed four cigars and slipped them into a leather pocket case, which he laid on the pine table in the center of the room. Then he closed the lid of the box and tapped the nail closed with the small hammer of the pry tool.
He carried the box to the locked humidor room adjoining the wine cellar below Noches Cubanas, let himself in, and placed the resecured box on top of its two companions. Picking up the leather case as he left the cellar, he slipped it into the breast pocket of his jacket and went upstairs to pack.
One for each of us, he thought, as he folded clothes into his suitcase . Before and after we make love. Maybe now, with my gift and with news of my plan, she will say yes again and we will finally marry. Perhaps the cigars will help us have a son. If she says no, well, we will have enjoyed four magnificent cigars. She will say yes, he told himself.
On one wall of his office hung a large framed photograph of Raul on the flying bridge of Don Salazario, his
marlin-rigged fishing boat. Next to it hung a framed original poster of Manolete. The matador was portrayed elegantly, head down, as the twisting head of an enraged bull sought its tormentor in vain.
Raul swung the poster aside and opened the wall safe it concealed. He removed a pile of bills and counted them one last time: sixty thousand dollars. This was his gift to Rosa after paying each of the amigos ten thousand dollars. Only a start, true, considering what was needed. But it was a start. Maybe now she would believe him. He was ready to return home.
Raul patted his coat pocket. The ticket for Kingston was there, right next to the cigars. There was one thing to do before he left.
“Paulo. Come and sit with me a minute. We must talk before I leave.”
The tall maître d’ followed, and they sat at the end of the empty bar, their usual place of business.
“You will be gone how long, Raul, three days?” asked Paulo.
“Yes, three days, I think. It depends. We may have something to celebrate, Rosa and I. If so, I will try my hardest to persuade her to stay longer, maybe a week. I will call you and let you know. But there is something else. Something I must share with you. You may decide when to tell the others.”
Paulo smiled. “I already know, Raul. You are an open book sometimes. I see it in your eyes and all around us; you, the restaurant, it is all coming to an end, no? You will again ask Rosa to marry you and she will accept. Only this time you will not be leaving your home—you will be returning to it. Am I not right?”
Raul crooked his arm tightly around his friend’s neck. “Yes. Yes, you are right.” He laughed. He met and held Paulo’s gaze.
“Paulo, come with me. After I sell the restaurant, we will do it again, in Havana or Varadero. Rosa will have her clinic; I will have my Rosa. But I am not a nurse. I, like you, am a host. I bring people hospitality. It is in my blood.
“These Yankees are crazy to turn their backs on Cuba, but the rest of the world still loves our beautiful beaches, our people, our gorgeous women, our cigars. The Norte Americanos could have had the friendship of our wonderful country. Maybe even the fifty-first state, no?” They both laughed.
“Well, maybe not a state, but a partner, a playful child, better even than it was before the revolution. Cuba needed the revolution, and America needs friends to the south. They are being so stupid. But for people like you and me, people who know and love graciousness, style, good food, wine, cigars—the rest of the world will seek us out.
“Think on it, Paulo. Come with me and be my partner. Fifty-fifty. The third Noches Cubanas: Raul Salazar and Paulo Enriquez, proprietors. You have served my father and me so well these many years, you deserve that. Give me your answer when I return.”
Raul grasped Paulo’s shoulder and shook it playfully. “Ah! Look at you. Tears of joy, I hope. And listen to me. Full of proposals. To you, and to Rosa. Wish me luck.”
They stood and hugged, Paulo struggling for words.
“Do not speak, my friend,” Raul said. “I know what your answer will be and my heart sings. Adios.”
SIXTEEN
CHUCKLING, NESTOR PINWOOD hung up the phone.
Smartass constable. Thought he was pretty slick the other day gett’n the jump on me about those Mexicans. Oh, he was quick all right, figurin’ out they took two cottages and trickin’ it out of me so fast about their car and all. But he’ll learn. Oh yes, he will. Got to do these things right. Got to be civil and take time to talk to people if you want to really learn somethin’. Hell, I would’ve told him about the third cottage and the one hundred dollars extra them fellas paid me to store their boxes in there. Might still, if he ever asks. Now, wonder if I should call him and tell him that fella “Hor-hay” just called and said they’re on their way up to pick up their boxes? Or should I just wait and make him do his job?
Pedro Vasquez had been many things in his life. Car thief, trumpeter, cigar roller, burglar, chef, and sometimes bookmaker. But he had never been in love, really in love. Until now.
The scent of crushed rose petals, the flash of her indigo eyes, the smile that drew him into her soul. Everything that was Felicia Mercado haunted him.
When Raul had summoned Pedro and Jorgé to give them instructions about delivering the cigars to the rich Americano, Pedro’s heart had skipped with a rare lightness. Finally, an opportunity to put right his base mistreatment of this angel.
Pedro had penned four letters of contrition, four collections of failed words. He had crumpled and discarded each of them. But now, with his eyes and hands, he would tell her, show her, what was in his heart.
“I’ll drive, Jorgé,” Pedro said, as they approached Raul’s 1960 Pontiac Bonneville Coupe. Jorgé laughed, tossing him the keys. “Cousin, why is it I think we are about to set a south-to-north speed record? Let me know when you are tired. I promise you, I will keep up the pace.”
SEVENTEEN
THE CARIBBEAN SHIMMERED below, a translucent azure sheet, blanketing stippled coral reefs that sprouted from a white, sandy floor. Soon, my darling, Raul thought, soon. He cinched his seat belt as the Jamaica Air DC-3 banked and settled onto its final approach to Kingston.
Raul saw her as he stepped from the airplane door to the top of the wheeled stairs. Rosa was next to the terminal door, her flower-print skirt fluttering in the light breeze, her skin a golden glow against the white stucco building. Raul bolted the stairs and ran to her.
“Rosa, Rosa, my precious Rosa. I have missed you so much!” He smothered her in his arms.
Holding her away, a hand on each bare shoulder, he fed his starved senses. There had been too many partings in the past eight years. He had learned to draw on these moments of greeting as warming currency against future bankrupt loneliness. Then he stiffened and folded his arms.
“This does not look like the uniform of a revolutionary nurse!” he said with mock sternness, taking in the vibrant colors of her dress.
“And you do not look like a cigar thief,” she giggled. “For now, for you, I am revolting against the revolution.” Then, biting his ear, she whispered, “Come, we will make our own revolution. Many bullets will be fired, yes? I have already checked us into the hotel. Let us go; the uprising has started.”
Raul slipped off the light linen blazer when he entered the hotel room. As he did, the leather cigar case fell to the floor. He stooped to pick it up and rose to see Rosa stepping out of her flowered skirt. Her exquisite molting made him catch his breath.
“Ah, Rosa!” he exclaimed, torn between what he had planned and what was happening.
“I have brought something with me,” he stammered, awkwardly fumbling with the leather case. “A very special way to celebrate our reunion. Something to share before we make love and before I show you my surprise.”
His eyes roamed her again. “But it will wait.” He laughed, laying the case on the bedside table and hastening with his belt.
“Or maybe it will not,” she retorted, snatching the case. She pulled a towel from the bathroom and demurely covered herself.
“In Miami, those many miles of ocean from me, you are able to generously plan the time you will take before we make love. Now, here, you are not so patient. Let me see what you thought we would share before we shared each other. It must be very important!”
Aware he had lost a small battle, Raul sheepishly watched her open the cigar case. She stood away, her eyebrows arched.
“Cigars,” he admitted, “Don Salazarios. One for each of us, before and after. I thought they …” He could not explain the romantic impulse that had possessed him in Miami.
“Oh, so my brave Fidel would rather smoke a cigar than make love to his precious Rosa!” she cajoled, squirming and letting the towel fall. “You know, Fidel, how much I love cigars, but I like to choose them myself!”
She tossed the case aside, pushed him onto the bed and slid off his shoes, followed by his pants and shorts. Then, dropping alongside his hip, she took his swelling rise in her hand. Studying it, she brushed asid
e the dark pendant of curls dangling from her head and said softly, “Now, this is a perfect cigar, a robusto, at least a fifty-four, no? This is the cigar I wish to smoke first.” Raul moaned with pleasure as he watched himself disappear into her smile, her eyes locked on his.
They filled the afternoon making love as they never had before. She, anticipating and hoping; he, knowing and teasing; both became lost in unexplored excitements that led them to even higher peaks. Finally, spent and glistening, they napped in each other’s arms.
Later, leaning against the railing of the tiled deck, they sipped rum and tonics and let the Caribbean evening wrap them in the richness of Calypso and warm offshore breezes.
“And now, my hero,” Rosa purred, stroking his disheveled curls, “while my favorite cigar is resting, we can smoke one of those others while you tell me of your surprise.”
Smiling, Raul went back into the room. She had been right. Their lovemaking, at first a frantic, spending conflagration, then exquisitely tarried, had cocooned him in a surround of sensual enchantment well matched to the rich pleasure of a Don Salazario. The mood and the setting were perfect for the rest. First, the cigars.
He brought out a folded brown bag from his suitcase and set it on the patio’s glass table. Then he drew one of the Don Salazarios from the case, cut it cleanly, and lit it with a thick wooden match. Satisfied of an even light, he handed her the glowing cigar and prepared one in the same manner for himself.
They sat and smoked for a while, as steel drums hammered out a distant rhythm. It is time, he thought.
“Rosa, the rich old man’s greed cost him more than the twenty thousand dollars we’d planned on. After Kennedy’s assassination, an opportunity suddenly appeared and I took it. Now, instead of just a few thousand dollars for the clinic, there is enough to change everything, for you, the clinic, and for us.”