As to Lansky, he had arrived owing to a call for help from the then-current political leader, military dictator Fulgencia Batista. The fascist had forced his way into power five years earlier, ruling like a reincarnation of some medieval warrior-king. Though not the president per se, Batista commanded the country as the army’s Chief of Staff. This allowed him to lord it over whoever supposedly ran things at any one moment.
Deeply concerned as to his country's stalled economy, Batista gazed northward. Smart, in an animal-cunning sort of way, he sensed that his huge capitalistic neighbor might well prove the perfect partner for bringing his dream of a wealthy Cuba to fruition. Various American corporations were contacted about mining the rich mineral resources, notably nickel. Batista also guessed that Oriental Park could be restored to its former glories, if people up in the U.S. in a position to finance such a considerable undertaking were willing to fly on down to oversee the make-over, as well as invest in this project.
Lou Smith, a soft-spoken, middle-aged entrepreneur who managed several tracks in New England, was contacted and did express interest. As often happens, one thing led to another. Lou was overwhelmed with various business deals and never got around to making things click. He hadn't forgotten about the offer, though, and in time passed the project along to a trusted friend from bootlegging days. That’s when Meyer got the call.
“I’ll have to check first with my partner,” he informed Lou. Lansky and Luciano conferred the very next day.
Sure, Meyer. Go on down, take a look around. Who knows? Maybe it’ll lead to something. If not, freakin’ enjoy yourself. Jesus knows, you’ve more than earned a vacation.
*
“It’s beyond belief.” Lansky rhapsodically informed his friend and partner upon return. These two had been inseparable since early in the century. On New York’s East Side and all through Little Italy’s fabled mean streets, they wrestled control away from the older order. An earlier generation of immigrant mobsters, the well-heeled mustachios, had controlled the rackets pretty much unchallenged until the mid-1910s. The sudden arrival of these arrogant young turks altered everything. The word on the street: Meyer and his Jews provided the brains, Luciano’s Sicilians adding the necessary muscle.
However much a simplification that may be, their ongoing cooperation created a formidable organization. From day one, this secretive power-structure—The Combination—was built on mutual trust and a genuine liking between the frail accountant and his cold-eyed partner. Opposites that not only attracted but clicked, Lansky and Luciano created and to a degree perfected organized crime as it would exist through 20h century America.
“Okay, already. I believe ya, Meyer.”
“The Depression’s gonna be over soon.”
“I know.”
“We gotta do this, Charley.”
I told ya. I'm sold.”
“When?”
“Right away.”
“Honest?”
Grinning, Luciano spread out his arms. “Would I lie to you? My adopted kike brother?”
*
However sincere Charley may have been, the plans Meyer formulated were set on a back-burner when war broke out in 1941. By then, Charley had been imprisoned, requiring Meyer to zip back and forth between Chicago and New York, then on down to Miami and Tampa, where their coalition owned a considerable number of businesses. Lansky had to do the legwork he and Charley previously shared. In due time, he also had to head west to Las Vegas after Bennie Siegel insisted on building what most mob members believed was one more of their volatile pal's nutty ideas, a financial fiasco in the making: the Flamingo.
Who in his right mind would want to travel to Nevada, for Christ’s sake? If we didn’t already suspect Bennie’s got bugs in his brain, here’s the proof. This according to Frank Costello.
Though Siegel hadn’t lived to see it, whacked by his own gang-backers after the Flamingo’s costs skyrocketed far beyond any acceptable level owing to his obsession with a two-timing whore, Vegas did turn out to be profitable. Still, the Flamingo sat there like a steel and concrete albatross on an arid stretch of uninviting desert. A fountain in no man’s land. Cuba? Eden revisited! Cuba it was, then, for the time being.
As a result of such complex reorganizing, on December 26, 1946 a summit meeting was arranged in Manhattan. Batista arrived sporting his military uniform with enough medals to weigh down a full-grown bear, his presence topped off by a tan cap with black visor that dwarfed the man’s head and caused this inherently cruel person to appear slightly comical. He had flown up for the occasion. Contracts were signed, hands shaken, toasts offered.
From that moment on, The Mob was in. Cuba would never be the same, for better or worse.
Better for some. Worse for others.
*
Six weeks following that summit meeting, on the morning of Sinatra’s arrival, a gun-metal gray limo awaited the guest of honor’s disembarkation from a state-of-the-art airliner. The sleek auto sped the star past a neat line of swaying palms to the city’s upscale Vedado area. During the drive, Frank clung to the briefcase, held squarely on his lap. Inside, as he well knew, were two-million dollars the Mob in general, Charley specifically, needed to cover some unexpected costs.
Lansky had rung up Sinatra in Hollywood, suggesting he head south to cheer up their mutual pal. Do “a favor for a friend?” Sinatra understood what that meant. He would once more serve as courier. Other travelers might have to present carry-on baggage for a routine check. Frank Sinatra? Miami guards would request an autograph, then politely usher this lofty passenger on board.
Giddily, Sinatra agreed. Always, Frank experienced a rush when allowed to live out his secret fantasy of being a gangster. He'd grown up watching Humphrey Bogart play such characters and longed to do so himself, if only MGM could get beyond their limited friggin’ vision of Sinatra as a light-comedy performer.
Oh, well ... maybe someday ...
Once ensconced in his seventh floor suite, Sinatra had rung up Luciano in his rooms on the eighth. Charley had temporarily abandoned his lush villa in Miramar. There, he neighbored with previous and now-again (if temporarily) president Ramon Grau San Martin. Charley wished to spend every possible moment with Frank.
“I’m here.”
“Bring anything along?”
“Sure.”
“Really? Mind telling me what?”
“It’s a surprise.”
Years earlier, Luciano had unofficially adopted the skinny aspiring singer from a seamy section of Hoboken as his kid-brother. Whatever Frankie’s moral failings, disloyalty to those good to him did not rank among them. He like Luciano believed dedication to someone who did favors for you in the past served as a qualification for men worthy of respect. Men of honor.
When half an hour later they met in the brightly-lit bar for rum cocktails and Montecristo cigars, Charley immediately took possession of the all-important briefcase. Once that deal was done, he asked Frank what he thought of his accommodations. Though the singer tried his best to cover any disappointment, Charley saw through Frank’s act. Yes, the Mafioso admitted, everything is a bit shabby still. Expect the same from the Oriental, which they would visit that afternoon.
Meyer had already focused his entrepreneurial talents on solving such problems, lining up top designers to transform declasse La Habana into a decadent Shangri-La. Once completed, they could attract the big rollers from back home. And, for that matter, from all around the globe.
“Sounds like Meyer’s kind of job.”
Charley nodded. “He loves all that kind-o’ shit.”
Frankie smirked. “And you, my friend?”
“Let Meyer do the grunt work. Me? I’ll enjoy the results.”
“We’ll enjoy the results.”
“Hey, you skinny friggin’ wop. When did I ever do anything without you?”
Both laughed loudly, even harshly, at the raw truth of this statement.
*
Reclaiming Cuba’s obviously ripe,
too-long latent potential had been one subject of a series of top-level mob meetings held here a month and a half earlier. 24 major-league racketeers, including host Lansky and such flamboyantly nicknamed figures as Joey Adonis and Joe Bananas, arrived amid great fanfare and were welcomed as Herculean champions arriving in ancient Greece for the first Olympics. After some heated discussion, they agreed to name Charley the copo di tutti capi, “boss of all bosses.” Luciano would be the first man to hold that position since he helped abolish it fifteen years earlier in favor of a board of directors known as The Commission. This had brought La Cosa Nostra’s line of procedure more in line with that of so-called legitimate American business interests.
But these were rough times. A strong, no-nonsense leader was needed. “All agreed? Fine. You are the chosen one, Charley.”
After deciding that once-beloved Bugsy Siegel had gone cock-crazy over his hottie Virginia Hill and could no longer be counted on to perform rationally for the organization, Charlie encountered no resistance when he announced that Ben had to be whacked. One of the Italians, probably Johnny Roselli, would be assigned to the hit. That’s the way things worked: whenever one of the Jews warranted elimination, the Italians did it and vice versa. That way nobody had to rub out one of his own.
This unanimously decided on, then set aside, the mobsters moved on to such immediately pressing issues as Vito Genovese’s intolerable moves into other gangsters’ lucrative waterfront properties, as well as the controversial decision to create a French Connection, as all here had tagged it. This would allow raw heroin to be sneaked into the U.S. from that country as part of the Mob’s swiftly expanding international narcotics trade.
Finally, the time came to talk about Cuba, their lovely host country, and the full development of a lavish offshore playground on these shores. For those who had accepted entrance into the drug trade with serious trepidation, Cuba appeared to be a cash cow all could delight in. After some discussion about operational procedures, the group picked Santo Trafficante, Jr., headquartered in Florida, to serve as their permanent contact person: a go-between who would pass the word, whatever the word happened to be, from stateside headquarters in the northeast, where Lansky continued to hold court, on down to this island.
Unless, that is, Luciano found it necessary to board a boat for Naples and run things from there. Meanwhile, word would go from Chicago through Tampa to Charley in Havana and back again.
As for Sinatra, an invitation had been extended. Come! Play, perform. Frankie would have loved to oblige. One problem stood in the way: his wife Nancy. The much-challenged woman had tolerated his flings throughout the year, even as he grew ever less sensitive as to her feelings by openly escorting his latest mistresses around Hollywood. Nonetheless, Nancy laid down the law when it came to being home with the kids for an elaborate charade every Christmas. The full Sinatra clan staged an annual holiday pageant, pretending to be the perfect all-Italian-American family. They did it for the kids, Frank and Nancy assured each other: young Nancy, now seven; Frank Jr., just two.
*
As to the former Miss Nancy Barbato, Frankie had married the lady at age nineteen for one reason: his mother Dolly told him to. Nancy, a nice Italian girl, hailed from a decent family in Jersey City. Solid middle-class at best, a wedding to someone so respectable qualified as a giant step up for the Sinatras.
“Ma, I don’t wanna get married,” Frankie whined.
“What?” Dolly demanded. “What are you hopin’ for?”
“I’ve got a good voice, Momma. I wanna be a singer.”
She slapped him hard across the cheek. “That’s crazy.”
“Why? Momma, this is America. Anyone—”
“Nothing but a dream.”
“Dreams sometimes come true."
”Look around.” Dolly pointed to one after another of their humble pieces of furniture in the crowded home. “Did my dreams come true? Did your father’s?”
“Mine will. I know it.”
Dolly shifted tactics. “Alright, then. Go out and be a singer. Give it a try. A nice wife can support you.”
“No wife of mine will ever work.”
Another slap, harder still. “Shut up. Listen.”
“I’m listening, Momma.”
“She’s the kind of girl won’t mind taking a job until you get success or come to your senses. Either way, you need a good, solid wife. Nancy’s the one.”
Frank hesitated. He didn't want to be hit again, but he had to say it. “Momma, she’s not pretty.”
“Pretty! Who cares about ‘pretty’? Look at me! I was pretty once. How long did that last?”
“But I love pretty girls. Especially blondes—”
A third slap, this one absolutely nasty. “Stay away from them tramps. Italian girls—”
“There are Italian blondes.”
“Not many. Look, you gonna marry Nancy. That’s that. Search her face and you’ll find something pretty there.”
“I’d have to look hard.”
"Her smile. She got a nice smile.”
“People do call her Nancy with the laughing face.”
So Sinatra married Nancy Barbato on February 4 1939. They moved into a small Jersey City apartment. He found work as a singing-waiter. She supported him throughout the lean years, shopping frugally for food, creating most of her own clothes from patches of leftover material, laboring at secretarial jobs. Frankie hit the big time thanks to a much-deserved First Place win on the Major Bowes’ Radio Show, this followed by a lucrative tour with the Harry James band, playing venues like the Rustic Cabin in Englewood.
There, the top bandleader in the business, Tommy Dorsey, caught his act. The bespectacled gent, knowing talent (perhaps genius) when he heard it, hired Frank away from his longtime competitor. That led to Hollywood, Frank’s obvious charisma quickly catching on with American moviegoers.
But if Nancy figured now maybe they had it made, she had to reconsider when word of her husband's dalliances first leaked in from girlfriends who had seen and heard stuff. This in time poured over her like a massive flood. Because the most plentiful human species in Los Angeles, entertainment capital of the world, were Frank’s favorites: Blondes. Big blondes. Little blondes. Natural blondes. Fake blondes. Blondes with big boobs and asses shaped like the caboose on the Orange Blossom special.
The wide, wonderful world of blondes. Not that brunettes were to be scoffed at. Take Ava Gardner, for instance ...
*
When the cigars had burned low, the final cups of choice espresso sipped, Sinatra humbly handed Charley a silver lighter. The words “To my dear pal Lucky from his ‘kid brother’, Frank” were emblazoned on its surface in an overly refined lettering style suggesting a touch of class to people who have no real knowledge of that elusive commodity. Charley nodded warmly as he accepted this peace-offering. He well knew how pussy-whipped Frank was, not only by Nancy but any other woman he became involved with. Realizing that Sinatra, as always insecure under his surface-show of cockiness, needed to hear the words spoken loud and clear, Charlie assured Frankie that there were no hard feelings as to the latter's failure to appear at Christmas.
“Next time? Bring Nancy along.”
“Maybe I’ll do just that.”
“And the kids. They’d love the beaches.”
Already, though, the singer’s mind whirled off in a very different direction. Liking what he’d seen so far, Sinatra hoped a return engagement in the near-future would allow him to impress the starlet to end all starlets, more or less the sex symbol equivalent to capo di tutti capi: the blonde to beat all blondes. Frank had become enamored with one Norma Jean Baker.
This baby-doll had, like so many others who hung around the studios hoping for some hand-out role in exchange for anonymous blow-jobs with ranking executives, had like a loyal dog been thrown several bones: bit parts in big movies like Scudda Hoo! Scudda Hay! Also, she’d been cast as the lead in an upcoming shoestring-budget item called Ladies of the Chorus. Wit
h a little luck that one could make her a star. If not, she could keep trying, like an endless string of well-built glamour-girls before her.
Maybe Norma Jean would prove to be that rare case—like Jean Harlow, Betty Grable, Lana Turner—who hit the big-time. That was rare, but it did on occasion happen. With her child‘s eyes and womanly torso, no question Norma Jean could become a silver-screen goddess. That ass, those curves? With Frankie’s help. Which meant a little help from Charley as well.
“You’re thinking about someone. And it ain’t Nancy.”
The signature sideways sneer, followed by: “Right!”
Then Sinatra and Luciano briefly parted, each heading back to his respective suite to shower, shave, dress. An hour later, Charley spirited his guest off to the Oriental Park in Marianao. They spent their first afternoon together there, accompanied by attractive local girls wearing garish outfits. They spoke only a smattering of English but well knew the score. Looking the racetrack over, Sinatra felt that the scene did appear listless. As they’d agreed, if anything could turn that around it was the mind of the man Charley referred to as The Accountant, Meyer.
After several hours, the sun became unbearably hot so they returned with the women for a light late-lunch of crab salad in Hotel Nacional’s most exclusive dining room. Each man afterwards retired with his woman for a nap. Sinatra swept his lithe beauty up in his arms and under the sheets. Once there he promptly fell asleep, snoring loudly. Exhausted, as he would later convince himself, from the flight, the day’s activities, the considerable amount of alcohol he’d consumed.
The lush woman lay beside his scrawny body, knowing Frankie was supposed to be the world's greatest lover. Considering the circumstances, this disappointed beauty could not grasp why.
Late in the evening the old buddies, having ditched their first set of women, caught a spectacular floor show at Sans Souci casino. Guzzling down one Cuba Libre after another, the drink Charley had personally concocted from rum, Coca-Cola and lime juice, they ogled the nearly-naked mulatto dancers. The girls’ light-brown faces appeared radiant in the spot-lights; their bodies, strong and solid in a way most American women were not built. And how these beauties could move!
Patsy! : The Life and Times of Lee Harvey Oswald Page 7