The last flare fizzled 200 yards to my front. The moonless night was blacker’n a coal miner’s armpit. Machine guns cranked up, theirs or ours? INCOMING! I heard the ‘CRUMP’ of high explosive mortar rounds landing behind us and to my right, then screams from my right. Christ Almighty, here they come!
Another volley of mortar flares popped and revealed a dark horde spitting green tracers as it flowed in our direction. The signal was passed to fire the Final Protective Fire. Everybody fired everything they had along pre-planned, overlapping directions. That literally put a wall of crisscrossing hot steel in front of our position. The ChiComs were stacking like cordwood, but more kept coming. My shoulder ached from shooting, but they couldn’t all be killed. The gooks swarmed over our position running bayonets into Marines all around me. One peeled off and charged at me with two feet of glistening steel. A camera bulb popped. In the explosion of light, I saw it wasn’t a ChiCom. It was Vito Rossi...
I sat straight up on the old leather office couch. I had been using my suit coat as a blanket. I was soaked with sweat. An empty pint bottle clanked to the hardwood floor when I looked at my watch. It was 7:10. I had gotten close to four hours of sleep, had to stop spoiling myself. I needed coffee like a sinner needs salvation. I leaned back, stretched and relaxed. The dinner-plate-sized ashtray on the floor needed to be emptied, but I reached and set it on the couch beside me. I dried my face with my handkerchief and fired up a Lucky.
***
Dan Logan called me at the Taft one Sunday evening in the early spring of ’58, “Hey, bo, how’d you like to shake the icicles out da crack a’ your ass and take a trip to Havana?”
“Havana, Cuba?”
“None other. The New York County Grand Jury’s got a runner. He needs an escort home but doesn’t know it yet.”
“This jamoke gotta name?”
“Yeah, Franco Moretti, a Capo in the Genovese Family. He skipped a subpoena to testify in January and decided to take employment in Havana instead. We finally got a solid lead that he’s spending his time in a cabaret on the city’s outskirts. You heard a’ him?”
“Sure, I heard the name, but that’s it. He a tough guy?”
“He’s s’posed to be a grease ball that prefers prostitution to more manly forms of mayhem. Any one of these punks can get mean when cornered.”
“Shit, don’t I know it? But, I am getting tired of sidewalk slush. What time does the dance start?”
“Don’t go breaking out your tanning oil. This’ll be a one or two day turn-around, one way or the other. Come by my office about ten tomorrow to get the skinny. I’ve got some things in the works.”
Cold needle-sleet was falling as I arrived at the DA’s office Monday morning. I was in a mood to hear about the tropics. Dan had gotten his ducks in line and gave me the framework of a pretty good plan. He briefed me on Moretti and gave me a mug shot.
Two days later, midday Wednesday, I was staring up at the jungle scene mural in the terminal of the New York International Airport, or Idlewild as everyone still called it. I was wearing a Pan Am flight captain’s uniform, smoking a Lucky and waiting for a page. I felt the comforting weight of my Colt 1911 hanging under my jacket.
I glanced at my Bulova. I was too close to home to feel any real apprehension, but the idea was in the back of my mind spreading like a blood pool on warm concrete. The whole escapade had been planned by others and involved strangers yet to be met.
***
Dan had given me the background on how the mob took control of gambling and prostitution in Havana with the blessings of the corrupt Batista regime. The wild nightlife brought people from all over the world. It was a freewheeling money making machine. It was also a haven for those connected and running from the law.
“Dan, how the hell do you make a body snatch in a place like that?”
“I get your point, you mean with armed goons around every corner. The beauty of Havana is, cooperation, like everything else, can be bought and paid for. That doesn’t make it any less dangerous, but it gives us a roadmap.”
“Yeah, a roadmap to my cemetery plot.”
“I like that about you, Stone, you stay positive.” He explained that the local Havana authorities, as of last negotiations, would not only NOT miss Frankie Moretti, they would provide certain logistical support for his transportation. He showed me a picture of my contact, Captain Leon Ramos of the Cuban Air Force. As was the custom in Cuba, he was often assigned to operate flights for Cubana de Aviacion, the Cuban national airlines.
***
I stood tapping my foot against my small suitcase. I waited, under the inappropriateness of the tropical mural, for the page from Captain Ramos. His Bristol Brittania propjet was scheduled to depart Idlewild at two. A tall man, about my age, in a light green uniform, carrying a black leather valise, appeared around the corner and marched straight to me. Silver wings were pinned on his jacket. I read “Cubana” below the wings as he extended his hand.
“Ah, Captain Piedra, my name is Leon Ramos. It’s my pleasure to meet you.”
“Hello, Leon. Piedra?”
“It’s my humor. I take it you don’t speak Spanish.”
“No, but sounds like you got a good handle on English.”
He smiled under his pencil mustache and looked exactly like Errol Flynn. We walked to the Cubana departure gate and he gave me an overview of the same plan involving Moretti that Dan had explained to me. Leon added that one less asshole would be a good thing for Cuba.
He told me he could be of assistance until the following morning when he was scheduled to depart Jose Marti International Airport for an early flight back to Idlewild. If I stayed longer in Havana, other arrangements would have to be made. My mental blood pool of doubt got a little bigger.
Not a soul batted an eye when Leon ushered me past the departure counter, up the loading ramp and into a first class window seat. It was obvious that Leon Ramos was THE captain of his ship. He motioned to a stewardess.
“Chica, this is Capitan Piedra, our guest. He is suffering laryngitis, angina. He finds relief in Jack Daniel’s with no ice.” So, Leon did his homework, too.
Late that afternoon, with the turboprop “Whispering Giant” nosed into the Jose Marti arrival gate, Captain Ramos collected me and escorted me to the waiting Hotel Nacional shuttle bus.
“I’ll meet you in the hotel bar in two hours. We can swing by El Floridita and enjoy their world famous Daiquiri before our business. Sound good?”
I had him explain what a Daiquiri was and politely refused. “Look, Leon, I don’t go for a sugar drink with foaming ice.”
“That’s too bad, amigo. The Daiquiri is truly a Pan-American project, greater than all politics. Besides, your renowned writer, Papa Hemingway, often visits El Floridita. No matter, how do you feel about tits?”
“About… tits?”
“Yes, instead we will go to the Tropicana, maybe see a show. Si, tits. Muy bonita. It’s only a short distance from our destination on the edge of the city.”
At the Nacional, I dozed a few minutes, showered and changed back into mufti. In the two hours, Leon came up with a pre-war Ford sedan, the kind big enough to play racquetball behind the front seat. He drove for fifteen minutes through bustling streets with kids playing stickball under the streetlights. It reminded me of Brooklyn with palm trees and brighter colors. As the neighborhoods thinned and the jungle closed in, he pulled up in front of a series of brightly lit giant arches that announced in three-foot letters, ‘TROPICANA’. I knew that Leon was no stranger when the smartly dressed valet came on the run.
“Bienvenidos, amigos. Siempre bienvenido, Capitan Ramos!”
We walked through several arches connected by walls of glass. The Tropicana turned out to be as much outdoors as in. Palm trees grew between tables set under the starlight. A Latin beat and the smell of tropical flowers permeated the whirlwind of beautiful people. Leon seemed to wave to all as we worked our way to the rear bar overlooking a stage just coming to life.
A dazzling show of light and Cuban sound featured full-bodied women wearing little more than tall headdresses and high heels.
We sampled our drinks and Leon said, “Amigo, at night, the entire city pulsates with the Criollo spirit. Is it any wonder travelers come from the four corners of the globe to celebrate life in Havana? And the Tropicana is the queen of all the cabarets.”
He pulled a flat silver case from inside his linen jacket and opened it to display four banded chocolate brown cigars. He offered one to me and then let me use his cigar cutter. I wasn’t an expert, but I had never had a better cigar. Leon lit his with a small practiced ritual, leaned back, shut his eyes and blew smoke toward the open stars.
“Senor, these are Romeo y Julietas, specifically Romeo Tres, the Romeo Number Three. They are hand-made gold, produced in Habana for over 80 years. You like?”
“Leon, these are better’n Garrett snuff.”
“Que?”
I rolled the cigar between my thumb and fingers, “Muy bonita.”
He let out a belly laugh, “Close enough, Amigo, close enough,” and he slapped me on the back.
We enjoyed our drinks of choice and the fine cigars. Leon pointed out millionaires and men and women from powerful families. I watched the bouncing tits. Muy bonita.
With a glance at his gold watch, “Es hora de trabajo. We have an appointment.” We clicked glasses. I tossed back my Jack and took a final glance at a scene I had never dreamed could exist in real life. I knew my Havana vacation was over.
Leon had little more than gotten the old Ford pointed south, than he pulled into the drive of a jumping joint called the Shanghai. He eased the car in amongst others parked in a dim-lit field off to the right of the building. I instinctively did the five-fingered check of my hardware as we crunched the gravel on the way to the front door.
Inside, a nervous little mouse in a tuxedo approached us quickly, but I saw the two thugs eyeballing us from the shadows. Leon engaged the mouse in rapid fire Spanish. I heard ‘Piedra’ again and ‘Delgado’, which was the alias our target was using. Mouse had his hands clasped and his head was bobbing. He motioned us to follow him and mumbled something in Spanish. Leon gave me a nod and fake smile.
The hall was much bigger than it looked from outside. It was filled with tables filled with customers, mostly men. All were drinking, smoking and animated in conversation under light Latin music. A raised stage, heavy velvet curtain closed, made up the far end of the room.
Mouse led us to a table on the side occupied by a skinny man with a large forehead and a telephone. He wore a high-end white suit and fondled a tall iced drink as he studied the crowd.
“Senor Delgado, here Senor Juan Blanco y Senor Ricardo Piedra like you say.”
“Thanks, Luis. Get their drink order, will ya. You boys pull up a chair. Youse know how to be on time. I like that. You boys hot for some quim? I get plenty busy in here. I got a lot a’ responsibility, but it pays the bills, if you know what I mean!”
That sleazy goombah was like a bucket of cold water after spending time with Captain Ramos. I was embarrassed he was a fellow countryman.
Leon slid into the chair next to the white-suited dog turd, “Senor Delgado, as you know, we have mutual friends…”
“Yeah, friends. I got the phone call. What can I do to make your life a happier place?”
Out of boredom, I thought I’d take a turn, “Look, I’ve rented a finca about ten miles from here. I want to get some young companionship for the week.”
“Hey, you an American? Where you from? I’m from Long Island.” He pronounced it ‘Lonk Island’.
“I’m from Memphis.”
“Shit, that’s great. How’d you get a spic name? No offense.”
“I have a lot of names - one for each million I have in the bank.”
Before that could register with the dipshit, Leon was back in the game, “Amigo, he’s here to arrange for a young companion at his finca. Our friends assured me that you are the hombre to make those arrangements.”
“Yeah, well, how young we talkin here?”
My turn, “15, 16 years old with long hair.”
“FIFTEEN… youse is both nuts!”
Leon switched to the carrot, “Senor Piedra will pay you one thousand U.S. dollars plus five hundred more when he returns her next week.”
The turd’s jaw slacked and his eyes glazed with simple greed. The arrival of our drinks brought him back to reality.
“Ricardo, I think you’re in luck. I got just the, uh, companion for you, farm-fresh.” His grin revealed a gold tooth. I wanted to knock them all out.
“You boys enjoy your drinks. Let me get the Superman show started, then I’ll get my car.”
“Senor Delgado, my car is just out front.”
“Well, good. It’s only a mile down the road, my private stock. You boys chillax, have another drink - on me. Ya wanna gurp while I’m gone? No, there’s not time.” He headed for the stage side door with a shit-eating grin.
I threw back my drink and motioned for the waiter. I needed to get the taste out of my mouth.
“Leon, what’s this Superman show?”
“It’s a live sex show starring Reynaldo, also called Superman. Wait, you’ll see.”
The lights dimmed and the music got a little louder. The curtains went back and two husky women in cloaks swayed to the rumba on stage. They danced around a raised blanket-draped platform.
When the music hit the crescendo, they both dropped their cloaks and danced rhythmically in their birthday suits. Enter stage right, Reynaldo, a skinny mulatto in his own cloak. He reached center stage and the music peaked. He dropped his cloak.
“HOLY shit…” I shot Jack Daniels back through my nose.
Leon laughed, “They say it’s eighteen inches erect.”
Delgado returned just as one of the fat lovelies was spreading positioning her bare ass on the center stage platform.
“Boys, I hate to rush youse, but I got maybe 45 minutes at the outside. I need to be back to keep an eye when Reynaldo invites broads from the audience to screw. Husbands, and the like, think it’s funny as hell til they see the old lady ridin that baseball bat.”
On the way out, Delgado shook his head slightly and the thugs remained in the shadows. He was joking about me not wearing out his favorite chica as we reached the Ford. Leon headed for the wheel and I opened the rear door and motioned Delgado to enter. When he bent over, I drove the hypodermic needle into his ass cheek. I would have stuck it straight up his ass if I thought it would have been as effective.
“Ricardo…” was all I heard as he crashed face first onto the floorboard. Dan had given me two needles, each good for eight hours of naptime.
At seven a.m., the next morning, an ambulance delivered a patient, comatose after a diving accident, and Doctor Piedra, his attending physician, to the Cubana flight destined for Idlewild Airport. So concerned was the airline that the pilot, Captain Leon Ramos, met the ambulance and supervised the boarding. At Idlewild, an ambulance manned by New York’s Finest took charge of the patient for further transportation. I shook hands with Leon Ramos and meant it when I said it had been my pleasure. Leon handed me a red and gold-foiled cigar box, Romeo y Julietas.
The next afternoon, Friday, Dan Logan closed his office door and slapped his hand hard three times on his desk. “You did it! You did it! You did it! No muss, no fuss, you just did it, you plug-ugly jarhead son of a bitch! You deserve a bonus. What’s it gonna be?” Within reason, he was quick to add.
I was mentally writing it all off as a reflection of how happy his boss was.
“I’d sure be happy with a week’s stay at the Hotel Nacional in Havana.” I started to smile anticipating his reaction.
“You got it!”
Son of a bitch, if I didn’t get it.
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
I gave half a thought to doing some sit-ups. Instead, I un-assed the couch and emptied the oversized ashtray in the trashcan. Grabbing the Percolator f
rom the side counter, I plodded to the small bathroom in my socks, cursing Korea with every step. I sat the coffee pot on the floor and splashed cold water on my head. The tired old man that stared at me from the mirror looked vaguely familiar.
I plugged the Percolator in, grabbed my wingtips, and went to my private office to organize my thoughts. I sat in my oak chair and lit a Lucky. As I tied my shoes, the chair made me think of Fitzpatrick, the hotel dick at the George Washington. Pray that I die before I become a parasite like that.
I had bigger worries. I glanced at the T & J Auto calendar on the wall. Monday. I needed to take the air out of Joey Gallo’s balloon quick and I had to avoid the authorities while I was doing it. It wasn’t even a good idea for me to be in my office. I had to get the wire about what was going on, so I needed to corner Gallo.
I rubbed my temples and thought about the Korea dream. Shit! Will those ever go away? Did I dream about Poor Jack McCoy, too? I didn’t think so. Good riddance, but what was all that about? Probably Act Two of Rossi’s Friday night Campo di Pesci play.
Who else is out there? If Rossi thought his goons were expendable, I was glad to expend them. I pulled open my bottom desk drawer. Good, Gina had picked up my clean shirts. I grabbed one and broke the laundry tape. I took it back to the bathroom and washed up a little before I put it on. I ran a comb through my hair and thought I might live. The jury was still out.
I picked up my coat from the floor and patted it down. Yeah, there it was, McCoy’s billfold. No dream there. I poured myself a cup of java and pawed around in my own billfold looking for the long distance dialing instructions Gina wrote down for me. I found the cracked picture of Virginia and stared it.
The Case Of The Little Italy Bounce (Woody Stone, Private Investigator Book 1) Page 13