Havana

Chapter 51

Again with the secrecy. It was so tedious. He thought all this nonsense was over. But the signal came, and when it came it had to be obeyed, by certain protocols.

And so: again. The elegant businessman in tropical worsted, the sort of man who'd look comfy with a doll on one hand and a satchel with $200,000 in the other, this man gets into his air-conditioned limo. It ducks this way and that, up streets and down them, through alleyways, up hills, around garbage dumps, and finally it deposits another man, not so elegant. Instead the shlump. Bermudas, striped, a panama with too broad a brim, a Hawaiian shirt, cheap big sunglasses, and gym shoes. Any low-rent tourist, a low-roller in the lowest houses, the kind of visiting Jew who came to Havana not for action but for the illusion of action.

That man wandered the streets for a bit, until he was convinced that no one could have stayed with him, then took the bus, the no. 4, until only the shvartzers were still aboard, finally getting off far from the glories of Centro, way west in Santo Saurez, the tough black place, and finding the hotel.

Up he went, the fourth floor, and found the door to a new room slightly ajar.

The important boy was there. He too was undercover. With him it was Bermuda shorts lime green, high socks, those white shoes the British wore, and kind of shirt you rode ponies on. He looked so college boy it was a joke. Not that he wouldn't be noticed; he would. But he'd be dismissed instantly by anybody watching as a dumb kid searching for poontang who took the wrong bus.

"So what now, genius? We're done, no? That bad boy, he's finished."

"Sorry for the inconvenience. I set this up because I thought there should be some thanks. Your people may have almost gummed it up, but in the end, they kept discipline and let us work it out. You cooperated. That's a great start."

"You were there? Give me a break, you guys were lucky that old cop came along when he did. Otherwise our boy is fat and happy in Mexico, setting up his next run."

"No, Mr. Lansky, let me inform you. We did what we said we would; we were there, we pulled strings, we made sure the guy was caught and he'll be convicted and he'll disappear."

"Maybe so. You're happy, I'm happy, now let's go our separate ways and hope nothing like this ever happens again."

"An excellent idea. But our cooperation with each other would be very helpful in that eventuality."

"So it would."

"So I want to give you a gift. A gift of appreciation. For Meyer Lansky personally, that only Meyer Lansky would appreciate."

The older man's eyes narrowed. He leaned forward. Then he reached into his pocket, took out an elegant Cuban already trimmed, made a show of licking it just so, fired it up, and exhaled a pile of smoke.

"What could you possibly have for me? A bag of money? An idea of who's tapped and who's not? Inside dope on who's ratting us out while drinking our booze, screwing our women and spending our money under our protection?"

"Can't help you with any of that. It's new business. I can only help with old business."

The older man regarded the chutzpa of this youngster with considerable scorn. His eyes narrowed. He didn't like this a bit. Was there some tap going? Was this some plot against him and the old men? He looked the boy up and down and saw only a fraternity boy, guileless and silly.

"What do you want?"

"I don't want a thing. I just want you to get what you want."

"And what would that be?"

"Justice. Revenge. Old scores settled. Retribution. Order in your world."

"What are you talking about?"

"I know the story. It's said there was a boy who was a son to you. He was a visionary. He got things done. But when he got greedy out in the desert, you had him dealt out of the game."

"What the fuck!" said Meyer, who hated cursing. "Who the fuck are you, sonny? That's libel, blood libel. You can't talk to me that way. You don't know who you're dealing with."

"I only say what's said."

"I loved Bennie Siegel like a son. Never, never, never would I have him hit. I am not a hitter. I don't kill people. I think, I figure, I see angles. I'm proud that I don't have to kill. I'm too smart to kill."

"The man who killed Bennie Siegel is here, in Havana."

Old Meyer sat back, regarding the bland youngster in the ridiculous outfit sitting across from him. His eyes narrowed. Up and down he looked, hunting for some sign of weakness. He studied the pleasant, unmemorable face, the clear eyes, the close-cut hair. He looked for the lick of lips, the swallow, the involuntary look off into make-up land where lies are invented. Nothing. The boy just looked back, completely calm.

"Let's say you have my attention."

"We brought him in. He was our triggerman, and he's the best in the world at that kind of work. You don't have a man who can touch him."

"It would take someone highly skilled to slab Ben."

"He's that, in aces and spades. You've seen him. Your crazy New York torpedo smelled it on him, and nearly went after him twice. Good thing you held him back, because if he went man to man with Earl, he'd have been crushed like an insect."

"I don't like this," said Meyer Lansky. "Why are you telling me this?"

"I want you to know how much we appreciate what you did, how you held back, how you let us operate. In return, I give you this. Earl Swagger, that cowboy, he killed Bennie Siegel. Shot him eight times in the head in 1947 in Beverly Hills. Blew his face off with a carbine and walked away laughing. Bennie'd said he'd get him for a sucker punch Earl threw in Hot Springs in 1946. Earl worried that Bennie would do what he said, so he struck first. Earl is a killer. Ask the Japs. He killed a bucket of them."

"Says you. How do I tell if this is some thing you're spinning like a web. It's what you guys do."

"True enough. But Earl told me in the mountains, when we were alone. You doubt it? Then I'll tell you what Earl told me, what nobody could know except the man who killed Bugsy Siegel, and the cops. Only the shooter would know. A little tidbit that was never publicized, that never got out. You check it out, and you will see that I am telling the truth."

Meyer stared at him hard, trying to see inside.

"It's this," the important boy said. "After he'd shot him seven times, he walked up close to the window. Ben Siegel is already dead, his head punched full of holes. He's on the sofa. Blood is everywhere on his nice Glenn plaid suit. His legs are crossed, the L.A. Times is in his lap. But that wasn't enough for Earl. Earl takes his time, aims perfectly―" the young man mimicked the aiming of a light rifle as if he had done so himself, the closing of one eye, the steady press on a trigger, "-and pow! drills the last carbine slug into the eye. He aims, blows the eye out. He could do it, he's such a good shot. The eye sails across the room and lands on the carpet. Right? Do you know that?"

Meyer knew it. All the old men knew it. They had paid good money for it. But nobody else knew it, except the man who killed Ben Siegel.

"Earl is in a prison outside of Havana," said the young man.

"He will be moved tomorrow at 4 P.M. to the airport. The car will travel through Cerro down the Avenue Mangiari before bringing him to the airport for deportation. It'll be a single car driven by two plainclothes policemen, a black 1948 Buick Roadmaster. Swagger will be in back, handcuffed. They'll be on that road about 4.15 P.M. Tell me, Mr. Lansky, will it still be said after tomorrow that Meyer never killed?"

Lansky just looked at him, but he was thinking how fast he could get hold of Frankie Carbine, and at the same time seeing at last exactly why it had been ordained that Frankie would come to him.