Havana

Chapter 61

The old men were pleased. Really, there was no bad news, except of course for the tragedy of Frankie Carbine, but Frankie, that boy had always been a hothead, and it was in the cards that sooner or later, someone would blow that hot head off. That was his talent; that was his destiny.

"He lived a soldier, he died a soldier," said one of the old men in the smokey social club on a completely undistinguished street in Brooklyn. Then he took a sip of his sweet red wine, then a taste of his sweet black coffee, then a puff of his long brown cigar.

"He went out hard," said another. "That's to his credit. He done his job, he took his pay, may he rest in well-earned peace."

But nobody was truly upset over Frankie. What were his prospects, really? It is the duty of some to serve and die so that others may live and prosper. That is the way it has always been; that is the way it will always be. All the men in this room had done their jobs in hard places, all had survived by guile and cruelty and courage and relentless ambition. It was not in them, really, to mourn a fellow who hadn't quite made it up the ladder. And, too, there were other champions to celebrate.

"The Jew, see? He is so smart. I hate to say it, but in some ways this Jew is more valuable than a dozen soldiers. A hundred, even. This Jew, so smart, he presses everything for advantage and he always wins that advantage. He is the house odds twice over. Plus, he only scrapes a little off the top. Not much, just a little."

The news had just come from Meyer. The scandal of the bloody battle in the Shanghai Theater between guerillas and the police-though of course everyone knew it was between Frankie's men and competing vice lords, fighting for control of Old Havana's thereto-fore independent brothels, and that Frankie, though dead, had nevertheless won-had scared El Presidente and, frightened, he had decided that his future lay in more cooperation with the old men, not less.

Thus, in private, through discreet emissaries, El Presidente had agreed to certain concessions planned to make the road between him and his American supporters more stable, not less. Instead of taking 20 percent off the top, he was now content with 18 percent. Instead of 10 percent of all heroin moneys, he would accept 8 percent. And as for those very profitable independent brothels in the old town, once under the iron control of that fiery rogue El Colorado and in play ever since his untimely end, he would look the other way if certain Americans of experience took over management. The policia had been so informed and would cooperate; the word was now being spread, by various means, to the working men and women of that quarter. Their new masters would soon appear and things would be managed more scientifically, after the modern fashion of the norteamericanos.

But best of all, because of a new and very cooperative young man in the intelligence service, pressures against subversives, radicals, students, communistas were all to be increased, as in the grand old days of other strongmen. This meant the possibility of unrest and upheaval was much, much smaller, which meant in turn the investment possibilities were much, much more attractive. It was even rumored that Hilton planned to erect a huge hotel near the Nacional!

And that one? The one whose mischief had so scared them a few months ago? Why, he was in prison and would stand trial in the fall and his sentence would be life at least. Our government agents had taken care of it. Wasn't it nice when everybody got along? It was so much better than the old way. If only those strunzas of the FBI…but that was another matter.

An old man raised a nice glass of Sambuca.

"My friends," he said, "I propose a toast. We are secure now. It doesn't matter what Chicago does in Las Vegas. Our island will pour its treasures into our strongboxes forever. Las Vegas can rise or fall, its sponsors can succeed or fail, it doesn't matter, not a bit. The future is ours."

They all raised their glasses to a wondrous tomorrow, a Cuba forever theirs, untouched, untainted, tamed and perfected. It was the American way.

There had been some sickness, but strong as a horse and full of pride and ego, he had survived. Poison? Some would say so. It would be easy to do here in the prison, where certain people could be bribed, certain people controlled. After all, he had many enemies, and many twisted in envy and malice at his name.

There was plenty to hate. He admitted that. Rarely are men given so many gifts as he. He had foresight, wisdom, strength, courage, stubbornness, stamina, and the poet's feeling for the soaring lyric. Women adored him, mothers worshipped him, men followed him.

The trial was but weeks away.

Yet he knew it was but another opportunity.

"History will absolve me," he had written, and he knew it to be true. History would also celebrate him, then obey him and finally yield to him.

I will show you, papa, he thought. I will show you.