Michael DeForio sipped his rum and smiled across the room at Antonio Cabrera. The rum, like the two prostitutes now jabbering quietly in an adjoining bedroom, had been a welcoming gift when the colonel arrived at DeForio’s suite in the Capri Hotel.
“Excellent rum,” DeForio said.
Cabrera nodded, accepting the praise. “It is the finest in all Cuba. Perhaps the finest in the world.”
DeForio inclined his head toward the bedroom. “If the putas are equally superior, I will be a very happy man.” He paused. “Providing our business also goes well.”
Cabrera glanced toward the bedroom. He had little concern the two young women would eavesdrop on his conversation. Neither spoke English, which was the language he and DeForio would use. They were country women from Santa Clara, young and hungry and ambitious, women like so many others who had poured into Havana to become whores, to earn all-powerful dollars by offering tourists the same gifts their boyfriends had enjoyed for free. To Cabrera, the women were nothing but an amusing fact of life, one that also made them inconsequential. Still, he preferred to be safe.
Cabrera rose from his chair and closed the bedroom door, taking in the women’s frightened eyes as he shut them away. They were greedy young women, eager to fill their pockets. They also were terrified to find themselves in the hands of State Security. He smiled at the thought. DeForio would indeed enjoy his stay in Havana.
Cabrera returned to his chair. “Now to business.”
“Yes,” DeForio said. “Let’s begin with the Isle of Youth, and how we can best use Public Law Seventy-seven. Later we’ll order up some dinner. Perhaps some champagne if our discussion proves successful.”
Giovanni “John the Boss” Rossi sat in a cushioned planter’s chair. There was a bottle of oxygen by his side with tubing that ran to a clear plastic mask held in his right hand. He stared across the room at Robert Cipriani and the two sullen Abakua who hovered behind him. Cabrera’s man, a major named Cepedes, sat off to one side cleaning his fingernails.
“So they sent you to assure me that Mickey D and Cabrera know what they’re talking about, eh?”
Cipriani raised his hands, then let them fall back. He was standing before a wall of glass that offered a view of the Shrine of the Virgin of Caridad, nestled against a rising peak of the Sierra Maestras.
“You ever notice the way the shrine seems to float on the side of the mountain?” Rossi asked. “You should see it when the sun sets. It’s magic.”
Cipriani turned and glanced out the window, more as a courtesy than from any real interest. It was six in the evening, and the sun was still hours away from setting.
“You’re getting romantic in your old age, Don Giovanni.” Cipriani turned back and smiled.
“I was always romantic,” John the Boss said. “When I was a young button, back in the fifties, I worked here for Meyer Lansky, and I fell in love with this island. As fucked up as it was then, it was a paradise. Hell, as fucked up as it is today under that nigger lover Castro, it’s still a paradise.”
Cipriani glanced nervously over his shoulder at the two Abakua.
“Don’t worry about them. They do what they’re told.” Mattie “the Knife” Ippolito came up behind him and placed a hand on Rossi’s shoulder. “Besides, I’ve got Mattie. Those two eggplants would wake up dead if they got within ten feet of me.”
“Did you ever meet Castro back in the fifties?” Cipriani asked. He wanted to change the subject before he found himself in the middle of a bloodbath.
“I met him. Meyer left a handful of us here to see if we could bargain with that bearded prick. You know Meyer actually gave him money and weapons when his army was still up in the mountains. Meyer was just playing both sides, laying off a little of his bet, just in case Batista couldn’t pull it together.” He snorted at the name of the former dictator. “Shit, the only thing Batista could pull was his prick.” He sat forward, his hand tightening on the oxygen mask. “But you think Fidel was grateful? The bastard personally put us on a boat, and told us we’d be shot if we ever came back.” He sat back and glared at Cipriani. “Well, we’re back. And the only thing I don’t like about it is that we’re gonna keep that sonovabitch in power.”
Cipriani walked across the room and took a chair opposite Rossi. “It works better that way. For you. Not just for Castro.” He spread his arms. “Look, Castro’s fucked. The socialist camp that fed his economy no longer exists. He’s back in the real world, and thanks to his enemies in the U.S., he’s finding it a very unfriendly place.”
Rossi waved his left hand, and used his right to take a deep breath of oxygen. “I know all that.”
Cipriani leaned forward. “Okay. You also know he changed the laws on foreign investment back in 1992. He knew, even then, that foreign capital was the only thing that was going to save his revolution. I was consulted on that. I know how the thinking went.”
Rossi chuckled. “Yeah, and it didn’t work. And when they found out about the little side deals you were making, they threw you in a stinking cell and let you rot.”
Cipriani raised his hands in another expansive gesture, then let them fall back. “That was only part of it. A very small part. If everything else had worked, the side deals wouldn’t have mattered.” He leaned forward, giving weight to his words. “I told them they had to deal with the U.S. Hell, I even had my bags packed and was ready to move to Brazil, just in case they decided to let the U.S. extradite me as part of any deal. But the deal never happened. Clinton was all set to lift the embargo-shit, American business was clamoring to get in here so they could milk the Cuban cow. But then the Miami Cubans”-he paused and smiled-“and your people … Well, you both just pulled the rug out, didn’t you?”
“That was DeForio’s idea. He sold it to everybody.” Rossi hesitated a beat. “Everybody except me. Me, I wanted Castro out.”
“Yes, I know. But with all respect, you were wrong on that one.” Cipriani sat back and crossed one leg over the other. “Look. Castro did what he had to do. He changed the foreign investment laws. Joint ventures with the Cuban government are now permitted. Foreign corporations and economic associations are even allowed to own the facilities they build, providing those facilities benefit the country’s development. And that means hotels, refineries, manufacturing plants, whatever. The Cuban government keeps its hands on the throttle, but we both know it’s only a matter of time-and a little money spread in the right places-before that hand loses its grip.”
“So who needs Castro?”
“Nobody,” Cipriani said. “Except you.” He leaned forward again. “Look. The changes in the law worked, to a point. Investment capital rolled in from Canada and Mexico and Europe. Even the Helms-Burton law didn’t stop it. The Canadians and Mexicans and Europeans laughed at it. There was money to be made.”
Cipriani leaned back and recrossed his legs. “But it still wasn’t enough capital. Nowhere near what Castro needs. First, the markets aren’t there, especially for sugar. Second, the Canadians and the Mexicans just aren’t big enough players. They don’t have the kind of ready capital that’s needed to really put this country on its feet. And finally, the guys who do, the Europeans, aren’t willing to risk that much on a country that’s still run by communists. They’ve lived with communists at their back door for half a century, and they know they can’t trust them. They’ve also seen what happens when a communist country goes under. Christ, the West Germans-the biggest players in the new European community-saw what happened to their economy when they reunified with East Germany.
“No, what Castro needs is the U.S. That’s Cuba’s natural market. And it’s also where the big corporate investors are-the moneymen who are willing to gamble on Cuba’s future.” Cipriani seemed to drift for a moment, as if recalling his own days as a financial player. He brought himself back with a shake of his head. “There’s no question that U.S. business wants the action. They know Castro will be dead in ten years, and they know the young guys standing behind him are champing at the bit to bring capitalism here big time. But as willing as they are, they also want to do it in a way that lets the people hang on to what they have-the homes they live in, the educational system, the health care. And that’s okay. Big business understands why they want it. It’s not because these young turks are good little communists. It’s because they know if the people lose those things, it’s only a matter of time before they’ll have another band of rebels sitting up in these mountains.” He gestured toward the Sierra Maestras behind him. “Except this time the rebels will be shooting at them.”
Cipriani stood and walked to the window and his Abakua guards. He turned back and smiled. “And that’s the problem. The one your people have to overcome. Big business sees that the people behind Castro were willing to play ball, and they want to sell that idea to Washington. Hell, they wanted the embargo lifted two years ago, because there was a shitload of money to be made. Now, for you guys, this is a serious problem. If the embargo ends and big U.S. capital starts flowing in, any chance you guys have of making a major move will be greatly diminished. Those companies are just too big to muscle. And if it comes down to up-and-up competition, you’ll never get everything you need to make your plan work. But if the embargo stays in force, and Cuba stays on the ropes, you’re the only big game in town. And the Cubans are in no position to say no.” He smiled. “Not as long as you use enough dummy corporations to hide who’s really behind it.”
“So why is Cabrera willing to play along? He knows who he’s dealing with.”
Cipriani glanced at the chair Major Cepedes had occupied.
“He went to the bathroom,” Mattie the Knife said.
Cipriani lowered his voice. “Cabrera is one of the young turks waiting in the wings. He wants all the same things the other young turks want. But he also wants something else.”
Rossi chuckled. “He wants to be the don, the king, when Castro bites the big one.”
“Good bet,” Cipriani said. “That’s also why he was willing to do this little Palo Monte favor you asked for. You’ve been the opposition. Until now. So he wants to keep you happy.” He paused, deciding if he should continue.
“Tell me, with all respect, did you ask for this favor because you knew it might kill the whole deal, or do you really believe in this Cuban voodoo?”
Rossi stared at him, a small smile forming at the comers of his mouth. “What I believe in is none of your fucking business.”
Cipriani raised his hands as if preparing to ward off a blow. “I’m just trying to cover my own back this time. I do not want to go back to one of Cabrera’s cells in the Villa Marista, or worse, to one of this country’s stinking prisons. And that’s just where I’ll go if I tell Cabrera you’re on board, and then find out you never were.” He shook his head. “I want out this time, Don Giovanni. That’s all I want. My money is already in Brazil, and I want to visit it as soon as possible.”
Rossi sucked in another lungful of oxygen. “Let’s just say I have some personal reasons for wanting this little favor. And they have nothing to do with DeForio’s plan.” He waved a dismissive hand. “I’m the same age as Castro. This plan of DeForio’s, it’s a long-range thing. Oh, we’ll make money in the short term. But the big money will come when we control this fucking country again. And that won’t happen until Castro is dead and buried.” He took another drag of oxygen. “And where do you think I’ll be then, Mr. Moneyman? I’ll tell you where. If I’m lucky, I’ll be eating my fucking dinner through a straw.” He gave another dismissive wave. “DeForio’s plan means nothing to me. If it helps my friends, that’s all to the good. If not, any money I lose won’t mean a thing to me. So you tell your tin-pot colonel that John the Boss doesn’t give a shit. He has my blessing. And my thanks for this little favor.”
Cipriani nodded. “When would you like this, ah, ritual performed?”
“Tomorrow. In Havana. You tell them to take everything to Havana. I haven’t seen that city in forty years, and I wanna go there again.”
“The Abakua will have to go by car,” Cipriani said. “They have to take their thing with them.”
“In two days, then,” Rossi said. “But no longer than that. You tell them what I said. Two days. No more.”
Cipriani hesitated, not sure how he wanted to continue. “There’s also the question about the niece and the New York cop,” he finally said.
Rossi glared at him. “What about it?”
A pained look crossed Cipriani’s face. “Cabrera said they’d be dealt with here. He told me I should supervise.”
Rossi continued to stare at him, then he started to laugh. “Cabrera thinks I need help?”
“I … I …”
Rossi waved the man’s stuttering words away. “Get the fuck out of here,” he snapped. “If I wanna kill the man with an adding machine, I’ll call you.”
When Cipriani and the others had gone, Mattie the Knife helped Rossi up from his chair.
“Time for a rest, boss?”
“Is the private jet ready to take us to Havana?”
“We’re scheduled to leave at nine.”
“Is Devlin on his way?”
“I made a call a few minutes ago.” He glanced at his watch. “They should be leaving the hotel anytime now.”
Rossi gripped Mattie’s arm, his fingers digging in like a claw. “I want him dead. I want him dead before I leave. And, when we get back to New York, I want his kid dead, too.”
Mattie patted his hand. The consequences of the man’s plans chilled him. “Maybe you should think about this. This could be a bad thing. I know Cabrera has given the okay, but it could still hurt the deal DeForio’s got goin’, and that could upset some people back home.” He let his hand rest on Rossi’s, hoping it would be soothing. “A New York police inspector getting whacked in Cuba. It ain’t good. The Cuban cops are gonna have to take a serious look at that. And if they look hard, they’re gonna find Cabrera. And if they find him, they find DeForio.”
Rossi glared at him. “Fuck Cabrera and DeForio. And fuck their deal. Devlin’s a dead man. And before I leave this place, I wanna spit in his dead eyes.”