U.S. Senator Warren Burgess sat behind the dark mahogany desk. It was midnight and the only light came from a solitary banker’s lamp, its luminous shade casting a green tint about the small study tucked into one corner of the senator’s nine-room apartment in the Watergate.
The man seated across from Burgess seemed suited to the dim lighting. Everything about Michael DeForio was dark-his hair, his eyes, even the five-o’clock shadow that covered his cheeks and chin. Tonight, his clothing was dark as well, black jacket over black slacks and a black polo shirt.
Burgess could feel the sweat in his palms as he smiled at Mickey D, the street name given to DeForio by his bosses. It could stand for Mickey Dark, Burgess thought as he realized yet again just how unnerving it was to have this man in his home.
DeForio was forty years old, the youngest capo in the Gambino crime family. But he was a different breed of gangster. Unlike other mid-level mobsters, he did not head a crew of thieves and legbreakers and shakedown artists. He was a graduate of the Wharton School of Finance, with a master’s degree in business administration, and for the past seven years he had worked as the Gambino family’s “Washington liaison.” It was something that gave the man weight. Especially for a U.S. senator who had been in the mob’s pocket for the past fifteen years.
DeForio took a sip of the drink Burgess had given him. Single malt, just like the man who poured it. He studied the senator, took in the very patrician nose, the distinguished wings of white hair along the sides of his head, the slightly uplifted, slightly arrogant chin. The perfect WASP. The perfect candidate for the moneyed set. But the man was a cheap cardboard cutout. Very cheap. Still, with a little luck-for us-he might one day find himself sitting in a large white house on Pennsylvania Avenue.
Mickey D leaned forward, struggling to keep the amusement out of his eyes. It was time for business. Real business.
“Senator, I always enjoy drinking your scotch. But it’s time for a little serious talk. We’re very close to moving ahead with our Cuban plan. But we’re a little disturbed by the rumblings we hear that the administration may lift the embargo after the November elections.”
“I thought there were problems in New York,” Burgess said. “I thought there was a war going on because of Rossi’s little blunder.”
DeForio waved his words away. “All settled,” he said. “In fact, Rossi’s going to Cuba to resolve that problem. I’ll be there at the same time to finalize things with Cabrera. But we’ll want assurances that the sanctions will remain in place.”
Burgess twisted nervously in his chair. “I’ll beat the drums. Where Castro’s concerned, it doesn’t take much to stir up the conservative wing of the party. But there are people in the administration who are especially adamant this time. We may have to call on the Miami Cubans again.”
A smile flickered across DeForio’s lips. The last time plans had been laid to lift the embargo, the Miami Cubans had come through like champs. They had set up a special flight for one of their planes, then had fed phony information to a known Castro spy that the plane would be dropping plastique to anti-Castro insurgents. Castro’s boys had bitten like the chumps they so often were, and had shot the plane down. And the embargo had remained in place.
“I love those Miami Cubans,” DeForio said. “They’ve made so much money, and gained so much political clout, the last thing they want is to see Castro gone. Christ, when the old bastard dies, they’ll all be crying in their rum.”
Burgess relaxed momentarily. “They have been helpful. And I’m sure they will be again if we need them.”
DeForio let out a raucous laugh. “Helpful. Hell, their little Helms-Burton bill was a stroke of genius. Castro was in a box with no place to go. The Soviet Union had collapsed and the Cuban economy-what was left of it-was in the toilet. The people wanted changes and they were fed up with the Comandante’s bullshit about remaining true to the revolution. They wanted trade with the U.S., and the money it would put in their pockets. They wanted freedom to travel, just like all the tourists who were flooding in from Europe and Canada and Mexico. They wanted the whole damn ball of wax, and they had Castro’s back to the wall. It was either give in, quit, or face a rebellion. Then the Helms-Burton bill passes, and all the Cubans who want change are faced with a very sticky problem. Suddenly all the very real goodies they’ve gotten over the past forty years are being threatened. All the agricultural land, all the houses they’ve been given, all of it will be up for grabs if Fidel goes under. And, just that fast, remaining true to the revolution doesn’t look so bad after all.” DeForio threw back his head and laughed again. “It was the smartest political maneuver in this cen tury, and it did the one thing we all wanted. It kept Fidel in power.” He paused, gave Burgess a wide grin, then added: “For now.”
Burgess offered his own weak version of a raucous laugh, joining in this small taste of revelry. Above all else he wanted to keep this man happy. Very happy. “And Helms-Burton isn’t going anyplace. Not for a long time.” He leaned forward, adding weight to his words. “The administration knows better than to step on Jesse Helms’s toes. When it comes to communists and U.S. foreign policy, that old cracker is a law unto himself. And it goes even beyond communists.” Burgess smiled, genuinely this time. “Hell, who else but Helms could suggest a naval blockade of Iraq-a country that’s ninety-nine percent landlocked-and not get himself laughed out of Washington?”
“Who, indeed,” DeForio said. He leaned forward, his dark eyes hard on Burgess. “So I can assure my people they won’t get sandbagged? That three or four months from now they won’t see the embargo flying off into space?”
Burgess twisted again. “You can tell them it’s a very safe bet.”
Mickey D crossed one leg over the other, adjusted the crease in his trousers, and kept his eyes hard. “Safe bets are nice,” he said. “But right now we’re in the final stages of a major development plan. We are buying up foreign companies that are licensed to do business with Cuba, and we’re finalizing negotiations that will give us control of Cuba’s major offshore island. These things will solidify our business position well into the next century.” He paused so his next words would have full effect. “We are talking about a two-billion-dollar investment over the next ten years. An investment of”-he tapped his chest-”our money. And a collapse of the embargo would hurt us.” He stopped and gave Burgess a blatantly false smile. “So we’re not looking for a safe bet, Senator. We’re looking for a sure thing. And we’re expecting you to pull out all the stops.”
Burgess swallowed a snappish answer, just as he had swallowed so much in the past fifteen years. “All stops are out,” he said. “You can give your people my assurance.”
When DeForio had left, Burgess stood at his study window, staring out at the beauty of Washington at night. God. he loved that view, loved this city, the sense of power he felt being an integral part of it. And, above all else, he wanted nothing, nothing to take it from him.
He snorted at the idea. He was baiting himself with the obvious, the first and only true rule of politics: the maintenance of power. He turned away from the window and returned to his desk, trying not to think about all he had done to maintain that power over the past fifteen years. And all because of that little gambling fiasco, all those many years ago. He drew a deep breath. And, since then, everything you’ve done that has added to it.
He leaned back in his chair and closed his eyes. God, how he hated these people. How he hated everything they stood for, everything they were. And most of all he hated that he was part of it, part of them, and always would be.
He placed his hands over his face and tried to console himself. At least it wasn’t treasonous. He didn’t care about the Cubans. He believed in his heart they deserved whatever they got. What stuck in his craw was the way he had allowed these Mafia bastards to entrap him. Him. All wrapped up in this insufferable web.
“Bastards,” he hissed aloud. “Goddamn bastards.”