They wore mismatched gun belts and carried odd pistols. Their shirt-front regalia was straight out of some Kellogg’s Corn Flakes box.
Pete squeezed up toward the cockpit. Arc lights strafed the doorways and windows. He walked down the ramp ducking blinding goddamn glare.
A guard snatched his passport. The ten-spot disappeared. The guard bowed and handed him a beer.
The other passengers filed out. Militia geeks checked their passports for tips and came up empty.
The boss guard shook his head. His minions confiscated purses and wallets. A man protested and tried to hold on to his billfold.
The spics laid him out prone on the runway. They cut his trousers off with razor blades and picked his pockets clean.
The other passengers quit squawking. The boss guard rifled through their stuff.
Pete sipped beer. Some guards walked up with their hands out.
He greased them, one ten-spot per hand. He goofed on their uniforms: lots of frayed khaki and epaulets like the ushers at Grauman’s Chinese.
A little spic waved a camera. “You play futbol, hombre? Hey, big man, you play futbol?”
Somebody lobbed a football. Pete caught it one-handed. A flashbulb popped right upside his face.
Get the picture? They want you to pose.
He crouched low and waved the ball like Johnny Unitas. He went deep for a pass, blocked an invisible lineman and bounced the ball off his head like a nigger soccer ace he saw on TV once.
The spics clapped. The spics cheered. Flashbulbs pop-pop-popped.
Somebody yelled, “Hey, eees Robert Mitchum!”
Peasant types ran out on the runway, waving autograph books. Pete ran for a taxi stand by the gate.
Little kids urged him on. Cab doors opened, presto chango.
Pete dodged an oxcart and piled into an old Chevy. The driver said, “Joo are not Robert Mitchum.”
o o o
They cruised Havana. Animals and street riffraff clogged traffic. They never got above ten miles an hour.
It was 92 degrees at 10:00 p.m. Half the geeks out on the stroll wore fatigues and full Jesus Christ beards.
Dig those whitewashed Spanish-style buildings. Dig the posters on every facade: Fidel Castro smiling, Fidel Castro shouting, Fidel Castro waving a cigar.
Pete flashed the snapshot Boyd gave him. “Do you know this man?”
The driver said, “Sí It is Mr. Santo Junior. He is in custody at the Nacional Hotel.”
“Why don’t you take me there.”
Pancho hung a U-turn. Pete saw hotel row up ahead–a line of half-assed skyscrapers facing the beach.
Lights sparkled down on the water. A big stretch of glow lit the waves up turquoise blue.
The cab pulled up to the Nacional. Bellboys swooped down– clowns in threadbare tuxedos. Pete whipped a ten-spot on the driver–the fuck almost wept.
The bellboys stuck their hands out. Pete lubed them at the rate of ten scoots per. A cordon pushed him into the casino.
The joint was packed. Commies dug capitalisto-style gambling.
The croupiers wore shoulder holsters. Militia geeks ran the blackjack table. The clientele was 100% beaner.
Goats roamed free. Dogs splashed in a crap table filled with water. Dig the floorshow back by the slot machines: an Airedale and a Chihuahua fucking.
Pete grabbed a bellboy and yelled in his ear. “Santo Trafficante. You know him?”
Three hands appeared. Three tens went out. Somebody pushed him into an elevator.
Fidel Castro’s Cuba should be renamed Nigger Heaven.
The elevator zoomed up. A militiaman opened the door gun first.
Dollar bills dripped out of his pockets. Pete added a ten-spot. The gun disappeared, rápidamente.
“Did you wish to enter custody, señor? The fee is fifty dollars a day.”
“What does that include?”
“It includes a room with a television, gounnet food, gambling and women. You see, American passport holders are being temporarily detained here in Cuba, and Havana itself is momentarily unsafe. Why not enjoy your detention in luxury?”
Pete flashed his passport. “I’m Canadian.”
“Yes. And of French distraction, I can tell.”
Steam trays lined the hallway. Bellboys pushed cocktail carts by. A goat was taking a shit on the carpet two doors down.
Pete laughed. “Your guy Castro’s some innkeeper.”
“Yes. Even Mr. Santo Trafficante Jr. concedes that there are no four-star jails in America.”