10
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
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
Cipriani stood and walked to the window and his Abakua guards. He turned back and smiled. “And that’s the
