Speshnev swallowed the last third of the banana, mashing its sweetness between his teeth, enjoying the rush of pleasure as both flavor and aroma toasted his palate, then tossed the banana peel into the garbage can.
Of course he knew where Castro was. He knew where he would go exactly but what bothered him he would not say to Pashin. In fact, as he was summoned to the meeting, he had already purchased bus fare to Santiago.
The reason was that he knew Castro would head home to Oriente, where he was a prince. He would not go somewhere he was not known and loved. He wasn't strong enough for anonymity. His vanity was too overwhelming. It would never be a part of his way to disappear quietly. He was too weak for it.
But Speshnev had read an account in that morning's Havana Post that upset him profoundly. Police 'thwarted a bandit attack in the town of Cueto,' the press reported, and a woman was killed in the gun battle. That was what the newspaper report said, and Speshnev had no doubt it was all lies. Nevertheless, whatever it was, such action was uncomfortably near Castro's home, and it signified that possibly others undreamed of had noted the boy's presence and sought to eliminate him.
Now he reasoned that even if he weren't involved, the shooting so close would spook the boy. But the trip back to Havana would seem too far; he would instead hide in the closest city, that city being Santiago.
But the fear of Castro somehow being caught-he had as yet committed no crimes-wasn't Speshnev's main fear. His main fear could be summed up in one sentence: What will this crazy young asshole do next?
Chapter 35
Lansky hated the theater of it. It ate up time for no good reason, when he had a million things to do. It was all so unnecessary, for who down here was really paying much attention?
But the Important Man insisted. The Important Man laid out the rules and Lansky, who always played by the rules until he saw a way to bust them, and the bank too, obeyed.
His driver took him from his apartment in the Sevilla-Biltmore just off the Prado, into the old city, down winding, crowded roads, past houses built by the Spanish and the Creoles. Then the car curved around to the west, passed through grimy industrial neighborhoods, down busy streets, twisting now and then through smaller streets, then found a main concourse around Centro and soon plunged toward Santo Suarez.
While he was in the car, Lansky changed from his well-tailored suit into something awful and cheesy: a loud Hawaiian shirt, a pair of ill-fitting lemon slacks and, most annoying to a man who loved the leather of fine shoes, some ridiculous sandals that exposed his toes to the world. A man of Lansky's dignity and probity should never face the world with his toes exposed. Then, to top it off, a porkpie and a pair of rattly sunglasses. A sleek business executive had gotten into the car, a man of sharp intelligence and subtle tastes, and a low-rent whore-chaser climbed out. It made him quite annoyed.
He was let out near the bus station, where he caught a no. 4 bus all the way out past Santo Suarez, and then got off. He walked among negroes out there, past dives and joints and pool halls all bleached white in the sun, past bodegas and farmacias and lottery agencies, until at last he came to a cheap negro hotel, went in without talking, passed the desk without talking, and took the ancient lift without talking to the fourth floor.
There was a door ajar. Sometimes it was this room, sometimes that, depending, but the door ajar signified which. He approached, knocked, entered without hearing a thing, closed and locked the door behind him. The Important Man sat on the bed or in a chair, again depending on what was available in the room.
This time he was in a shabby chair by a dirty window, in semi-darkness, looking out on Santo Suarez. He barely acknowledged Lansky.
Lansky sat next to him.
There was never any ceremony, as with the old men, no elaborate ritual of politeness and asking after family, not at all. He would remain silent for hours if Lansky didn't, by habit, just get to it.
'What is it this time?' Lansky asked.
'You know what it is,' said the Important Man.
'I don't have any idea.'
'Then your intelligence is very poor. Three days ago in the rural province of Oriente, some cops shot the hell out of a house, killing a woman. She was naked in her own house, they blew the living hell out of her, and shot the house to tatters. I've seen the reports, of course.'
'An American woman?'
'A Cuban woman.'
'What has this to do with me or my enterprise? What has it to do with yours? Why is this important?'
'Because it wasn't a raid, as everyone is saying too loud, but a hit.'
'Hmmm,' said Lansky.
'Yes, hmmm,' said the other. 'It was a botched, pathetic, out of control screw-up of a hit. It was bullets flying, the wrong person killed, the neighbors in hysteria, rumors flying, the Secret Police Political Section in a frenzy, and when they go nuts, we hear about it, we have to file reports to Washington, Washington goes nuts and asks more questions, the business climate suffers, the whole goddamned apparatus gets shaky.'
'I don't know a thing about it.'
'Of course you do. You ordered it.'
Lansky didn't say a thing.
'I have sources. I know things. I told you to clear anything through me.'
'I was under some pressure from my people after that congressman almost got clipped. They have a lot of money invested down here and more set to come. They don't want to lose it.'
'We don't want them to lose it either. We don't want AT&T or Hilton Hotels or United Fruit or Hershey or Domino Sugar to lose. We cannot allow that to happen.'
'There is a threat. Nobody was doing a thing. We acted.'
'You acted ridiculously and poorly. Was it that weasel New York guy who made a scene at the party? He's more volatile than the usual cheap thugs New York sends down. He'll scare these businesspeople. We don't like that.'
'He has his uses. He is supposedly very good.'
'Well, here's what he accomplished. He failed to hit the target because the whole thing was poorly planned and pitifully executed. He drove the target underground. Completely underground. Political Section has no idea where he is. Worse, we have no idea what he'll do now that someone has tried to kill him.'
'He has no organization.'
'But he has leadership skills. He will get an organization fast, and that upsets us a great deal. He can start things that can't be stopped. That's the way it happens sometimes. Now he's beyond reach, unless we turn the island upside down.'
'Nobody was doing a thing!'
'Again, you are misinformed. In fact, the opposite is true. We are very much doing something. We've brought a man down. An excellent, tested, experienced man, not some screwball New York eyetie button. We're tracking it all very carefully, manipulating it quite smoothly, building for the moment. Our man won't miss.'
'I did not know this.'
'You don't have to know it. You have to clear initiatives through me, so I can ascertain whether or not we are working at cross-purposes. If we are working at cross-purposes, as we now are, it happens as it has now happened, with each move making it harder, not easier, on the other's move.'
'All right,' said Lansky.
'Yes, all right. So you back way off. You put this New York gunman on the shelf, do you understand?'
'Yes.'
'Let's be clear: your team, off the field. Our team has operating room. It will happen, and everybody will prosper.'
'For a certain amount of time. You people have to move quickly, as I am under pressure. Pick a date. I give you a month. Say, by late July. You must do this job by then, or I will let my people go at it again. After that time,
