Meyer stared at him hard, trying to see inside.
'It's this,' the important boy said. 'After he'd shot him seven times, he walked up close to the window. Ben Siegel is already dead, his head punched full of holes. He's on the sofa. Blood is everywhere on his nice Glenn plaid suit. His legs are crossed, the L.A. Times is in his lap. But that wasn't enough for Earl. Earl takes his time, aims perfectly?' the young man mimicked the aiming of a light rifle as if he had done so himself, the closing of one eye, the steady press on a trigger, '-and pow! drills the last carbine slug into the eye. He aims, blows the eye out. He could do it, he's such a good shot. The eye sails across the room and lands on the carpet. Right? Do you know that?'
Meyer knew it. All the old men knew it. They had paid good money for it. But nobody else knew it, except the man who killed Ben Siegel.
'Earl is in a prison outside of Havana,' said the young man.
'He will be moved tomorrow at 4 P.M. to the airport. The car will travel through Cerro down the Avenue Mangiari before bringing him to the airport for deportation. It'll be a single car driven by two plainclothes policemen, a black 1948 Buick Roadmaster. Swagger will be in back, handcuffed. They'll be on that road about 4.15 P.M. Tell me, Mr. Lansky, will it still be said after tomorrow that Meyer never killed?'
Lansky just looked at him, but he was thinking how fast he could get hold of Frankie Carbine, and at the same time seeing at last exactly why it had been ordained that Frankie would come to him.
Chapter 52
'Well, Mr. Swagger,' said the man from the embassy, 'the Cubans have finally seen the light. You'll be relieved to know this is your last day in Cuba.'
He'd been here close to a week. In truth, it had been all right. The Cubans in this small place treated him well, and in a funny way it was a pleasure to be in a world where things made sense. No one whispered bad advice, no one tried to manipulate him against his own best instincts. They just fed him well and left him alone.
'Swell,' he said. 'I'm flying out of here?'
'You'll catch the 5.30 Air Cubana back to Miami. Courtesy of the State Department, you will then be flown back to St. Louis. From there you are on your own. Of course the Cubans have made it clear, you are never to return.'
'Wasn't planning to.'
'Well, that's fine. Your belongings were picked up from the hotel, though the clothing you bought on the government expense account is of course government property and has been remanded to government inventory.'
'Wouldn't have it any other way.'
'We had your suit cleaned.'
'Ain't you boys going out of the way, or what?' Earl said.
'Do I detect some sarcasm in your voice, sir? You have been in violation of the law and we have worked very hard to make this as pleasant as possible for you. Cuban justice can be extremely brutal, and you have been treated quite gently.'
Earl just smiled.
'You will be released at 4:00 into the custody of two Cuban police officers. You will be handcuffed. Those handcuffs will not be removed until you are at the gangway to the aircraft. You will then board the aircraft and that will be that.'
'Fine by me.'
'I want your assurances you will cause no trouble. You have already been an embarrassment. You are to make no scene with the policemen. You will willingly allow the handcuffs until you reach the plane. You are to get on that aircraft and be gone. Is that clear? The deal we worked out with the Cuban State Police is dependent upon it.'
'Yeah, sure.'
'Thank you, Mr. Swagger. Now this interview is at an end. I suggest you clean up. Your clothes will be brought to you and you will be on your way.'
The man rose officiously, and without ceremony turned and left. Even the Cuban guard in the interview room, an amiable English-speaker named Tony, seemed baffled by the coldness. He was a good guy who'd buddied up to Earl a little bit, even gone and gotten him extra cigarettes.
'Earl, that man, he's got a pickle up his ass.'
'Don't he, though?'
Tony led him to his cell in the deserted place. No locking was necessary; it was run more like a hotel. Earl waited until another guard brought him his suit on a hanger, with shoes, socks, under-drawers and a shirt. Then he wandered down to the shower room, took a nice one, dried, came back and got dressed. Looking at his watch, he saw it was close to 4:00.
Out of here, he thought.
Finally. What a goddamned waste!
In the '38 Buick parked down the street from the jail, Frankie Carbine sat in the front seat with the binoculars, next to a darker guy from SIM who was guaranteed reliable and was running the car that day for Captain Latavistada, who sat in back. He could see the place just fine, blown up ten times, a stairway out of a blocky municipal structure that had long since lost its polish. A heavy-gauge locked cyclone fence ran the perimeter, wearing a gnarled tangle of barbed wire. A couple of cops in their dark uniforms were stationed outside, but in the Cuban way both men were relaxed behind sunglasses on chairs, smoking and paying little enough attention to anything.
Frankie looked at his watch.
It was almost 4:00.
He felt like screaming. It was so close. He tried to keep his pulse and his heart calm, but all he could think about was putting a full magazine into the strunza that killed Ben Siegel. He'd smelled it on him the first second, that stink of death. The guy was a stone killer; he had to be paid back in kind for what he'd done.
Frankie hoped he just riddled his guts. Then, he'd walk around and the guy would be lying there, bleeding and crying for mercy, and Frankie saw himself taking out his Colt.45, leaning over, and pressing it against the man's eye.
'Familiar, strunza? Like you done to Bennie.'
BLAM!
He'd blow that eye clean out of its socket and the world would see what happened when you went against the outfit. Mr. L would be so proud; all the old men of New York, they would be proud too, and Frankie could come back anytime he wanted. But he wouldn't. He and Ramon, they would take over-
'Frankie, are you all right?' asked Latavistada from the backseat.
'Yeah, fine.'
'Frankie, you should relax. Don't get too excited. It's going to be fine. It's going to be easy,' said Ramon, who had the Mendoza 7mm machine gun and a batch of clips.
'It's almost time, Ramon,' Frankie said.
'Yes it is, my friend. We will do this thing and then the world will be ours.'
'You let me do it,' said Frankie, patting the machine pistol that lay across his knees. 'This guy and I, we had words. We had problems. He's a big guy, he smacked my head at Moncada. Today he learns what a mistake that was.'
'Yes, Frankie. The privilege of the first shots goes to you. You shoot him good, Frankie. Nothing fancy, just a burst into him, and watch his head as the bullets destroy it, and then I finish with the heavier gun, the two policemen, any witnesses. Then we pull our pistols and make certain. It is a very good plan.'
'Oh, fuck, here they come.'
Ramon spoke briefly in Spanish to the driver, who started the car.
And here they came indeed. It was a big Roadmaster, another Buick, dead black, with four pissholes on the
