“If you don’t mind my asking, was anyone ever convicted of killing him?” Alex inquired. She felt Federov’s squinty gaze bouncing back and forth.
“Don’t be silly,” he said. “Of course not. Look, he was connected to organized crime; he did what he did, and he took his risks. I loved him as a father, he was good to me, but I’m not going to sit here and say he was a good man. I’m not so sure he was. But I was provided for and so was my mother.”
A waiter in a traditional white jacket brought a bottle of wine to the table and showed it to Guarneri-he must have ordered it before his guests had arrived. From what Alex could see, it was a hearty red Tuscan. Guarneri gave a nod. The waiter uncorked it and poured a glass for Guarneri, who gave another nod. Then the waiter poured wine into the other two glasses and departed.
“My father left behind the ownership to several buildings in the New York and Long Island area. So I never had to get involved in the type of business that he did. All I had to do was manage buildings. Be a landlord. Push the right papers around. I picked up an MBA at St. John’s University so I’d know how to do it. But I learned more in the first month of managing buildings than I did with two years of real estate law at St. John’s.”
“I’m sure you did,” Alex said, sipping the wine, which was excellent.
A short time later, the waiter reappeared and took their orders. A cordial conversation continued among the three diners until, after they had finished their meals and knocked back a second bottle of the Tuscan wine, Guarneri finally angled around to something he wished to discuss.
“So listen, I want to ask your opinion,” Guarneri said, turning to Alex. “May I ask you how you see certain things in relation to the United States and a certain country in Central America?”
“You can ask, Paul,” she said. “What country?”
“Cuba,” he said.
The mention of Cuba, of all places, took her by surprise. “I’m not an expert and I’ve never been there. So my free advice will be worth exactly what you’re paying for it.”
“I was born there,” he said. “In Cuba. Mi madre fue cubana.”
“Verdad?” she asked. “Y habla bien el espanol?”
He laughed.
A small exchange followed. He spoke Spanish as well as she did, which was with complete fluency. After a moment, they switched back to English for Federov’s sake.
“What do you think will happen to property that was left behind fifty years ago?” Guarneri asked. “Or seized by the revolutionary government?”
“What sort of property?” she asked. “Land? Bank accounts? Real estate?”
“Any of those,” Guarneri said easily. “Make it a hypothetical. All of them.”
“Wouldn’t a lawyer be able to tell you better than I?”
“Paul is only asking for your opinion,” Federov said. “I’ve told him how intelligent you are. You know how your government works, and you know how the world works. And you can convey in almost any language.”
“Okay, look,” she said, “we’ll talk as friends, how’s that? Completely off the record.”
“I’d like that,” said Guarneri.
“Regarding property in Cuba that once was owned by Americans?” she said. “To clarify ownership there would have to be a new treaty tied in to diplomatic recognition of a new regime,” she said. “Realistically, that will take several years beyond the passing of Fidel Castro and possibly Raoul Castro as well.”
“I’d prefer not to wait that long,” he said.
“What you’d prefer and what’s going to happen are two different things,” Alex said.
“Could you get legal entry into Cuba?” he asked. “Through your contacts in law enforcement?”
“Me?” she asked in surprise.
“You,” he nodded.
“I’ve never thought much about it,” she said. “And for the very reasons the United States might want me to go, the Cuban government might
“Would you ever be available to accompany me to Cuba?” he asked.
Again she looked at him in surprise. “What?” she asked.
He repeated. Then, “I’m trying to recover property that was abandoned by my father a half century ago,” Guarneri said.
“Whose property was it?”
“I’ll get to that in a minute.”
“Whose property is it right now?” Alex asked.
“No one’s,” Guarneri said, “because no one can find it.”
After a few seconds, Alex asked. “It’s hidden?”
“I believe it still is, yes,” he answered.
She pondered for a moment. The waiter intruded. They ordered coffee. Alex asked for an espresso to counteract the rocket fuel served at the Waldorf and the glasses of wine here.
“Okay,” she said. “I’m guessing you’re talking about property that you feel would have been rightfully yours if Castro’s revolution hadn’t happened.”
“Correct,” Guarneri said
“Well,” she said, “I deal with international financial complications all the time. People cheating governments, governments cheating people. So I’ll tell you what I know, even though you might not like it. In post-Castro Cuba the restitution of property will be the most contentious issue the new Cuban government will face. Assuming the Cuba of the future is democratic or even mildly socialist, everyone will have to take into account the hostility that many Cubans would feel toward having their national assets transferred to people such as yourself.”
“What would they have against me?”
“You know the answer to that as well as I do.”
“Tell me anyway.”
“You and other former Cubans have been living comfortably in Miami, New York, or Los Angeles for decades. The Cuban people endured Castro and the idiotic American embargo that helped impoverish the island and kept food and pharmaceuticals in short supply.”
“I thought you worked for the US government,” he said.
“I do, but that doesn’t mean I personally agree with all policy. A lot of it is just plain stupid. Or political. Or ill-conceived. The Cuban embargo is a great example of all three.”
“Not afraid to tell me what you think, huh? I like that,” he said.
“You might like it now, but you won’t always,” she said. “Let’s get back to you. I’m guessing you have family links to the previous regime, Batista’s, which was even worse than Castro.”
“Why do you guess that?”
“No offence intended,” Alex said, “but it’s written all over you. Look where we’re having dinner, for example. I feel like I’m on the set for
Guarneri stared at her coldly for a moment, then shook his head and laughed.
“See?” Federov said to his friend. “I warned you.”
But by now, Alex was intrigued.
“Okay, I’ll give you some of the rest of it, Alex,” Guarneri said, opening up. “My father was a part owner of a racetrack and a gambling casino near Havana. He also owned a couple of strip clubs,” he said. “When Fidel Castro took over the country, my dad had to get out of Cuba fast. He was holding a lot of money at the time. Half a million dollars in US currency. But it was all in small denominations. Fifties. Twenties. Tens. Fives. There was no way that he could take it with him to the airport. The police or the army or Castro’s soldiers would have taken it from him.” Guarneri paused. “So he buried it.”
“He buried it?”
Guarneri nodded.
“And that’s the ‘property’?”
“Yes.”
“Hidden?”
“Yes.”
“And you know where?”
“I
“You said, ‘back,’ ” Alex said. “You’ve been there?”
“I was born in Havana in 1955,” Guarneri said. “My mother was my father’s mistress in Cuba. She was a dancer at one of his clubs.”
Guarneri thought for a moment. He then reached to his wallet and opened it. He produced a pair of pictures, one of his mother as a leggy casino- style showgirl from a chorus line in what he said was 1957. The second was a grainy picture of himself with his mother, a faded color shot, from Long Island in 1966.
“So your mother got out of the country too?” Alex said.
“She was able to leave in 1961,” Paul Guarneri said. “My father had a wife and family here, but he did the decent thing for me and my mother. He smuggled us out. I remember it happening. My mother came and got me in the middle of the night. She wrapped me in a blanket, and we were taken to a car. She told me it was time to leave, and we couldn’t bring anything. We drove without headlights and went to a boat. The boat went to a seaplane, and we flew to Florida. I’m told we flew eighty miles at three hundred feet. I slept through it. When I woke up the next morning we were in an apartment in Key West. Then came the Bay of Pigs, the
