American Tabloid - James Ellroy [77]
The spies clapped. The spies 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.”
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 harassed 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, gourmet 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.”
“I’d like to see Mr. Trafficante.”
“Please follow me, then.”
Pete fell in step. Boozed-out gringo fat cats careened down the hallway. The guard pointed out custody high spots.
Suite 2314 featured stag films screened on a bedsheet. Suite 2319 featured roulette, craps and baccarat. Suite 2329 featured naked hookers on call. Suite 2333 featured a live lesbian peep show. Suite 2341 featured suckling pigs broiled on a spit. Suites 2350 through 2390 comprised a full-size golf driving range.
A spic caddy squeezed by them schlepping clubs. The guard clicked his heels outside 2394.
“Mr. Santo, you have a visitor!”
Santo Trafficante Jr. opened the door.
He was fortyish and pudgy. He wore nubby-silk Bermuda shorts and glasses.
The guard scooted off. Trafficante said, “The two things I hate most are Communists and chaos.”
“Mr. Trafficante, I’m—”
“I’ve got eyes. Four, in fact. You’re Pete Bondurant, who clips guys for Jimmy. Some six-foot-six gorilla knocks on my door and acts servile, I put two and two together.”
Pete walked into the room. Trafficante smiled.
“Did you come to bring me back?”
“No.”
“Jimmy sent you, right?”
“No.”
“Mo? Carlos? I’m so fucking bored I’m playing