Public Enemies_ America's Greatest Crime Wave and the Birth of the FBI - Bryan Burrough [271]
“I’ll drive a little slower,” Karpis said. He let the man go.
The next morning Karpis and Delaney cruised into Miami and drove to the El Commodoro, where Karpis checked in and introduced himself to the manager, Joe Adams, who had friendly ties with the South Florida underworld. Karpis left his car with Adams, along with his machine gun and a pair of bulletproof vests, all of which Adams volunteered to dispose of. (It was Adams who lent the car to his gofer, Duke Randall.) At Adams’s suggestion, Karpis and Delaney scampered through a rainstorm to the Bur-dine’s department store, where they bought the silk shirts and bathing suits they would need in Cuba. At nightfall Adams sent champagne and New York strip steaks to their suite for dinner.
The next morning, Adams dropped Karpis and Delaney off at the train station. By noon that Saturday, September 15, the two were in Key West, shuffling through the queue waiting to board the S.S. Cuba for the six-hour cruise to Havana. Delaney was transfixed by a suntanned young man who dived for coins the tourists threw. In fact, she was thrilled at everything, the aquamarine sea and the palm trees and the piña coladas. She was seventeen and pregnant and in love with the world. Karpis looked at her and thought, God it’s great to be a criminal.
Havana in September 1934 was a city barely twelve months removed from the revolution in which a thirty-two-year-old sergeant named Fulgencio Batista had seized control of the government. American tourists had flocked to Cuba’s pristine beaches and sophisticated casinos during the 1920s, but the sporadic violence that littered the wake of Batista’s coup scared many away. Havana’s two casinos had begun a decline that wouldn’t be reversed until a little-known operator named Meyer Lansky arrived in 1938 to institute professional controls.
In the harbor, Karpis and Delaney descended the gangplank and were at once overwhelmed by the chaos of the Havana docks. Porters clamored to carry the gringos’ suitcases. Karpis had never seen such confusion. At the Parkview Hotel a bellhop took their bags. Karpis left a message for the owner, Nate Heller, a man Joe Adams said could be trusted. After washing up, Karpis went to scout the streets. He stopped at another place Adams had recommended, George’s American Bar, and introduced himself to the owner, who gave him two rum-and-Cokes on the house and briefed him on police customs. Karpis, never much of a drinker, found his knees weak when he left the bar.
At his room he found a message from Nate Heller. They met downstairs. “I’m going to live here awhile and I don’t think I care much for Havana,” Karpis said. “I thought maybe you might point out some place up the coast that would be suitable for me. I want a quiet place and I want to be away from everybody, the police and everybody else.”
Karpis watched for Heller’s reaction, but Heller only smiled. “We’ve got a lot of people here that don’t want to talk to the police,” he said. “You know, we’ve had some trouble here.”
“Yeah, I understand that.”
“Batista’s got control, but not like people think he has,” Heller continued. “You’ll hear shooting tonight. But don’t get excited about it because he’s only been in for a little while and things aren’t very stable. If anyone tries to talk about politics with you, just don’t get into a conversation with them. You understand?” Karpis nodded. Heller promised to find him a secluded beach house, and they agreed to meet the next day.
Afterward Karpis stood out on the sidewalk, soaking up the humid night air. “Excuse me,” a voice said. Karpis turned and saw another tourist. “Do you know where a drugstore is?” the man asked.
A bellman overheard the question and pointed out a drugstore down the block. “Hell, I’ll walk down there with you,” Karpis volunteered. “I’ll buy a deck of cards.”
Inside, Karpis bought a box of Bicycle cards, then stepped onto the sidewalk with the other