That night Frankie and Nick stayed at the hotel. Although La Perla’s casino was bigger than the Nacional’s and air-conditioned, too many bodies in one space made for a distinctive blend of odors: perfume, hairspray, and smoke, all of it overlaid with losers’ sweat. A trio played softly in a corner; her father was experimenting to see if people gambled more with live music. The alternative would be to pipe music in. Frankie didn’t care one way or the other. Crooner Tony Martin was performing in the nightclub; she and Nicky would be going to the ten o’clock show.
Underneath the music she heard the chink of martini glasses, the jangle of the slots, the clack of dice on green felt tables, the shuffle of cards, the squeals from people with winning hands. It was barely nine, but already it was packed, and a thick haze of cigarette smoke hovered below the chandeliers. Cigars would be lit later, at which time Frankie would leave. Made from the finest tobacco, from Pinar del Rio and Havana, they were gifts to players from “management,” but she couldn’t stand the smell.
The women were dressed in low-cut gowns or cocktail dresses and most dripped plenty of pearls and diamonds that caught the light. One or two had mink stoles draped over their shoulders, although it was eighty degrees outside. Most of the men wore suits and ties, but the dealers and Tony Pacelli and Nick were in tuxedos. The more a gambler lost, the more formal and gracious the staff grew, as if elegance and good manners were the consolation prizes for going broke.
Still, the casinos were known for their honesty. Meyer Lansky, the overlord of Havana casinos, insisted on dealers and croupiers with the highest integrity. According to Frankie’s father, the Little Man had worked out the probabilities of gambling, and realized the odds always favored the house. There was no need to stack the deck. If anyone was caught skimming, other than Lansky and Batista, of course, they could count on big trouble. With rigorous standards in place, you could almost forget that Havana was run by the largest criminal organization in the world.
Frankie made the rounds on Nicky’s arm. She watched an elderly lady with white hair playing roulette. The woman’s expression never changed as the marble clattered around the wheel. She moved her chips from one number to another after it settled. At the crap table a couple who couldn’t keep their hands off each other whooped with every throw of the dice. A quartet of men at the blackjack table tossed back shots and either joked or swore at the dealer.
Frankie turned to Nick. “You want to play the slots?”
He slipped his arm around her. “I’m not much of a player. And I already have the best hand in the house.” He squeezed her shoulder.
A waiter passed carrying a tray of champagne. Frankie lifted two glasses and turned around to hand Nick his, but he was staring at a dark, handsome man playing poker. The man was surrounded by a bevy of young blondes, one of whom lit his cigarette, while another handed him a drink.
“Is that who I think it is? The actor, what’s his name?”
“You mean George Raft?”
Nick nodded.
Frankie smiled and handed him a glass of champagne. “It is. He owns part of a casino not far from here. He comes down between movies to say hi and check things out.”
“Really? That’s strange, you know?”
“What do you mean?” Frankie sipped her champagne.
“Well, he plays gangsters in the movies… and now…” Suddenly Nick cut himself off. “Oh no. I’m sorry. I didn’t mean—”
Frankie’s smile widened. “Don’t worry. I know what you mean.” She paused. “Maybe it’s good that I’m going back to America.”
“Really?”
Frankie looked around. “There’s more to life than Havana. This is my father’s world. Maybe it’s time to discover my own.”
“I’ll help you every step of the way,” Nick said eagerly.
Frankie kissed his cheek.
Nick gazed back at the women around Raft. “Well, at least the guy’s in good company.”
“Oh, he’s small fry. You should see the place when the Rat Pack is here.”
“I’ll bet.” Nick sipped his champagne.
She laughed. “They only come in winter, though.”
They kept moving through the crowd. “So why do you want to have a restaurant, Frankie?”
She stopped. “When I was little, I was raised by a Cuban nanny. I was always at her apron strings. She taught me how to cook. Sang me Spanish songs and lullabies. Told me tales of Santería magic. I knew she wasn’t my mother, but…” She turned pensive. “Anyway, when I was about six, she got sick. We didn’t know what was wrong, but one day she didn’t come to work. Or the next. Or the day after. My parents finally had to let her go.”
“What happened?”
“I never found out. They wouldn’t let me see her. But one day, not long afterwards, they told me she died. I cried for days.” She paused. “I thought she was family, you know? And that we were deserting her. But Papa said she wasn’t. She was just the help.”
Nick brushed a lock of hair off her forehead. “You really do have a big heart.”
She went on as if she hadn’t heard. “So that’s why I was thinking of starting a restaurant. Or maybe a coffee house. For all those Beatniks I keep hearing about.”
Nick chuckled. “What if your husband doesn’t want you to work? What if he wants you to raise three wonderful children instead?”
Frankie smiled back. “I could manage both. If not, I’m sure my ‘husband’ would let me know. After all, family is the most important thing.”
“Speaking of which…” Nick pointed with his chin. Tony Pacelli stood at the entrance to the casino. Another man in a tuxedo—one of the croupiers, Frankie guessed—was motioning her father over to a corner where a couple of barrel-chested, bull-necked men had flanked two people. Frankie and Nick crept closer. Her father’s back was to them.
The man in the center of the tiny group was middle-aged, fleshy, and American. Thinning blond hair fell across his forehead, and his suit, while expensive-looking, hadn’t been tailored and bunched in all the wrong places. A young buxom brunette in a tight blue satin sheath and too much make-up was by his side. The man was red-faced and sweating, and the way he swayed back and forth made it clear he’d had a few.
The band went on break, but the noise in the room more than compensated. Despite that, his voice carried over it.
“If you really wanna help me,” the man sounded belligerent, “you’ll tell me where it is.”
Her father replied in a low voice. “Not here, Mr. Whittier. Not now.”
“What the hell you think I came to Havana for? The weather?”
Her father gently took the man’s arm. “Why don’t you and your lady friend come with me and we’ll figure this out.”
The man shook off her father’s hand. “Bullshit. All I want is the fucking address of the sex house.” He made a sloppy gesture toward the brunette and leered. “So I can watch her get fucked.”
“Please, Mr. Whittier. Keep your voice down. I told you we don’t furnish those recommendations to our guests.”
“Then you better talk to your bellman, ‘cause he sure as hell does.” The man began to sway again. “How did I know I’d lose the damn card?”
“Mr. Whittier, I think it’s time you came with us.” Pacelli’s voice was still quiet and relaxed, as if he had all the time in the world.
“Who do you think you are? The fucking pope? You’re a stupid guinea. An asshole gangster. Get away from me!”
Her father nodded at the two muscle men, who gripped the man under his shoulders.
Whittier squinted at one goon, then the other. “Lemme go. Unless you’re taking me where I wanna go.”
“What is he talking about?” Nick whispered.
Frankie led him away from the group. “There are private homes in Havana where tourists can watch live sex shows. Even choose a woman or man who will have sex in front of them. We don’t approve, of course. But the tourists… they think they can do whatever they want in Havana. Anything goes.”
“No wonder your father wants you to go home.”
“This city is no different than any other place. If you look, you will find it.” She slipped her hand in his. “But we don’t need to stay here. Come. Let’s go see Tony Martin.”
But Nick stayed her hand and watched as the men dragged Whittier, still shouting and cursing, out of the casino. His girlfriend was told to remain where she was. She looked frightened and alone.
“Where are they taking him?” Nick asked.
“Where do you think?”
Nick blinked. “Why not just kick him out?”
“Because he’s not like us, Nicky. He’s a pig.”
“He wouldn’t be the first pig to come to Havana.”
“Yes, but my father thinks he needs to be taught a lesson.”