"Patsy!": The Life and Times of Lee Harvey Oswald (9 page)

In Havana, Charley noticed strong business opportunities itching for proper exploitation. These included two casinos located in an area referred to as Oriental Park, a racetrack currently in disrepair, once magnets for wealthy U.S. fun-seekers during the Roaring 1920s. During what had been tagged The Jazz Age, American horse-owners and jockeys cruised on down to compete. Along with them arrived rich tourists eager to
squander stock market earnings in exotic destinations. While Prohibition remained the law of the land back home, here they could enjoy alcohol, gambling, music, food, and raw, open sex.

With an emphasis on the latter. Dark sex. Forbidden sex. The kind of sex that smart-suited business types in respectable places like St. Louis, Kansas City, even Dubuque IA secretly hungered for and could afford. Leaving their straight-laced public images at home, such people traveled to Cuba in droves.

All that came to a swift end with the stock market crash of October 29, 1929. After Black Tuesday, ever fewer people were in a position to pony up the dough. As a result of America's crisis, things quickly turned desperate in Havana. The casinos, at best half full during the early-to mid-1930s, lost their luster. By The Great Depression's end, the track opened each day mostly for locals, these not from the respectable social strata.

This might have continued until the dissipating buildings were eventually torn down for firewood had Charley not one fine day taken a mid-morning drive out to play the horses. After a close consideration of his surroundings, Luciano sensed that, as in time strength gradually returned to the U.S. economy, here was a perfect place to re-develop for those who would shortly enjoy affluence, able to as in the good old days spend and play.

*

“I told ya so,” his pal Meyer laughed when Charley soon mentioned his discovery during a phone conversation. Lansky came to a similar conclusion way back in 1938, when he visited Cuba. Meyer fell in love at first sight with this rich green island, caressed by tropical breezes and gentle trade-winds. At least, that is, when some hurricane didn't coming roaring by.

As to the people, Lansky recalled enjoying them immensely. Most Cubans displayed a fundamentally gentle, open nature, their joyous celebration of life apparent in every graceful movement. They would stroll, almost dancing, along narrow boulevards. The women in particular caused him to marvel: Their bold femininity struck Meyer as provocative in a natural way, allowing these coffee-colored girls with big, bold eyes to appear innocent even when they rolled over at a moment‘s notice for American dollars.

So many were beautiful, their hue an appealing combination of Caribbean natives who had called this place home long before recorded history, and the Spanish, arriving in large numbers after Columbus claimed the nearly 2,000 mile main-island and its nearby archipelagos for that country in 1492. Spain ruled for the next four hundred years. That era came to a close when a controversial war with America caused Cuba to briefly fall under U.S. domination, in time emerging as an independent nation in the evolving modern world.

As to Lansky, he had arrived owing to a call for help from the then-current political leader, military dictator Fulgencia Batista. The fascist had forced his way into power five years earlier, ruling like a reincarnation of some medieval warrior-king. Though not the president per se, Batista commanded the country as the army's Chief of Staff. This allowed him to lord it over whoever supposedly ran things at any one moment.

Deeply concerned as to his country's stalled economy, Batista gazed northward. Smart, in an animal-cunning sort of way, he sensed that his huge capitalistic neighbor might well prove the perfect partner for bringing his dream of a wealthy Cuba to fruition. Various American corporations were contacted about mining the rich mineral resources, notably nickel. Batista also guessed that Oriental Park could be restored to its former glories, if people up in the U.S. in a position to finance such a considerable undertaking were willing to fly on down to oversee the make-over, as well as invest in this project.

Lou Smith, a soft-spoken, middle-aged entrepreneur who managed several tracks in New England, was contacted and did express interest. As often happens, one thing led to another. Lou was overwhelmed with various business deals and never got around to making things click. He hadn't forgotten about the offer, though, and in time passed the project along to a trusted friend from bootlegging days. That's when Meyer got the call.

“I'll have to check first with my partner,” he informed Lou. Lansky and Luciano conferred the very next day.

Sure, Meyer. Go on down, take a look around. Who knows? Maybe it'll lead to something. If not, freakin' enjoy yourself. Jesus knows, you've more than earned a vacation.

*

“It's beyond belief.” Lansky rhapsodically informed his friend and partner upon return. These two had been inseparable since early in the century. On New York's East Side and all through Little Italy's fabled mean streets, they wrestled control away from the older order. An earlier generation of immigrant mobsters, the well-heeled mustachios, had controlled the rackets pretty much unchallenged until the mid-1910s. The sudden arrival of these arrogant young turks altered everything. The word on the street: Meyer and his Jews provided the brains, Luciano's Sicilians adding the necessary muscle.

However much a simplification that may be, their ongoing cooperation created a formidable organization. From day one, this secretive power-structure—The Combination—was built on mutual trust and a genuine liking between the frail accountant and his cold-eyed partner. Opposites that not only attracted but clicked, Lansky and Luciano created and to a degree perfected organized crime as it would exist through 20h century America.

“Okay, already. I believe ya, Meyer.”

“The Depression's gonna be over soon.”

“I know.”

“We gotta do this, Charley.”

I told ya. I'm sold.”

“When?”

“Right away.”

“Honest?”

Grinning, Luciano spread out his arms. “Would I lie to you? My adopted kike brother?”

*

However sincere Charley may have been, the plans Meyer formulated were set on a back-burner when war broke out in 1941. By then, Charley had been imprisoned, requiring Meyer to zip back and forth between Chicago and New York, then on down to Miami and Tampa, where their coalition owned a considerable number of businesses. Lansky had to do the legwork he and Charley previously shared. In due time, he also had to head west to Las Vegas after Bennie Siegel insisted on building what most mob members believed was one more of their volatile pal's nutty ideas, a financial fiasco in the making: the Flamingo.

Who in his right mind would want to travel to Nevada, for Christ's sake? If we didn't already suspect Bennie's got bugs in his brain, here's the proof.
This according to Frank Costello.

Though Siegel hadn't lived to see it, whacked by his own gang-backers after the Flamingo's costs skyrocketed far beyond any acceptable level owing to his obsession with a two-timing whore, Vegas did turn out to be profitable. Still, the Flamingo sat there like a steel and concrete albatross on an arid stretch of uninviting desert. A fountain in no man's land. Cuba? Eden revisited! Cuba it was, then, for the time being.

As a result of such complex reorganizing, on December 26, 1946 a summit meeting was arranged in Manhattan. Batista arrived sporting his military uniform with enough medals to weigh down a full-grown bear, his presence topped off by a tan cap with black visor that dwarfed the man's head and caused this inherently cruel person to appear slightly comical. He had flown up for the occasion. Contracts were signed, hands shaken, toasts offered.

From that moment on, The Mob was in. Cuba would never be the same, for better or worse.

Better for some. Worse for others
.

*

Six weeks following that summit meeting, on the morning of Sinatra's arrival, a gun-metal gray limo awaited the guest of honor's disembarkation from a state-of-the-art airliner. The sleek auto sped the star past a neat line of swaying palms to the city's upscale Vedado area. During the drive, Frank clung to the briefcase, held squarely on his lap. Inside, as he well knew, were two-million dollars the Mob in general, Charley specifically, needed to cover some unexpected costs.

Lansky had rung up Sinatra in Hollywood, suggesting he head south to cheer up their mutual pal. Do “a favor for a friend?” Sinatra understood what that meant. He would once more serve as courier. Other travelers might have to present carry-on baggage for a routine check. Frank
Sinatra?
Miami guards would request an autograph, then politely usher this lofty passenger on board.

Giddily, Sinatra agreed. Always, Frank experienced a rush when allowed to live out his secret fantasy of being a gangster. He'd grown up watching Humphrey Bogart play such characters and longed to do so himself, if only MGM could get beyond their limited friggin' vision of Sinatra as a light-comedy performer.

Oh, well ... maybe someday ...

Once ensconced in his seventh floor suite, Sinatra had rung up Luciano in his rooms on the eighth. Charley had temporarily abandoned his lush villa in Miramar. There, he neighbored with previous and now-again (if temporarily) president Ramon Grau San Martin. Charley wished to spend every possible moment with Frank.

“I'm here.”

“Bring anything along?”

“Sure.”

“Really? Mind telling me what?”

“It's a surprise.”

Years earlier, Luciano had unofficially adopted the skinny aspiring singer from a seamy section of Hoboken as his kid-brother. Whatever Frankie's moral failings, disloyalty to those good to him did not rank among them. He like Luciano believed dedication to someone who did favors for you in the past served as a qualification for men worthy of respect. Men of honor.

When half an hour later they met in the brightly-lit bar for rum cocktails and Montecristo cigars, Charley immediately took possession of the all-important briefcase. Once that deal was done, he asked Frank what he thought of his accommodations. Though the singer tried his best to cover any disappointment, Charley saw through Frank's act. Yes, the Mafioso admitted, everything is a bit shabby still. Expect the same from the Oriental, which they would visit that afternoon.

Meyer had already focused his entrepreneurial talents on solving such problems, lining up top designers to transform
declasse
La Habana into a decadent Shangri-La. Once completed, they could attract the big rollers from back home. And, for that matter, from all around the globe.

“Sounds like Meyer's kind of job.”

Charley nodded. “He loves all that kind-o' shit.”

Frankie smirked. “And you, my friend?”

“Let Meyer do the grunt work. Me? I'll enjoy the results.”

“
We'll
enjoy the results.”

“Hey, you skinny friggin' wop. When did I ever do anything without you?”

Both laughed loudly, even harshly, at the raw truth of this statement.

*

Reclaiming Cuba's obviously ripe, too-long latent potential had been one subject of a series of top-level mob meetings held here a month and a half earlier. 24 major-league racketeers, including host Lansky and such flamboyantly nicknamed figures as Joey Adonis and Joe Bananas, arrived amid great fanfare and were welcomed as Herculean champions arriving in ancient Greece for
the first Olympics. After some heated discussion, they agreed to name Charley the
copo di tutti capi,
“boss of all bosses.” Luciano would be the first man to hold that position since he helped abolish it fifteen years earlier in favor of a board of directors known as The Commission. This had brought La Cosa Nostra's
line of procedure more in line with that of so-called legitimate American business interests.

But these were rough times. A strong, no-nonsense leader was needed. “All agreed? Fine. You are the chosen one, Charley.”

After deciding that once-beloved Bugsy Siegel had gone cock-crazy over his hottie Virginia Hill and could no longer be counted on to perform rationally for the organization, Charlie encountered no resistance when he announced that Ben had to be whacked. One of the Italians, probably Johnny Roselli, would be assigned to the hit. That's the way things worked: whenever one of the Jews warranted elimination, the Italians did it and vice versa. That way nobody had to rub out one of his own.

This unanimously decided on, then set aside, the mobsters moved on to such immediately pressing issues as Vito Genovese's intolerable moves into other gangsters' lucrative waterfront properties, as well as the controversial decision to create a French Connection, as all here had tagged it. This would allow raw heroin to be sneaked into the U.S. from that country as part of the Mob's swiftly expanding international narcotics trade.

Finally, the time came to talk about Cuba, their lovely host country, and the full development of a lavish offshore playground on these shores. For those who had accepted entrance into the drug trade with serious trepidation, Cuba appeared to be a cash cow all could delight in. After some discussion about operational procedures, the group picked Santo Trafficante, Jr., headquartered in Florida, to serve as their permanent contact person: a go-between who would pass the word, whatever the word happened to be, from stateside headquarters in the northeast, where Lansky continued to hold court, on down to this island.

Unless, that is, Luciano found it necessary to board a boat for Naples and run things from there. Meanwhile, word would go from Chicago through Tampa to Charley in Havana and back again.

As for Sinatra, an invitation had been extended. Come! Play, perform. Frankie would have loved to oblige. One problem stood in the way: his wife Nancy. The much-challenged woman had tolerated his flings throughout the year, even as he grew ever less sensitive as to her feelings by openly escorting his latest mistresses around Hollywood. Nonetheless, Nancy laid down the law when it came to being home with the kids for an elaborate charade every Christmas. The full Sinatra clan staged an annual holiday pageant, pretending to be the perfect all-Italian-American family. They did it for the kids, Frank and Nancy assured each other: young Nancy, now seven; Frank Jr., just two.