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[2012] Havana Lost
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Praise for Libby Fischer Hellmann
A Bitter Veil
“The Iranian revolution provides the backdrop for this meticulously researched, fast-paced stand-alone …A significant departure from the author’s Chicago-based Ellie Foreman and Georgia Davis mystery series, this political thriller will please established fans and newcomers alike.”
—Publishers Weekly
“Hellmann crafts a tragically beautiful story… both subtle and vibrant… never sacrificing the quality of her storytelling. Instead, the message drives the psychological and emotional conflict painting a bleak and heart wrenching tale that will stick with the reader long after they finish the book.”
—Crimespree Magazine
“Readers will be drawn in through the well-researched inside look at Iran in the late 1970s and gain perspective on what the people in that time and place endured. A Bitter Veilis so thought-provoking that it especially would be a great title for book clubs to discuss.”
—Book Reporter
“A Bitter Veil… is a social statement about what can happen when religious fundamentalism trumps human rights, but that’s hardly a drawback in this suspenseful, well-researched book. It might even serve as a warning.”
—Mystery Scene Magazine
Set the Night on Fire
“A top-rate standalone thriller that taps into the antiwar protests of the 1960s and 70s…A jazzy fusion of past and present, Hellman’s insightful, politically charged whodunit explores a fascinating period in American history.”
—Publishers Weekly
“Superior standalone novel…Hellmann creates a fully-realized world…complete with everyday details, passions and enthusiasms on how they yearned for connection, debated about ideology and came to belief in taking risks to stand up for what they believed.”
—Chicago Tribune
“Haunting…Rarely have history, mystery, and political philosophy blended so beautifully…could easily end up on the required reading list in college-level American History classes.”
—Mystery Scene Magazine
Also by Libby Fischer Hellmann
A Bitter Veil
Set the Night on Fire
♦
THE GEORGIA DAVIS SERIES:
Nobody’s Child
ToxiCity
Doubleback
Easy Innocence
♦
THE ELLIE FOREMAN SERIES:
Jump Cut
A Shot to Die For
An Image of Death
A Picture of Guilt
An Eye for Murder
♦
Nice Girl Does Noir (short stories)
War, Spies, and Bobby Sox (novella and stories)
♦
Chicago Blues (editor)
Havana Lost
Libby Fischer Hellmann
The Red Herrings Press
Chicago
This is a work of fiction. Descriptions and portrayals of real people, events, organizations, or establishments are intended to provide background for the story and are used fictitiously. Other characters and situations are drawn from the author’s imagination and are not intended to be real.
Copyright © 2013 Libby Fischer Hellmann All rights reserved.
Cover design by Jeroen ten Berge
Interior design by Sue Trowbridge
Names: Hellmann, Libby Fischer.
Title: Havana lost / Libby Fischer Hellmann.
Description: Chicago : The Red Herrings Press, [2013] | Includes bibliographical references.
Identifiers: ISBN 978-1-938733-38-3 | ISBN 978-1-938733-39-0 (ebook) Subjects: LCSH: Families—Cuba—Havana—Fiction. | Mafia—Cuba—Havana —Fiction. | Man-woman relationships—Fiction. | Cuba—History—Revolution, 1959—Fiction. | Havana (Cuba)—Fiction. | LCGFT: Historical fiction. | Thrillers (Fiction)
Classification: LCC PS3608.E46 H38 2013 (print) | LCC PS3608.E46 (ebook) | DDC 813/.6—dc23
To Robin and Angela, with fond memories of Regla
“If we open a quarrel between past and present,
we shall find that we have lost the future.”
—Winston Churchill
Contents
Praise for Libby Fischer Hellmann
Also by Libby Fischer Hellmann
Dedication
Epigraph
PART ONE
CHAPTER ONE
CHAPTER TWO
CHAPTER THREE
CHAPTER FOUR
CHAPTER FIVE
CHAPTER SIX
CHAPTER SEVEN
CHAPTER EIGHT
CHAPTER NINE
CHAPTER TEN
CHAPTER ELEVEN
CHAPTER TWELVE
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
CHAPTER NINETEEN
PART TWO
CHAPTER TWENTY
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE
CHAPTER THIRTY
CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE
CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO
CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE
CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR
CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE
CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX
CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN
CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT
PART THREE
CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE
CHAPTER FORTY
CHAPTER FORTY-ONE
CHAPTER FORTY-TWO
CHAPTER FORTY-THREE
CHAPTER FORTY-FOUR
CHAPTER FORTY-FIVE
CHAPTER FORTY-SIX
CHAPTER FORTY-SEVEN
CHAPTER FORTY-EIGHT
CHAPTER FORTY-NINE
CHAPTER FIFTY
CHAPTER FIFTY-ONE
CHAPTER FIFTY-TWO
CHAPTER FIFTY-THREE
CHAPTER FIFTY-FOUR
CHAPTER FIFTY-FIVE
CHAPTER FIFTY-SIX
ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS
About the Author
THE ELLIE FOREMAN SERIES
THE GEORGIA DAVIS SERIES
SET THE NIGHT ON FIRE
A BITTER VEIL
WAR, SPIES AND BOBBY SOX
NICE GIRL DOES NOIR
Visit Libby's Store
PART ONE
1958 – CUBA
CHAPTER ONE
In the half-second between the explosion and his awareness of it, Federico Vasquez wasn’t sure it was real. The flash of white light slicing through the tropical noontime sun could have been an illusion, something he might have missed if he’d blinked. The ear-splitting boom, oddly crunchy, was followed by a deep rumble and could have been a dream. Likewise the wave of hot noise that expanded until a deafening silence took its place. Even the shaky ground, rattling windows, and trembling leaves seemed unearthly and strange.
But the smells confirmed it. The chalky smell of overheated Havana pavement gave way to a gunpowder-y, flinty odor. With it came the scent of char, all of it tinged with a slight alcohol—or was it gasoline?—aroma.
This was no dream.
A scream pierced the silence. Then another. Flames erupted from the bank on the corner. Plumes of orange and yellow climbed the sides of the building, then rose as black smoke. Traffic on both sides of La Rampa skidded to a stop. Horrified pedestrians bolted in a frantic rush. Vasquez was safe, a hundred yards away in the jewelry store he owned, but the terror was contagious, and he started to shake uncontrollably. A sick
ly sweet odor, like fat sizzling on a grill, filtered through the air.
“Aaayy Dios Mio!” he cried out to the only customer in the store. “What is to come of us? It is one thing when the rebels are in the mountains, but when they come to Havana… on La Rampa…” He wrung his hands. “This will not end well.”
The customer, Señorita Pacelli, joined him at the front of the store, and together they watched the scene unfold. Vasquez sensed she wasn’t fearful, as most women would be. Just quiet.
Within minutes, La Rampa was blocked by police cars, sirens wailing. A platoon of fire trucks, ambulances, and military jeeps followed. The police set up barricades on both ends of the block. A cadre of soldiers tried to manage the crowd, which now that the initial horror had subsided, was huge.
Vasquez glanced over at the young woman. Her composure in the midst of mayhem was unsettling. Then again, she wasn’t Cuban. She was an American. Of Italian descent. From a family that would as soon cut off your hand as shake it. But she and her ilk were his best customers these days. He ran his hands up the lapels of his jacket and cleared his throat.
“My apologies, Señorita.” He made an effort to bring himself under control. “For my outburst. It was—inappropriate. Are you all right? May I bring you a glass of water to settle your nerves?”
The girl didn’t appear as if she needed anything, and she shook her head. With her long black hair, high cheekbones, and slim but curvy figure, she was the kind of girl men stopped to look at. And when they saw her eyes, large and dark and luminous, they usually took a second look. Why, he could—Vasquez stopped himself. He was old enough to be her grandfather. “I will get your watch. It is ready.”
“Oh, Señor Vasquez, I don’t care about the watch.” She looked through the shop’s window. The blinding mid-day light offered no respite, and the scene at the bank looked bleak. “Do you think perhaps it was merely an accident? A gas explosion? Something overheated, maybe? That kind of thing has been known—”
“Not possible.” He cut her off. “Banco Pacifico is a government bank. Favored by Batista…” he paused, “… and Americans.”
The girl looked down. Vasquez couldn’t tell if she was angry or ashamed. Señorita Pacelli’s father was manager and part owner of La Perla, one of the newest and most luxurious resort casinos in Havana. Before that the man had managed the casino at the Oriental Park Racetrack for Meyer Lansky. Vasquez didn’t particularly like Pacelli, but he depended on him. At Pacelli’s recommendation, tourists flocked to his store, eager to buy a bracelet, ring, or bauble to remind them of their Havana vacation. Pacelli never asked for anything in return: no kickback, discount, nothing. Still, this girl and her family would always be outsiders. Tolerated, perhaps, because of their money, power, and connections, but like all colonialists, never truly accepted.
The girl craned her neck toward the bank. A sad look swept across her face. “When I was a little girl, my father used to take me with him when he went to the bank. I remember how cool the marble floor was, especially on hot days; how the ceiling fan blades made slow, lazy circles. How I could tell how much taller I’d grown since the last trip by measuring myself against those tall black counters.” Her voice trailed off. Vasquez almost felt sorry for her. Then her face took on a determined expression, as if she’d made a decision.
“Señor Vasquez, I will come back for the watch. I want to go down to the bank.”
He wagged a stern finger. “No, Señorita. It is not a good idea. Too dangerous. Stay here until the street reopens. I will call your father and tell him you are safe.”
“But what if there are people who need help? I could—”
A long black Cadillac with enormous tail fins suddenly slid to the curb, and a man in black pants, white shirt, and black cap jumped out.
The chauffeur. How had he made it onto La Rampa? Vasquez opened the door of the shop. The chauffeur had driven the car onto the sidewalk, that’s how. A few nearby shopkeepers and pedestrians who’d gathered to watch the carnage stared. They probably didn’t know who the car belonged to, but their subtle hostility indicated they knew it was someone rich. And therefore not to be trusted.
“Too late.” The girl squared her shoulders, and went through the door. “Enrico!”
The chauffeur spun around. When he spotted her, a relieved look swept over him. He hurried over. “Señorita Pacelli, you must come with me. Your father is crazy with worry.”
“Tell him I’m fine. I want to stay.”
“No, Miss Francesca.” He gripped her arm. “Your father says you must come home. Now.”
Her body seemed to deflate, and she allowed him to lead her to the car. Vasquez knew the chauffeur was, in fact, a bodyguard. Hired to protect her, especially in a situation such as this. Vasquez saw her take one last glance at the bank.
Water poured out of hoses and helped smother the flames. Several people on gurneys were wheeled toward ambulances. The crowd was still growing, and there didn’t seem to be any order to it, but the screams and sirens had stopped, replaced by occasional shouts and commands. Two police officials emerged from the bank, carrying what looked to be a dead body. Vasquez turned away.
The chauffeur led the girl to the Cadillac. The engine was still running; Vasquez could see tiny puffs of white coming from the tail pipe. The chauffeur opened the back door, and the girl climbed in.
CHAPTER TWO
La Perla: The Night Before
The ostrich feathers didn’t line up. Frankie could tell; she’d seen the show at La Perla at least a dozen times. The showgirls’ headdresses were supposed to form a precise, level wave of pink and white that swayed as one when they danced.
“Is that too much to ask?” Marco the choreographer would have pouted in his high-pitched, nasal voice. “After all, you’re not wearing much else.”
But Marco was on vacation back in the States, and the feathers were a jagged, uneven line. Frankie sipped her daiquiri and tried to figure where the problem was. She peered at the stage.
There. The fourth girl on the left was at least two inches shorter than the others. The girls were supposed to be the same height, five-six, give or take an inch. One of them probably got sick—no surprise in this heat—and arranged for an understudy. The understudy knew the steps, but she wasn’t in the right spot. She should have been on an end.
If her father knew, Frankie thought, he would be furious. Everything at La Perla was supposed to be perfect. Elegant. Classy. How often had he berated the staff for a slip that Frankie herself hadn’t noticed? She gazed at the girls, mulling it over. Maybe he wouldn’t have to know. His eye wasn’t as discerning as hers—as far as the shows went—and he had other things on his mind, especially these days. She could drop backstage after this show, alert the stage manager, and everything would be fixed before the midnight show.
Then again, it might not matter. The audience probably hadn’t noticed. They weren’t watching the girls’ headdresses anyway; they were ogling the girls’ skimpy bikinis, adorned with glittering sequins. Staring at breasts and legs as the girls sashayed across the stage in the series of sultry poses Marco called a number.
Frankie decided not to do anything. It wasn’t that important. She sat back and tried to let the music sweep over her. Like the girls, the music was meant to be seductive—to bolster the sensual, anything-goes atmosphere of Havana. Tease the tourists enough, ply them with liquor, and they’d loosen their wallets at the casinos. That was the theory.
At the same time everyone knew that tourists, especially Americans, weren’t ready for real Cuban music. They wouldn’t understand. Wouldn’t appreciate its “foreignness.” The band played with energy, adding a Latin riff here and there, but it was controlled. Familiar. The conga drums of the cha-cha—or a more exotic rumba—were tempered by a cheerful sax or trumpet. Benny Goodman meets Santería. Even Frank Sinatra came to Havana to perform. She imagined him trying to perform a tribute to the Santería gods and grinned.
“What’s so funny?” A
male voice whispered in her ear.
She turned to Nicky and squeezed his hand. Nick Antonetti was in love with Frankie. Everyone knew it; her parents, the maitre d’ who gave them the number one table, even the housekeeping staff, who, when they saw them together, were more obsequious than usual. Nick had come down from Chicago to see her during the hottest part of the year.