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Havana Nights

Island Betrayal

By Michael J MasseyPublished 3 years ago 7 min read
3
Havana Nights
Photo by Spencer Everett on Unsplash

The wettest heat wave ever to strike NYC happened Labor Day Weekend 1959. While everyone else scurrying to work on Madison Avenue was melting through their clothes, Edward Singleton strolled to work in his perfect Brooks Brothers suit and black wingtip shoes shined to perfection. Black sunglasses hiding his piercing blue eyes, he turned many necks as he worked his way through the crowd to get to his job as an account executive at Spicer and Lowe. Once inside the cool building, he popped his sunglasses into his breast pocket before sliding into a closing elevator. Pushing the button for the 7th floor, he waited patiently until the soft whoosh and ding announced his arrival.

“Morning Ed. Nice suit. Pitch meeting in 10 minutes. Don’t be late.” Pouring two coffees and handing one to his boss, Danny Spinner, with an enormous smile. “Am I ever late buddy?” Stopping to grab a newspaper and donut on the way to the conference room, Edward slid into one of the remaining eight leather chairs circling the table, just in time for Danny to start the meeting.

“Things have really been heating in Cuba for the last six months and we need new business. Whose got an idea?” 

“Sugar cane company, pineapples, rum.” The other seven guys shouted out.

“Cigars. Very Rat Pack, Dean Martin Sammy Davis Jr.” Edward chimed in. “I love it, Singleton. Call Dr Jorgensen in research and see what she’s got on cigar companies in Havana. You speak Spanish right, Singleton? Of course you do. Talk to my secretary today. I need you on the first flight she can get you on. And don’t come back without a deal.”

Edward headed back to his office to make a quick phone call home. “Hey Mama, I’m headed to Havana next week. I will, I’m always careful. Chuckling softly. “You know me. Call you when I get there, give poppa a kiss from me.” Dropping the phone back in the cradle, beaming, he grabbed a notepad to get his thoughts on paper and plan his Havana strategy. 

The Cuban Revolution was almost a year ago, and Edward was on pins and needles waiting at the airport for the flight to Havana. Spicer and Lowe were sending him down to pitch a hip new cigar company that just opened outside of Havana because he was the only one on staff that spoke Spanish. They think it’s because he aced it in college. The reality is he is the son of illegal immigrants from Venezuela that escaped to the US in the 1930s. Edward knew his parents came from an affluent family, so he never understood why they left it all behind, and they shut him up whenever he asked. Lost in his own thoughts, he nearly missed the flight announcement, rushing towards the gate and out onto the tarmac to catch his plane. 

Once he landed in Havana and found a taxi, he headed straight to a bar the locals recommended. Settling in for an evening of cold beer and cigars, a beautiful raven haired woman sipping a scotch immediately captivated him. Stepping away from his table, he headed toward the bar to make small talk. 

“Hola senorita. Como te llama?” 

Woken up by the sound of flies buzzing around the window of a dingy hotel room, Edward tried to sit up but stopped by the two large ropes crossed over his midsection. “Buenos Dios, Senor Singleton.” 

By Pedro Gonzalez on Unsplash

“What is this?” Motioning with his head towards the ropes. “And who’re you?

“Victoria Philipe” Her shocking blue eyes, dark hair and oddly attractive cat eye glasses mesmerized Edward. “Just waiting for you to wake up in time for The Boss to talk to you.”

Getting up slowly and putting her hair up in a tight bun. “You certainly enjoy beer and cigars, Mr Singleton.” 

“Look. I’m just an ad man from New York. That’s it. I get people to buy stuff they don’t really need. Beads of sweat poured off his nose as he struggled to release himself.

“Oh, we already know that. I don't care about you, it’s your parents. Turning to look out the window. “The Boss is here now. Sit tight, Edward. Don’t go anywhere. Straining to see what was happening at the front door of the hotel room, it shocked him to see a slight, small greasy man with horn-rimmed glasses talking to his captor.

“Mr Singleton, I see Victoria has you all strapped in for our talk. Good, good. Red faced and sweating from the heat and fear, Edward blurted out. “I don’t know what you want or what my parents have to do with anything. They have nothing, for God’s sake they’re poor immigrants from Venezuela”

“Thats what they told you, I’m sure. Sitting down on the edge of the bed so close that Edward could smell the smoke and sweat emanating from his clothing. “Let me tell you a brief story. They stole money from my family, money that my father worked himself to death to get for his family. Getting up off of the bed to light a cigar, he continued. “Caracas is the diamond capital of South America and he took full advantage of that.” For the next hour, The Boss spun out an unbelievable story of betrayal, murder and money laundering that felt like they pulled it from a pulp fiction detective story. 

“So you see Edward, sitting back down on the bed. “I don't care about you. It’s the money your parents took out of Venezuela. And I want it back.” 

“And tying me up like a pig in some sweaty motel room is going to help. I told you I know nothing about diamonds or money.” Tears formed in his bloodshot eyes as Edward’s macho interior eroded. Grabbing the clunky phone from the bedside table, The Boss dialed a series of numbers, but all Edward could hear was the clicking sound of the dialing until finally a female voice came on the line. 

“Hello, hello.” Edward instantly recognized it as his mother and wanted to scream out to warn her, but Victoria pulled out a gun from her skirt and pointed it at him. 

“Senora Singleton. This is Manuel Del Negro.” Silence. “Yes, I thought you might recognize the name. You should probably just listen to what I have to say because we have your son here in Havana. How should I say? A bit indisposed. “I’ll cut right to it. I want the money you took from my father. Today. Or your son dies alone in this seedy little hotel ro..”

Clocking Manuel in the head with the revolver and pushing him off the bed, Victoria sat down next to Edward, picking up the phone. 

“All is well mom, it's Victoria. Yes, he’s fine too. Te quiero. Bye” 

She talked as she untied Edward. “I know you didn’t know about me. How could you, they had split up for a while and mom moved in with someone from work? Guess they got a little too close and here I am.

Glancing over at Manuel’s crumpled body on the floor, she continued. “He’s been extorting money from our parents for years, threatening to expose their dirty little secret. I’ve been a double agent in Manuel’s corral for a while. Once you called mom about your business trip, I tipped off Manuel and he and I trailed you all the way to Cuba. Once you came over to chat with me, I spiked your drink and then brought you here. “

“Unbelievable. You used me in this little scheme to get some low life criminal? Where are my clothes, I need to get out of here.Now.” Brushing past her to head to the bathroom, Victoria followed him as he slammed the door in her face. 

“I’m sorry, Edward. I had no choice.” She talked louder over the shower. “You were never in danger and I knew that… opening the door, Edward stood nose to nose with her.

“Knew what. C’mon. Knew what. That I wouldn’t die in some ratty motel in Havana. You know what, maybe all of this was some kind of weird sign from God. Maybe my life should really mean something instead of this playboy attitude I’ve been living. Lately, I’ve been feeling like my entire life’s been a great big lie. I’m done.” Backing up into the bathroom, Edward shut the door on her again. “Now I need you to get out and never call me, write me, or follow me anywhere again. I’m heading back to New York tonight. There’s something that I need to take care of it.”

Walking out of Spicer and Lowe, Edward was filled with a sense of peace and comfort that he’d never felt in his life. Heading over to the closest pay phone and depositing the coins, fingers poised over the number, he started dialing. 

“Hello, yes. I need to book a flight from New York to Caracas, please. Departing tomorrow.”

Short Story
3

About the Creator

Michael J Massey

I am a Care Manager, amateur boxer-in-training, chaplain that enjoys spending hours crafting short story fiction. Published author and screenplay writer.

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