I woke up excited the following morning knowing full well my entire day would be filled with more life-changing adventures. After a light breakfast at the hotel, I jumped in a taxi and went directly to my 12-noon meeting with my new friend George. Since he made that crack about “American time,” I didn’t want to be late.
As I approached the Plaza, I could see George in his usual spot dressed in a white shirt and dark pants chatting with a man who looked like a tourist. George’s ability to speak English gave him a marked advantage over the competition. When he spotted me walking up the Prado he started grinning from ear to ear.
“How you doing today, Danny?” he said as I approached. “You’re a man of your word. 12 o’clock sharp” I didn’t fully understand the significance of arriving on time for our appointment. For whatever reason, punctuality is not in the Cuban’s vocabulary. They arrive for an appointment when they arrive. Their motto is “I’ll be there when I get there. If I don’t get there, I won’t be there.”
George flagged a taxi and we made our way down the Prado and drove west on the Malecón. The Malecón is a captivating experience in itself. It stretches roughly five miles along the city’s North coastline bordering the straits of Florida. It seems to be the social hub of the city and maybe a symbol of Havana itself. The crashing waves, the salty sea breeze, and out there, somewhere beyond that endless horizon represents freedom for most Cubans.
It’s the architecture along the street that attracts me as well. A mess of Colonial and Art Deco styles that once made the Malecón the envy of the Western world. Now weathered, decaying, lost in time, a metaphor for the decay of a once noble attempt to bring equality and justice to an impoverished nation.
The young people gather there. Full of hope, sitting on the wall, young lovers embraced against the tyranny of daily life. Just a bottle of rum, music, and their bleak lives are temporarily forgotten, peacefully engulfed by the sun and the sea.
We turned left up 23rd “La Rampa” and went around the block, made a right down 21st street, and stopped at a building across the street from the Nacional. We walked up a flight of marble stairs and into an art deco building. There was a beautiful marble sculpture of a naked David in the lobby.
We went up to a flight of stairs and rang the doorbell of the first apartment at the top. A few moments later the door opened and a lovely 40ish woman greeted us and invited us in. From what I gathered, George explained to her that I was staying at the Habana Libre and found it was too expensive.
This was a nice-sized apartment with three bedrooms. There was a small balcony with a perfect view of the Hotel Nacional directly across the street. We sat down in the living room and she returned a few minutes later with coffee. She told George that her husband would be home shortly so we took our coffees out on the balcony. George’s son had gone to school with the owner of the house. He had just begun to rent rooms to tourists.
About 10 minutes later, a man walked into the living room with black hair and a bushy mustache and introduced himself as Manolo or Manny. I introduced myself as Daniel and in Spanish, it’s pronounced like ‘Danielle’ in the States. He spoke a little English, enough to be understood.
The first room he showed me was larger with a private bathroom. I thought it was funny he pointed out the room had hot and cold water. Don’t all apartments have cold water? I didn’t realize hot water was a big deal. Manolo explained that almost all Casas are equipped with an electric shower head, made in Brazil, which warms the water by about 10 degrees.
It turned out I liked the smaller room in the front of the house facing the street. The toilet was in the shower or vice versa, but I was as happy as a pig in shit. I knew I’d found a home here. Manolo, his wife Araceli, and his two sons Ariel 8, and Manolo 10 live here but he assured me I wouldn’t be bothered.
Manny told me not to worry about having my own key. “Just ring the doorbell when you come home at night, and I’ll get up and let you in,” said Manny. He didn’t know who he was dealing with. Once the rum started flowing and I started my shenanigans, back and forth, in and out, one girl after another, it began to drive him nuts. “Daniel is crazy,” I heard him say to a visitor. By day three, I had my key.
There’s a bar directly across the street called the Monseigneur. It’s below street level, a French-themed restaurant and bar and there is also a cafeteria attached next door with a counter. Opened in 1957, the interior had that old Las Vegas feel to it. The barman spoke pretty good English. His name is Efrain and he’s been the bartender there since the early 1960s.
The greeter stationed in the front of the Monseigneur is Michael. Very friendly and extremely humorous. He has an uncanny resemblance to singer Johnny Mathis. He speaks English and seemed to be a nice guy and someone I’m sure I’ll get to know a lot better as time goes on.
Big George is turning out to be a very interesting person himself. He had worked for mob boss Meyer Lansky in the late 50s. He was the official limousine driver for the hotel when Havana was the glamour and gambling capital of the Caribbean.
Before he worked for Lansky, George was a taxi driver in town and had known everyone in the golden age of the city. He eventually got a job at Lansky’s Hotel Riviera when it opened Christmas 1957. George claims that he never knew about Meyer Lansky’s background and only knew him as the floor manager of the Riviera.
According to George, Meyer was as cool as a cucumber. He was soft-spoken and never raised his voice. Always immaculately groomed, Lansky got a haircut and a shave every morning in the barbershop. When George drove his boss around town, Lansky liked the radio on the lowest volume.
Lansky once caught George playing the slots and said to him, “How many kids you have George?“Seven, Mr. Lansky,” replied George.“Well, if I catch you gambling again George, I’m going to fire you,” said Lansky.
“Gambling is a losing game, George. Now go home and take care of your family.’
During his tenure at the hotel, George picked up lots of mob figures but never knew any names. Some of the Hollywood celebrities he recognized like Ava Gardner and Gary Cooper. He was sent to the airport late one night to pick up Frank Sinatra.
“Sinatra had two requests,” said George. The first was where can could get some “snow” and if he knew anyone who could sew patches on the sleeves of his sports coat, which was in fashion at the time.
He crossed paths with his idol Nat King Cole when Nat played some gigs at the Hotel Riviera and Tropicana. He frequently saw Hollywood actor George Raft who was the official greeter of the Hotel Capri Casino on the same street as Casa Manolo.
When Fulgencio Batista fled the country on New Year’s Eve 1959, the Casinos were ransacked and forced to temporarily close. When the Casino Dealer’s Union protested, Fidel reopened them for about a year. The Cuban government finally nationalized the properties in March of 1960 and then closed them for good in October of the same year.
George related an anecdote that was so unusual it made me stop in my tracks. George claimed that he may have been the only person to ever see Meyer Lansky cry. I stood silent. The only word I could mutter was “cry?”
“That’s right Danny,” said George. “Shortly after the casinos were closed, Mr. Lansky called me one morning and asked me to drive him to the airport. When I arrived at his apartment on the Malecón, he was standing on his balcony, looking out on the sea,” continued George. When Mr. Lanky turned around, he had tears in his eyes. He said, “George, I won’t be coming back this time. Castro doesn’t want me here.”
“I tried to convince Mr. Lansky that the casinos were only closing temporarily and soon everything would go back to the way it was,” George continued. “Lansky just turned around and stared out at the water across the street.”
“That morning I drove him to the airport and never saw my boss again,” said George. “Of course, he was right. That was the end of gambling in Cuba. It wasn’t until a year or two later that he found out who Mr. Lansky was. All I knew at the time was that the owners of the Riviera were Messrs. Ben and Harry Smith, two brothers from Canada.”
George has been hustling around Havana ever since. The only official job he mentioned since the revolution was the few years he worked on the resort island of Cayo Coco. I’m sure his English skills were a big part of his job there.
All these years later he’s still on the hustle. Cuban workers only earn between 15 and 60 dollars a month, so to survive you need to be in La Bolsa Negra. Translated this means “the black bag.” If you want to be able to buy anything besides the bare necessities, all Cubans have to earn money in the black market. I’ve been told that La Bolsa Negra represents about 80-90% of the Cuban economy.
Manny introduced me to the word Jinetero/Jinetera for the first time. It means rider. Riding off of someone else like a tourist. I guess George is considered a Jinetero. He’s on the street every day hustling tourists, so he fits the profile.I’m sure he made a few dollars in commission on the introduction to Casa Manolo, but for $25 a night, who cares?
Since Jinetero George has a connection to just about everything in Havana, I casually asked if he had a good cigar connection. Of course, even if he didn’t, he’d say he did.
“There’s a young man in my vicinity,” said George. “He works at the Partagas factory as a roller and can get you as many cigars as you want out the back door at a very good price.”
“What kind of prices are we talking about George?”
George smiled; he knew he had me on the hook.
“Let’s say between 25 – 40 dollars?”
“A box?” I inquired. “Any brands and sizes.”
“That’s right Chico,” said George.
If this was true, I just struck gold. I could sell the cigars back in Los Angeles for ten times that price. If I could just figure out a way to get them back safely. It’s tricky at the airport. Over a certain number of cigars, customs require official receipts from a state store. If I bought these on the street, there wouldn’t be receipts. How could I get receipts?
Still, I was drooling at the thought of it. My favorite brands directly from the factory. Montecristo #1, Romeo y Julieta Churchill Tubos, Hoyo de Monterrey Epicure Seleccion and even the hard-to-find Montecristo A’s. I told George to talk to his guy and set up a meeting ASAP.
As soon as night fell, I took a shower and walked over to the cafeteria to grab some beers. Walking back with six cans of Chrystal rolling around in a cardboard box, I was approached by a beautiful young girl with dyed blonde hair who asked me where I was going. “Mi casa,” I replied, pointing to the building across the street.
“Y tu?,” I asked. She just smiled.
She was very young and very petite, maybe 5’ 1 and about 100 pounds. I felt a little uncomfortable standing on the street corner with her. I pointed at her and then to myself and said “You go with me? Mi Casa?” and pointed across the street. She nodded her head and stuck her arm out at a passing taxi that stopped on a dime.
Before I had a chance to explain where my house was, I was in the back seat of a taxi going to who knows where with this gorgeous little girl. We drove about five blocks and got out. I paid the driver three dollars and we walked up a flight of steps and into an apartment building.
The girl is walking ahead of me and stops at the first door and knocks. An old man answers and he knows this little twat. We walk in and sit down on the sofa; I’m still carrying the box of beers in a cardboard carton. I offer the old man one and of course, he takes it.
He speaks a little English and tells me the room will be 10 dollars. OK, now I know why I am sitting here. The girl looked young and I was feeling a little embarrassed but this old prick could give a fuck as long as he got his sawbuck. If I walked through the door with His daughter, he wouldn’t have cared less.
We all stand and I hand him the money and he walks us down a hall to a bedroom and opens the door. Once inside, I crack a beer and give one to the girl. Less than a minute later she walks out of the bathroom naked and climbs into bed.
I shut the light off, shed my clothes, and climbed in next to her and we started to kiss. There is light coming in from the street filtered by the soft curtains on the window. I turn on my side and we hold each other. She smelled like lavender and her skin was as smooth as silk.
I pull down the blanket and start sucking on her pert little nipples and she arches her back and begins to moan. She’s so young and pretty, I had to lick her little pussy for everything it’s worth. I work my big finger in and out of her wet little twat and begin rubbing her clit. This was unbelievable. As I mounted her and she opened her legs wide and we fucked each other into bliss.
After an hour or so, she gets out of bed and turns on the light. I lay there looking at her young, tight body and beautiful little ass walking to the bathroom. It’s an image I’ll never forget. She got dressed and slipped on her heels like she was in a hurry or something. Suddenly the spell was broken and I began to think “fuck, this could have been some kind of a setup.”
I got up and found my clothes strewn around the bed. Suddenly, I was anxious to get the fuck out of there. She’s young and I had a vision of her father bursting into the room and demanding five thousand dollars or he’s calling the police.
I grabbed one of the green cans of Cristal sweating on the dresser and opened it. I got dressed fast and gave the girl a 20 spot as we walked through the house and out the door at a brisk gate. I felt as if I had just committed a crime or something-maybe I did. On the street in front of the building, I gave her a quick kiss and said “Manaña, ocho, Monsignor.” She smiled and said “Si.”
I looked around and noticed the bell tower of the Hotel Nacional which appeared less than a mile away. She walked in one direction and I began walking in the direction of the Nacional wondering if I had enough money left for another six-pack. The house was closer than I thought it was and I was back in the safe haven of Casa Manolo’s before I knew it.
Manny’s house turned out to be a great find. Even the building is amazing. A six-story art deco design that was built in the late 1940s by a doctor. Manolo has a kind black woman named Malagra who comes in during the day and cleans the house. It’s a perfect situation for me. I’m invisible to the family and can come and go as I please.
I felt an immediate connection with the family, it kind of gave me some protection from the elements of the city. I was still naïve about Havana street life and would later hear some “Whore” stories about guys getting all of their money stolen by one of these Jineteras.
Some interesting characters are living in the building as well. A woman named Lilly lives across the hall. She grew up in the States and moved back to Havana during high school. There is a crazy son-of-a bitch named Richard who lives on the 4th floor of the building. He has a bright smile, sparkling eyes, and several gold teeth. He insists on calling me “Jack Daniels.” Of course, he can get me anything I need. I’m sure we’ll do some business down the road.
On the first floor near the entrance is Armando who is somewhat of an intellectual. His house is also a Casa Particular, His parents sit in the front window all day looking for renters. Armando knows Manny from school and is trying to become a professional writer. There t also a guy living upstairs named Silvio who looks exactly like the former heavyweight coxing champion Floyd Patterson.
As far as location, I’m across from the Nacional for a good meal and a short walk to the Habana Libre. Lots of other places to eat nearby including a couple of new paladares that opened up the street. The government is allowing Cubans to turn their houses into restaurants to help serve the increasing demand from tourism. They’re required to pay a monthly tax to the Beard.
Besides the hotels and paladares, there’s a restaurant down the street for cheap lunches called Wakamba. Once a famous Chinese restaurant in the 1950s, it’s a cafeteria now that serves Cubano sandwiches and spaghetti for a couple of bucks. Across the street from Wakamba, in front of Hotel St John’s is a small outdoor espresso bar for great coffee and cookies.
This is my world now and these are the people in it. If I can get the product home safely, I’ll be back again next month. There are a few things I need to figure out first. Where to get the best product at the lowest prices and how to get it out of here. Since everything could be found in the La Bolsa Negra, I wondered if could get some official factory receipts there too to allow me to clear customs. It would take some legwork, but somehow, someway, I will figure it out.
