When the train docked in Las Vegas, I grabbed a porter and had him escort me to the cab stand. I loaded four boxes of contraband and a small travel bag into the back of a taxi van and headed to Caesar’s Palace on the strip.

We pulled up at the busy front entrance and I told the concierge I needed a dolly for a special delivery to Rick Munday’s office. A few minutes later he showed up a two-wheeler and helped me load the boxes. I rolled right through the front door amid a sea the humanity and the ringing and dinging of slot machines.

I told the girl at the front desk I had a meeting with Rick Munday, the head of VIP services. She asked my name and told me to wait in the lounge for a page. No sooner had I sipped my first Cuba Libre when I heard, “Daniel Orion, report to the front desk,” echo through the lounge.

A cowboy-looking dude with a handlebar mustache was standing there watching me roll up with the boxes. He asked if I was Daniel and introduced himself as Colton. I followed Colton to the elevator and we rode up to the VIP lounge on the 32^nd. floor. He buzzed us into an office where Rick Munday was sitting behind a large glass desk with a phone in his hand.

Munday looked every inch a casino  executive, nattily attired in a navy blue suit and tie with mauve-colored shirt. We shook hands and he got straight to the point. “What’ya got for us Dan.” I lifted a    box on the desk and ripped it open. He liked what he saw especially the larger, “big shot” sized cigars like the Churchills, Torpedoes and Double Coronas.

He didn’t balk at the prices. I rounded all the boxes up to $400. The only exception was the double coronas for $500. Rick piled up 20 boxes on a table, wrote $8,000 on an invoice and handed it to Colton. “Take Dan down to the cage and get him paid,” Munday said.

Colton escorted me down to the casino floor where a stunning brunette counted out 80 one-hundred-dollar bills and slid them into a large zip-lock bag. I folded the cash into my travel bag and left the casino the same way I came in. All these lame fucks, I thought to myself, come here from all over the world for a thrill. To gamble, fuck, drink all they want and not be judged for it. I’m a lame fuck too I guess. I’ve been coming to this shit-hole for thirty years, but this time it’s different. The odds are in my favor.

At least I have my foot in the door now. This could be the start of a wonderful relationship if I played it right. Munday instructed me to call him as soon as I got back from my next trip, He only had one request. Montecristo A’s. Monte A’s are one of the most sought-after cigars in the world. Over 9 inches long with a 47-ring gage. He’d pay $1,000 a box if I could find them. I’d give it my best shot.

I had the cabbie drop me off at the South Strip Amtrak station and I bought a ticket for Los Angeles. I put the two remaining boxes in the storage locker on the lower level of the car and carried the grip to the bar for a drink. I needed a drink. It’s a long ride to Union Station.

When I finally rolled into LA, James was waiting for me as I came down the ramp into the Art Deco restaurant/bar area. He was impressed about the Vegas deal and I assured him that this was only the beginning. In the meantime, I needed other avenues of distribution besides Vegas.

Since I had about a four-week layover in SoCal, I thought it might be a good idea to drive around town and check out various cigar shops and try to drum up interest in Cuban Cigars. With the cigar boom getting louder, I knew the demand was there. Everyone wants them but no one can get them.

Shop owners is afraid to talk about Cuban cigars because of the stigma and illegality of selling them under the table. If you’re caught, there’s a hefty fine and you could have your tobacco license revoked and in a worst-case scenario, have your store closed and be prosecuted.

The first lounge I went to was a local place in Redondo Beach called Bombay Cigar Society. It was only a 10-minute drive from home so I stopped by one Saturday morning. I bought a cigar, sat down in their lounge area, and lit up. The owner was a guy named Marty and I asked him straight away if he had a line on Cuban cigars.

Marty was a coy prick and changed the subject immediately. He told me he’d always wanted to travel to Cuba but didn’t know how to do it. I offered to arrange a trip for him and he started to loosen up. To take it a step further, I even offered to put together a cigar tour of Havana for his high-end clients. I had never really thought about being a Havana tour guide but I guess if the price was right, why not?

As far as moving product, I didn’t make any headway at Bombay Cigars. As I was leaving, Marty followed me out and asked (in a whispering tone, as if we were under surveillance), “If you ever happened to come across a box of Partagas 8-9-8s, I have a client willing to pay $800 for them.

And there’s a $200 commission in there for you,” Marty said.

About a week later, I got a call from Joseph, my old boss in the film industry. Joe was still hustling around Hollywood and as soon as he found out I was in the Cuban Cigar trade, called me to say he had a guy named Svend looking for Cubans. Svend worked the pool at the Beverly Hills Hotel.

A couple days later Joe picked me up and we made our way up to the Hotel to meet his friend Svend. Svend Peterson turned out to be more than just the hotel “pool guy.” He was the famous “Poolside Prince” of the iconic Beverly Hills Hotel. The tall blonde Swede had rubbed elbows with Hollywood’s elite for decades.

As “THE MAN” at the pool for over 30 years, Svend had met everybody who was anybody from Hollywood’s Golden Age including Marilyn Monroe, Katherine Hepburn, Paul Newman, Gary Grant, etc. Now his contacts were the younger, hip film crowd who were enjoying the new cigar trend. If Svend wanted to remain “the man” he needed a supplier of fine Cubans for his young friends.

He seemed like a no-nonsense kind of guy and was very specific about what he wanted. His first order was Cohiba Esplindidos which, at the time, was one of the most sought-after brands. They were a Churchill size, 7 inches long with a 47-ring gauge. I promised I’d do my best to bring him a couple of boxes on my next run.

In the middle of my four-week hiatus from the island, something unexpected happened. I received some troubling news from friends returning from the island that a series of hotel bombings had taken place around Havana, primarily targeting tourist hotels and restaurants.

My first concern was that the island would be locked down; which Cuba is more capable of doing. Run by the State, they could flip a switch and the country would go dark. I would just have to sit it out and see what happened.

After a couple of weeks, there was still no word in the American media about the attacks and my smuggler amigos were still going back and forth, so I figured the coast was clear to return.

I found out later that the bombings were orchestrated by anti-communist militants based in Miami. They targeted popular locations like the Copacabana where an Italian tourist was killed. Also hit were the Capri, Nacional, and Meliá Cohiba Hotels and even the famous Bodeguita del Medio where the Mojito was born. The organizer of the attacks was a Cuban exile and former CIA asset named Luis Posada.

The ring of terrorists was busted and Posada, under the threat of torture and execution, was protected from extradition by the United States.  Two of the other bombers were Salvadorian and one was Guatemalan with one of the conspirators extradited to Cuba from Venezuela.

All were initially sentenced to death but then had their sentences commuted to thirty years in prison. As soon as I realized there were no travel restrictions on travel, I booked my ticket for mid-October. Hotel bombings and the weather I had no control over but I needed to be proactive and eliminate as many potential glitches in my smuggling operation as I could.

By now I had enough experience to anticipate things that could go wrong along the Silk Road. Cuban Customs agents were getting better at detecting “goony” street cigars and were becoming more astute at checking all of the factory markings on the boxes to validate their authenticity.

Cigars that you buy from Jineteros on the street may or may not have factory stamps on the bottom. And even if they do, they could be wrong. The stamps indicate which factory the cigars were made and the date of production.

The first thing I needed to do was make factory stamps for the unstamped boxes I bought on the street. There was a custom stamp store in the South Bay Galleria where I could make them. Each factory had a different 4-letter code number. I knew the numbers of the various factories and I also made a changeable date stamp in a different font so I could date the boxes as well.

On my last trip, I made an astonishing discovery at Dos Gardenias in Miramar. One afternoon Harry and I were there for lunch and just inside the restaurant entrance, was a retail store that had a nice cigar selection. I noticed the cheapest boxes in the store were Quintana in the tubes. The cigars were machine-rolled and only cost 16 dollars a box.

Because each cigar was in air-tight metal tubes, the boxes were larger than a regular box. I had an idea. I could buy 10 boxes of Quintana’s for $160, replace the tubes with 30 top-grade Robustos in each box and reseal them. Then I would have an official factura (factory receipt) that Customs would approve at Jose Marti. Another potential problem is solved!

The final checkpoint was US Customs. Anticipating having my bags checked at LAX, I needed a foolproof plan. Since transporting cigars from Mexico was legal, and as far as customs knew, I had only traveled to Mexico, I printed 4” x 16” white bands with HECHO A MANO MEXICO SAN ANDRÈS in large letters on each band.

My new plan required that as soon as I clear Cuban Customs to leave the country, I find a nice quiet spot in the airport to transfer the cigars from the Quintana boxes into bundles of 25 and glue the white “Made in Mexico” bands around them. If I got searched at LAX, I’d tell them they were Mexican cigars and pay a small import tax.

I just needed to convince my buyers that the physical boxes we unnecessary and allow them to buy cigars in bundles with a discount. It was a win-win all the way around. Once I had everything organized, I bought a round-trip ticket to Havana via Mexico City.

 I played it cute this time and didn’t get blasted as usual. It made my connection through Mexico City a lot easier. After breakfast at the old Baron Rojo, I made my way to AeroMexico to check in for my 10:30 flight to Habana.

After I had my seat assigned and a physical ticket, I stood in line to board. Right in front of me was a stunning blonde who turned around to ask me a question. She pointed to a grey-haired old lady standing just outside the red rope and said she needed food delivered to her family at the airport in Havana.

Blondie asked me If I would mule a bag for the woman whose family would be waiting at the airport in Havana. Blondie said she was taking a bag for the lady and asked me to take the other one. I didn’t want to be responsible for delivering this bag somewhere but Blondie assured me the lady’s family would be waiting for me as I exited the airport and identify the bag with the blue ribbon tied to the handle.

Since I didn’t have any carry-on bags this time, I thought what the fuck? Why not do a good deed for someone? I agreed and the old lady handed me the bag. She squeezed my hand and said “gracias” and walked out the turnstile door into bright Mexico City sunshine. I never saw Blondie after we boarded the plane but I’d look for her at Jose Marti.

I never gave the carry-on bag a second thought. As soon as I landed in Havana, I breezed through immigration and made my way to the baggage claim to wait for my checked suitcase. It was one of the first bags to fall and I grabbed it and headed for the exit. Suddenly, out of nowhere, a customs agent approaches me and wants to examine my bags. That was the first time I’d been searched entering the country.

Suddenly realizing I was schlepping this old lady’s bag with unknown contents; I saw my life flash in front of me as I followed the agent to the examination table. I was trying my best to explain to the agent that it wasn’t my bag but you know how that went. She just nodded her head and told me to put my bags on the table so she could examine them.

I frantically scanned the airport for Blondie but of course, she was nowhere to be found. As the agent reached into the carry-on, all I could imagine was her lifting out a kelo of blow, airport security putting me in handcuffs, and police escorting me to jail. The first thing she pulled out was a box of powdered milk, then two large zip-lock bags of vitamins, then spices, and so on. I was safe.

Valuable lesson learned. Don’t transport anything that doesn’t belong to you. As soon as I walked out of the airport someone grabbed me by the arm. He pointed to the bag I was carrying with the blue ribbon tied to it. As I handed it to him, I held onto it momentarily and said “De nada, asshole.” He just shook his head, turned, and walked away.

Harry was there waiting for me and saw the whole thing unfold. “What the fuck was that?” Harry said.

“It’s a long story man,” I said. “Let’s go to the office and I’ll tell you about it.

We made our way out of the airport parking lot and headed east toward the old city.

 Harry had a little surprise for me. I was now living in a new place for half the price I was playing at Teressa’s. I was still on the same street but I was renting from a divorced architect named Laura who lived with her two young sons. She was an attractive woman, 40ish, with very light skin and long dishwater blonde hair.

I liked the joint immediately because it had a private entrance next to the garage. It was a small bedroom with a bathroom and closet and a hallway outside the bedroom door with a hotplate and a refrigerator. For 10 dollars a day, it was all I needed for my one-night stands and cigar shenanigans.

The best part of the new place was the privacy. There was an old church across the street that had been closed for years and no neighbors in sight of my door that could report what I was doing. I didn’t have to worry about bringing home as many chicas as I wanted.

I threw my bags on the bed and gave Laura my passport to record my information in her visitor’s book.  Harry and I headed to old Havana but a funny thing happened on the way to the office.

On the way, we stopped to get Dolce Maria. Harry waited in the car while I climbed the steps to the third floor. At the last apartment on the right, I knocked on the door but there was no answer. The next-door neighbor stuck her head out her door and said “Dolce Maria no aqui.”

 As I was walking down the steps, a schoolgirl came in the door and passed me going up.  I could see her busty breasts through her starched white blouse. As she went past.  Just for fun, when I reached the landing, I turned and yelled up the steps “Disculpe. “¿Es aquí donde vive Dolce María?” “Si,” the girl replied. “A la derecha.”I smiled and said, ¿Es posible un beso para mi?

To my utter shock and amazement, the girl came galloping back down the stairs, came right up to me, and gave me a warm, wet kiss with her soft lips. I was awestruck. Then she nonchalantly turned around and ran back up the steps without looking back. I yelled “Gracias” and I heard her giggle. I turned around and walked out onto the hot, dirty streets of Old Havana a changed man.

So much for Dolce Maria. Harry and I stopped at the office for a drink and a look around. The usual suspects were there when we arrived. All of the jineteros circle around like sharks but they know I’m a regular and leave me alone, especially when I’m with another Cuban.

One of the foreigners I see there all the time is a guy named Andrew. 40ish, dark features, claims he’s originally from Canada but he has been living in Cuba for the past four years.  My gut feeling is that he’s on the run and can’t return home.

He goes back and forth to Mexico to renew his Cuban visa but he’s here full time. He has an Afro-Cuban girlfriend and a small child but he’s always hanging out at Farnes. Claims he’s one of the top violinists in Canada. Interesting guy!

We sat there for about an hour looking for chicas but the weather started to turn. We decided to look for girls on the way back to Nauticol. By the time we reached the Malecon, it was dashing rain. All of a sudden some moron sped past us and of course, Harry went after him.

Harry must have been going 60 miles an hour trying to catch up to this idiot. Suddenly, I felt my life was slipping away from me. When Harry cut to the outside lane to pass this guy, we started to spin with no control over the car.  We spun down the center of the street and started to move toward the curb.

There was a small group of Cubans about thirty feet in front of us. One of them happened to look over his shoulder and saw us spinning toward them. He let out a scream and I had never seen six Cubans move so fast.

In less than a second, the group jumped from the sidewalk to the top of the Malecon wall just as our car spun into the curb and stalled out. We were lucky, the Cubans were lucky nobody was killed. There was no visible damage to Harry’s car. It started right up and we proceeded back to Nauticol like nothing had happened. Another day in Havana.

When I got back to Laura’s, I called George and told him I wanted to meet Gregorio Fuentes before I left. Fuentes had been the Captain of Ernest Hemingway’s fishing yacht “Pilar” for close to 30 years. Two of Hemingway’s most enduring characters were modeled after Fuentes. Santiago in the “Old Man and the Sea” and Antonio in “Islands in the Stream.”

George told me to pick him up the next morning and he’ll take me to Fuentes’ house. At 11 o’clock the next morning we were on our way to Cojimar.  The seaside fishing town was only a few miles east of George’s house so drove along the coastline all  the way there.

As we entered the village. we stopped at the Hemingway Memorial, a small waterfront gazebo. There was a bust of Hemingway mounted on a stone pedestal. It was erected in the 1960s in honor the writer who referred to Cojimar as his second home. The bust was made out of boat propellers the fisherman of the town donated in tribute to their favorite son.

We wound through the village, up and over its rolling hills until we arrived at a small stucco house at 209 Pasuela Street. George went to the front door and was greeted by a dark-haired man in his 40s. It turned out to be Fuentes’s grandson and he said that Gregorio was having lunch down at the nearby La Terazza Restaurant and we could meet him there.

The La Terazza (the terrace) a favorite watering hole of Hemingway’s, had a history almost as colorful as Fuentes himself. The Hollywood production of “The Old Man and the Sea” was filmed there in the late 1950s with Spencer Tracy cast as the old man Santiago.

We pulled up in front of a square, two-story yellow building with a large blue La Terazza sign above the front door. We walked through the swinging saloon doors and stopped at the long wooden bar just inside the entrance. I asked for Gregorio Fuentes and the bartender pointed to the old sea captain sitting by a window eating a plate of scrambled eggs.

Well, there he was. It was Hemingway’s captain. It was Santiago, sitting before me. As I approached his table, I knew my life, in some small way, would never be the same again. I was about to come within one degree of America’s greatest writer…Ernest Miller Hemingway.

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