To my surprise, Manolo, or Manny as I call him, is a great chef. He made me an amazing lobster dinner. Lobster is illegal in private homes but Manny had a connection in La Bolsa Negra and only paid a dollar per tail. He baked them with lemon, garlic, and a special sauce he whipped up. Along with a salad and rice, it was truly a tremendous culinary experience.
After dinner, I went for a walk up La Rampa to check on Rudy at the Habana Libre. Turns out it was Rudy’s day off so I hung around the Atrium and had a Cuba Libres. The live music was a pianist accompanied by a violin. They were classically trained musicians but were unappreciated by the sparse crowd in the lobby.
During the break, I complimented the violin player and told him I was enjoying their music. He confided in me that he was trying his best considering his strings were telephone wires instead of violin strings. I promised to bring him some new strings on my next visit.
There wasn’t much going on so I finished my drink and took a walk outside. A girl sitting on the curb of the driveway asked me; of all things, if I needed cigars. Here we go again, I thought. She stood up and introduced herself in English, “Hi, I’m Anna,”
“Daniel,” I said and shook her hand.
Anna was a tall Mulatta with a large build. She claimed her uncle worked at one of the cigar factories in Old Havana and had access to all the top brands. Seems like everyone I talked to now has an uncle who works at a cigar factory.
Anna said she was originally from Guantanamo but was living in Centro Habana with her uncle Francisco. She wanted us to meet but I explained to her I had all of the cigars I needed right now, but would be willing to meet him on my next trip. Anna got a pen and slip of paper from the front desk and gave me her number. I promised to call her as soon as I got back or from Los Angeles if I had any questions.
I went to the retail store and grabbed a couple of Montecristo #2 and took a stroll down to the Malecón. Watching the sunset with my favorite cigar. It doesn’t get better than that… No sooner did I light my stogie when a young girl in a jean jacket approached me. “What is your name?” she asks me in broken English.
“Daniel,” I replied.
Where are you from?” she says as she sits done next to me on the wall.
“Estados Unidos.”
“How about you” I asked.
“Havana,” she replied.
“No kidding,” I said. What’s your name?”
She smiled and said, “Mislady.”
Although she was legal, she looked young so I couldn’t take her back to Manny’s house. Araceli would freak out. I asked Mislady if she wanted to go somewhere where we could be alone.
“Si, casa de la abuela” she said.
Her Grandmother’s house? This place is fuckin’crazy. Well, so much for a relaxing night a home, I said to myself. It’s really hard to focus on business here when there’s so much pussy walking around, it’s just hard to say no. I guess I was suffering from what locals called “Cuban Fever.” I flagged down a taxi and we drove in the direction of Old Havana.
We got out on a side street off the Prado and walked to a high-rise apartment building. Up two flights of stairs, Mislady knocks on a door. A grey-haired, bespectacled white woman in a drab gray housedress opened the door. Mislady brushed by her pulling me by the hand. I embarrassingly shook the Granny’s hand and introduced myself.
She knew why we were standing in her living room and I’m sure I wasn’t the first fish that little Mislady reeled in brought to Granny’s doorstep. Granny playfully slapped me on the shoulder and called me, I’m assuming a “naughty boy” or something similar that made Mislady laugh out loud. Granny walked out the door and shut it behind herself. Mislady took off her jacket and sat down on the couch.
She was a young, petite mulatta girl and although she was blessed with light skin, she had thick kinky hair that Cubans refer to as “pelo malo.” She wore it pulled back into a short ponytail. Probably a couple of generations removed from her African heritage but I think ol’ granny may have “pulled a boner” back in the day. No pun intended!
Without any small talk, Mislady and I began to softly kiss. I slid my hand under her t-shirt and cupped her little, braless titties, running the tips of my fingers over her nipples until they became hard and erect. I didn’t want to fuck her with granny snooping around so I motioned for her to take off her pants.
She didn’t hesitate to peel everything off including her panties. She spread her legs as wide as possible, exposing her little pink gateway to heaven. Without missing a beat, I slid off the couch onto my knees and pushed my wet tongue into her tight little pussy and began softly licking her little slit from north to south and east to west.
As her big brown eyes began to close, she leaned her head back on the couch and began to hump her groin up and down on my face. We found our rhythm and as she’d thrust her hips down, I licked up over her clit and caught it again on the way back up. She was far away now, in a blissful state, somewhere close to heaven.
She pulled my head closer and rubbed her cunt on my face faster and faster, then gave a little moan when she came and whispered, “Dios.” I didn’t want to stop and continued to lick her little sensitive little clit side to side as fast as I could until she sat up shaking and pushed my head away from her throbbing pussy. By this time, my cock was so hard I could barely stand up. It was my turn. As she looked up at me with those wanton, loving eyes, I pulled my pants down and let my erection stand and breathe.
My little lady leaned forward and took my cock in her hand and guided it into her mouth. The feeling of her warm mouth around my hard shaft was amazing. She sucked the head in and out of her mouth as she stroked the shaft in perfect rhythm. Moments later, I put my hand on the top of her head and fucked her mouth, blasting a hot load into her gloriously warm, wet mouth. She didn’t hesitate to swallow. I flopped down on the sofa next to her feeling spent.
I could have sat there all night but I wanted to be gone when little old Granny returned, so I handed Mislady the twenty-dollar bill from my shirt pocket. I told her that I had to vamos and we could meet Manaña at the same time, same place. I gave her a peck on the cheek and walked briskly down a flight of stairs to the dirty, dark street below. As a car passed, I yelled “Hotel Nacional” and he stopped on a dime. A man said “Vamos” out the passenger window and away we went.
The following morning knocking on my bedroom door woke me out of a sound sleep.
“Daniel,” said Malagra. “Tu amigos aqui.”
“Ok,” I mumbled.
I peeked through the door slates and saw George and another guy sitting on the sofa in the living room. I pulled on some shorts, splashed water on my face and went out to greet the Jineteros. George and his sidekick jumped off the couch and came into my room with a large canvas bag. I didn’t catch the cigar guy’s name but he had an x carved into his forehead that I wouldn’t soon forget.
They started pulling boxes of cigars out of the bag and stacking them on my bed. It was like a fucking mirage. Romeo Churchill Tubos, Ramon Allones, Montecristo #2, Montecristo #1, Cohiba Robustos, Cohiba Esplindidos, Partagas Serie D. #4 etc. Fuck, I’ve hit the jackpot. Boxes virtually impossible to get in the States. George claimed they were all factory cigars and not to worry about the quality…which usually means you have to worry.
He was only asking $50 a box. I didn’t give a damn if the cigars were rolled in Alaska as long as they were good. George had earlier quoted me prices between 25-40 dollars. They tried to put the “Bogart Squeeze” on me but I didn’t care. George spewed out some crap about the great quality and the fact that all the boxes have factory stamps on the bottom to prove they came directly from the factory. I’ll have to look into all of this later but for now, I was happy.
Georgie had added a higher commission which bumped up my prices. Still, $50 a box is a great price if these are factory cigars. Just on principle, I beat them back to $45 per box anyway. The total order came in under $300 and I knew the resale price would be almost 10x, so what the fuck! As soon as I paid them, they were out the door.
Anyway, I had my cigars and only two nights left in Havana so I went out on the town. After a couple of pops at the Nacional, I made my way over to Monseigneur Cafeteria. My buddy Alfredo was in the middle of his 12-hour night shift. He was a nice kid who spoke English so I sat at the counter and we shot the shit.
When I got back to Manny’s house, he was sitting on the front steps of his building with a young lady. He was obviously waiting for me and introduced me to Tonya and told her I was Daniel from California. I was taken aback and figured that Manny had known her for a while.
She was white, 20ish with beautiful auburn hair which gave her a wholesome, natural look. I knew immediately she was different than the other girls I’d been with She was alive, vibrant with a spirit that was uplifting and contagious. This wasn’t just a job to her.
I threw her on the bed and gave her a playful slap on the ass which she immediately returned. We sat at the foot of the bed and looked into each other eyes. When we kissed it brought me into the moment. There was nothing else, only the heat of her kiss. It gave me a tingling sensation that’s hard to describe but different from the other girls. A moment that would last forever
We laid on the bed and I began to undress her. She reached into her purse and pulled out a condom. I took it from her and threw it on the floor. She giggled as she stood and removed her underwear. We never fucked. We began what seemed like endless hours of lovemaking.
When the room began to grow light, her head and was on my chest, her wavy auburn hair covering me like a warm blanket of love. She told me she had a son at home and needed to leave. As she took a shower, I walked over to the Nacional and changed a hundred. When I got back, she was dressed and sitting in the living room. I handed her two folded twenties and walked her outside.
I kissed her on the sidewalk and asked her again to stay. She said her mother would be worried and promised to return later that evening. The sky was turning blue as we hugged and said goodbye. I stood there and watched her walk up the street past the Hotel Capri and the ice cream park. I walked across the street to the Nacional with sixty dollars in my pocket and Tonya on my mind.
I was all packed up and ready to go when George and his driver Angel arrived the next morning to take me to the airport. Manny gave me a shot of rum to soothe my nerves and I lit a cigar for the ride. It’s funny, but on the way to the airport, you hang on to everything you see like a kaleidoscope of images burnt into your soul. Girls walking in the street, children running, men playing dominoes, the sounds of trucks and horns and salsa. The multicolored shacks, bars on windows, even the litter in the street you somehow take with you back to wherever you’re from.
I hadn’t even left yet and I already missed this place. We rambled along in Angel’s faded brown 80’s Lada and made it to the airport by 9:30 for my 11 o’clock flight to Cancun. As we pulled into Jose Marti, the usual crowd of onlookers were standing at the exit door, waiting for salvation to arrive. Nameless faces of all ages, sizes and colors mingled together. I get out of the car and pull my suitcase and large red duffle bag out of the trunk.
“Twenty -six dollars,” said. George. “And he’ll be waiting for you the next time you arrive.” I hugged them both, wished them well, and filed through the crowd into Terminal No. 2. I grabbed a can of Chrystal on my way in and took my place in line. As the line moved forward, I felt a mild anxiety building in my stomach. What if my cigars get lost? What if Mexican customs take them? Think positive thoughts I tell myself.
I checked my suitcase with the cigars underneath, got my boarding pass, and slipped through Immigration and customs without a glitch. I buy another beer on the other side and sit down near my gate. Sitting next to me is the former Black Panther and devoted Commie Angela Davis. She is on my flight to Cancun.
Before I knew it, were boarding. The flight is only long enough to order one Cuba Libre before we start our descent into Cancun International Airport. Cancun is a sea of humanity with international flights landing every hour. I grab my stash and stand in another very long line leading to immigration. My anxiety level is rising now. Mexican Customs has this silly traffic light with a green and red light on it.
After the agent examines your customs form, each traveler is required to push a red button on the traffic light. If the light blinks red, you’re being searched. If it blinks green, you’re free to go. It’s a crap shoot here. I know if I press Red it’s over. It’s the end of the cigar business and the party’s over as far as ever going back to Cuba. The agent takes my custom declarations that specifically ask you to declare all tobacco products. I push the silver button on the traffic light blinks… GREEN.
I take a sigh of relief and check in at Mexicana Airlines for my boarding pass for Los Angeles. Back upstairs my boys are waiting for me. Jose, Jose and Augustine are bartending at the Lion Bar. I immediately ordered a corona and a shot of Cuervo Gold Tequila. Before long I’m boarding Mexicana Airlines flight #947 for Los Angeles.
The fight to Los Angeles takes almost five hours. I arrived at LAX around 9 pm and we were forced to wait on the tarmac for about twenty minutes until a shuttle arrived to take us to the terminal. Once the shuttles are full, we’re whisked off to Tom Bradley International.
I’m feeling a little nervous as I walk through the maze of stairways that leads to immigration. I’m looking to the left and right for an open door to sneak out but there are none. It’s the final checkpoint of the trip and probably the most difficult one to get through. Customs agents in the US are like military police. Most are ex-military. I have to be strong. Maybe I had too many drinks on the plane. It’s hard to swallow.
My bag drops down the shoot and I pull it off the turnstile and throw it on my cart. I partially unzip the bag with cigars and pull a handful of clothes partially out of the zipper to show I’m not trying to hide anything. I take a deep breath and walk to the first customs checkpoint.
I handed him my declaration form and birth certificate. Since we don’t need a Passport to travel to Mexico, I tell the agent I’ve been fishing in Mexico for the past week. On the back of the form, I scribbled a list of purchases I made in Cancun. Shoes, magazines, books and crap like that.
“Nothing to declare?” he asks. The officer looks through my eyes and into my soul. “No,” I reply. What was the nature of your trip?”
“Fishing.” He hands my paperwork back and tells me to proceed to the next checkpoint.
At the last stop, the agent takes the form. It’s the last stop. I try to look as nonchalant as possible. He took my customs declaration and asked me if I caught anything. I’m startled for a second and I continue walking then realize he was referring to my trip to Cancun. I yell back “Yeah, a cold!”
I made it! What a feeling!!! I walk up the ramp and into the crowded LAX International Airport terminal feeling like a million dollars. My brother is waiting there to greet me. As he’s walking toward me, I give him the thumbs up. We drive along Pacific Coast Highway and wind up into the green hills of Rancho Palos Verdes. “I have so much to tell you,” I say. “You won’t believe it.” “Can’t wait to hear it,” he says. “But first thing tomorrow, book your ticket for Havana.”
