Spy in a Little Black Dress - By Maxine Kenneth Page 0,35
her back to the city. On the way, she didn’t have much to say. She seemed to be a woman of few words—in English or Spanish. Nevertheless, Jackie found her presence extremely comforting. She seemed to give off a sense that all would be well and remain well as long as she was around.
Leaning her head against the doorframe as they drove past vast, shaded fields where tobacco was grown and harvested, Jackie tried to relax and couldn’t help thinking about everything that had happened since her arrival in Havana. It seemed to rival last year’s Paris assignment for the alacrity with which events had spun out of control. Hours after arriving in Paris, she was having dinner at Maxim’s with a handsome Russian spy planning to defect to the U.S., went to meet him the following night at his rented garret, found him dead, was chased by his killer, spent one danger-filled week on the run trying to find out why the Russian had been killed, and in the bargain, helped an exiled princess return to her homeland. Of course, it didn’t hurt that her partner for this mission was a dashing young French photographer with whom she had fallen foolishly in love.
And now, here she was, only hours after landing at the Havana airport and checking into her hotel, kidnapped off the street while taking a walk, and almost eaten by crocodiles before being rescued by this strange Cuban woman. If this was any indication of what lay in store for the rest of her assignment, then Jackie was not so sure that she wanted to go through with it.
“So, Rosario,” Jackie inquired in an attempt to get out of her own head, if only for the moment. “What was that thing you hit Moe with?”
Rosario looked uncomprehendingly at Jackie.
“Sorry, the man with the bowl haircut. I call him Moe because he reminds me of one of the Three Stooges. You know the Three Stooges?”
Rosario had a confused look on her face, then said, “Sí, sí, Los Tres Chiflados.”
“Yes, what did you hit him with?”
With one hand on the steering wheel, Rosario reached into her right dungaree pocket with the other, taking out another one of those black spheres and handing it to Jackie. It was small and hard and looked like it could be deadly in the right hands, such as Rosario’s.
“What is this?” she asked Rosario.
“A pelota,” she explained. “You use it in jai alai.”
“Ah, you play jai alai?” That explained her sidearm maneuver and the way she was able to strike Moe so expertly. Jackie hadn’t known there were any female jai alai players.
Rosario didn’t answer for a moment, then said, “A friend taught me. He used to play jai alai. But he had a little problem with gambling so he had to quit.”
Jackie had read, in a classified Justice Department report provided by Robert Maheu, that jai alai was under the thumb of the Italian American criminal organization known as La Cosa Nostra, which literally translated into “Our Thing.” Mobsters such as Meyer Lansky and Charles “Lucky” Luciano controlled the nightclubs, the gambling, and other sports activities in Havana too. So if Rosario said that her friend had a little gambling problem, and mobsters like those were involved, it was no wonder that he had taken himself out of the game.
“And you work for the revolution?”
With surprising vehemence, Rosario said, “Batista, no; Castro, sí.”
Jackie smiled at that.
“You think that this Castro will make a good leader?”
“Sí. He is muy smart, muy simpático. He has the welfare of the campesino and the working man at heart.”
Jackie nodded in appreciation. “And do you have any sense of his political leanings?”
Rosario thought before answering. “I know that he despises Batista and all the corruption he stands for. He wants to replace his despotic rule with a more democratic form of government. And that is good enough for me.”
Jackie was impressed. Despite her taciturn manner, Rosario appeared to be a well-spoken and dedicated revolutionary.
By this time, they were back in the city. Rosario was driving the truck through the old part of town, Habana Vieja, and stopped in front of a crumbling white, five-story structure. Jackie looked at her questioningly.
“Your hotel,” she said simply.
“This isn’t my hotel,” Jackie protested.
“It is now,” Rosario said.
Jackie waited patiently for her to explain.
“Those three men,” she went on, “back at the crocodile farm, they are sure to know where you are staying. So you must stay someplace else.”