Little Havana Exile Read online

  Cubans immigrants in other cities throughout the United States, from San Diego to New Orleans, made for invaluable connections on a national level. But the strength of the network revealed itself on the global scale. La Corporation had nurtured connections with Cubans who migrated to other countries, including those men who had fled the United States fearing prosecution for various crimes. One such country was Spain, which had been to the Cubans what Italy was to the Cosa Nostra Italian-American mobsters. No other ethnic group had enjoyed the worldwide mobility, ready-made connections, and freedom of operations as the Cubans had.

  Joaquin Herrera had developed partnerships with conversion laboratories operating in Malaga and other coastal cities in Spain, and even as far as Marseille in France. Over the years, the Corporation had set up its own smuggling routes into the United States, from Europe or South America, with shipments valued in millions of dollars, directly contributing to making Cubans the largest importers of cocaine and heroin into the United States.

  Only a week into his new shadowing role, Teddy understood that Paco had been caught up in the middle of a system and an organization whose values he never adhered to. The pact that Herrera and he made on that boat sailing off from Mariel harbor had been broken long ago. What was supposed be an empire centered around the Cuban bolita had turned into a sprawling out-of-control organization involved in some of the most despicable activities, from narcotics smuggling to human trafficking. For over a decade, and despite the riches, Paco’s life had been a constant internal struggle between his original dream of serving Cuban refugees, and the blood-soiled blessing in disguise that the Corporacion had become. His ideals simply did not fit with Herrera’s shameless ambitions.

  It finally all made sense to Teddy. Being that close to Paco on a daily basis had shed a new light on the tortuous relationship between the man entertained with Herrera, and the mutual hatred they had for each other. He also realized that after a decade of self-deception, Paco had finally decided to cut the lies short. It was crystal clear that the Cuban wouldn’t let another decade pass before claiming back the Corporation and reminding Herrera of the pact they had sealed long ago.

  CHAPTER 13

  Over five years later, Teddy Harper’s Spanish was still as rudimentary as when he disembarked on the eastern coast of Miami-Dade County. He was continuously feeling out of place amongst the Cubans, but he reveled in the animated streets of Little Havana and relished the daily grind as a rising star within the Corporacion. The organization had become truly multi-national in the span of half a decade, trebling its size and revenues.

  Teddy’s rose to prominence within the Corporacion had been achieved through toil and sweat, and a healthy amount of nerves. He had stood up to a number of Herrera’s henchmen that refused to accept an outsider in their race-centric gang, and in the summer of 1995, always under the protective wing of Paco, he had come to be acknowledged as the effective co-head of the Corporation’s bolita operations across Florida.

  What he hadn’t anticipated though was that he would find bolita infinitely entertaining. It wasn’t the repackaged version of a tired lottery for elderly that he had imagined. The popular recreational activity was actually a blast! Better still, his foray into the Cuban ball game sparked in him an interest in gambling. So much so that he had taken up an old card game that was making a mean comeback all over the US – poker. He became obsessive about it, to the point of spending all his leisure time playing cards, refining his grasp of the odds and strategies.

  His first official no-limit hold’em tournament was due to take place in a couple of months in one of the Seminole casino. A $10,000 buy-in for a total prize pool of over $2 million. Most of his savings engulfed in a game of chance, Paco had lamented. Teddy fared honestly, losing out on an unfortunate bad beat and almost making back his investment, but that didn’t matter the least bit. He had caught the gambling bug, something that would reflect on his decision-making process for years to come.

  In truth, years of living with Paco had rubbed off on Teddy. The man’s good heart and genuine concern for his community couldn’t leave Teddy indifferent. The Englishman had reached an age when values and life principles were forged, and Paco’s half-masked rejection of the darker side of the Corporacion was indirectly forcing him to clarify those values. The two men had developed a profound friendship, discussing at length the duality of their roles within the organization, the rights and wrongs of their jobs. And it was blindingly obvious that a fracture within the Corporacion was widening further by each passing day.

  On one side, Joaquin Herrera and his followers were on a mission to become the largest opiate traffickers in the south of the United States, resorting to any means necessary – including intimidation, kidnapping, and murder. On the other hand, Paco, Teddy and a handful of devoted Cubans conscious of their role within the broader community, and focused on running profitable, although illegal, bolita operations and other entertainment businesses. The divide had been growing over the years, but Herrera had always vehemently rejected all of Paco’s attempts to secede from the rest of the organization. Gambling activities were too important for the Corporacion. It was where it all started, and it remained one of the foundations of the entire group, even though revenues from the cocaine trade surpassed that from bolita operations manifold.

  The face of the narcotics business had considerably evolved as well, the government had invested huge sums in the fight against hard drugs, and most cartels had adopted a much lower profile.

  Agent Parker and his pestering colleagues in uniforms were harassing the gang on a much more consistent basis. With Joaquin Herrera an elusive and reclusive figure, Paco and Teddy effectively became the faces of the Corporacion, even though their involvement in the drug trade had subsided significantly over the years. The DEA agent was a persistent pain in the ass, and some of his latest provocations went so far that Teddy’s blood was beginning to boil like that of a Cuban. Paco’s opinion on the man was unforgiving. “This Parker clown isn’t corruptible, he just enjoys being a jerk. Especially to those of us he can’t lock up. For now however, we’ll let him stick around. We might just be able to use him someday.”

  Teddy, on his part, wouldn’t have exchanged this entertainment factor for anything else. Parker was sharper than the Cuban immigrants he was used to hanging out with, and he always highly anticipated new verbal sparring matches with the narco enforcer, even though his Birmingham-inspired insults didn’t always hit home. It had almost become a game in itself, and Teddy suspected that the man made weekly detours to their corner of Calle Ocho only for the sake of exchanging a few heated words with him.

  “I’ll put you behind bars sooner or later, you Cuban punks,” Parker would tease.

  Teddy would reply, addressing Paco loudly enough to be heard from across the street, “Can you believe this, this dimwit can’t make the difference between a Latino and a Caucasian?” And turning back to the DEA agent, “How did you get that job, Parker? You’re appalling at it. Even Cristiana over there seems more qualified for it. And she’s pushing eighty-three. No, don’t even look at her, she’s out of your league.”

  Agent Parker would flash his best smile, and say, “I’m a married man, you ugly rat. Not likely to happen to you anytime soon. I’ve heard you’re into strippers. If you can’t get them, pay them, I guess. Pathetic, really.”

  Teddy had taken a liking for one of the local bar’s exotic dancer, that much was true, but he had never paid for the company of women. Being part of a large-scale drug trafficking gang wasn’t exactly conducive to long-lasting relationships, but he had spectacular success with the gorgeous Latinas of Little Havana, despite a rather banal physique for an Englishman.

  “You got your intel wrong, again,” Teddy would say. “You’re really not good at this I’m afraid. Give it up, I’m sure you’ve got transferable skills…”

  “I’ll transfer my skills in your face!” Parker would snap. “How does that sound, you worthless cunt. Is that
how you say it back where you’re from?”

  “Dammit Parker, you were this close!” He said, bring his thumb and index finger together. “But you’re just a twat doubled with a massive cunt. Here, got what I just did there? That would be more like it. Not that I meant what I just said, it was for illustration purposes.” Teddy would conclude.

  Even though he would always be the first to lose his composure, Agent Parker knew better than to arrest Teddy Harper on the spot, without evidence of a narcotics-related crime. Despite a slew of minor charges within a few years of landing in Florida, Teddy had never run afoul of the police and the immigration authorities. Parker was, of course, aware of the broader organization’s knee-deep involvement in the drug trade.

  The whole Corporacion had been mapped out months ago, but the Cubans were diligent and careful not to leave any trail behind them. The decision makers were mere shadows. This was certainly the case of Joaquin Herrera, who would never spend more than a month at a time in the same house. His cautiousness was bordering on paranoia, but he would argue that one could never be too prudent with the sheer number of enemies he had made over the years.

  The real reason Herrera was constantly on his guard, Teddy knew, was because he was only too aware that friends of today could become the enemies of tomorrow. The Bay of the Pigs debacle that he participated in had been a shining example of this. Sooner or later, and as the organization expanded into unknown territories, there was a real possibility that a disgruntled faction would attempt a coup – or an assassination. The Padrino wanted to be ready for that. Actually, he was almost looking forward to that, as yet another opportunity to enforce his merciless rule.

  CHAPTER 14

  By the mid-nineties, there was many a reason for celebration within the ranks of the Corporacion. The Cubans controlled some seventy percent of Florida’s cocaine supply and cashed in over five hundred million dollars a year, a large chunk of which was reinvested in various illegal activities to fund further expansion across the south of the United States. Some of those funds were invested in gambling operations, something close to Paco’s heart. And, as Teddy knew all too well, most of the remainder fell directly into the greedy pockets of Joaquin Herrera.

  As a matter of fact, Paco had entrusted his young apprentice with a series of covert operations over the years, as Herrera’s influence and ambitions sprawled. Fail-safes of sort, if things turned ugly one day.

  One of these side missions had been to establish the scope of the Padrino’s real estate portfolio. It was painstaking work, but Teddy had taken a real liking for the investigative side of it. He liked to work in the shadows just as much as being on the front line.

  Despite his colossal wealth, Joaquin Herrera had only two properties under his name – the mansion of Fisher Island, and the first house he bought after setting foot in Little Havana – a basic two-bedroom at walking distance from Calle Ocho. Teddy’s research had revealed that the man also owned a golf course in Miami Beach, a superyacht, seven bank accounts in the US, including one 401K and two fixed income accounts. Presumably, the man also stored vast amounts of hard cash, spread out in hideouts all over Miami. A real treasure, if one were to lay his hands on it.

  The trail was becoming harder to follow as Teddy searched for investments abroad, but he was fairly certain that the Padrino owned land through the Corporacion – in Cuba and at least half a dozen other countries around the world. After all, over half the cocaine production came from fields owned by the organization, and hence the Padrino.

  As Paco drove his old Cadillac toward the MacArthur Causeway bridge, Teddy could hardly hide his excitement. For the second time in as many years, he was to dine with all the big boys in Herrera’s palatial mansion. Key men of the Corporacion would gather annually to celebrate the year’s successes and achievements in a lavish and drunken evening. Even if the prospect of spending four hours in the company of the ice-cold Joaquin Herrera wasn’t the most enticing thought, last year had shown that the men loosened up beyond measure under the influence of their beloved rum. It was the perfect opportunity to bond with those seasoned gangsters.

  Some of them even reminded him of his uncle Rob Harper and the old Wilkinson. The two Englishmen had been in touch more often as the years had passed and were now warming up to the idea that Teddy returned home. The dust had somewhat settled since his fateful vendetta, and the police were about to close the case of the murder of Kieran O’Connor.

  Yet Teddy felt he was on the verge of something big in Miami. After all, he was dining at the table of the local mafia godfathers. No, he couldn’t go back just now, he had made a promise to Paco that they would split up from Herrera’s Corporacion and realize their own, better vision of a community-conscious organization.

  Two tall and slender men were waiting at the dock on Terminal Island. Teddy identified them immediately as two of Paco’s most reliable henchmen. When the time came to embark, the boat driver protested vigorously, arguing that el Padrino had given him very specific instructions. Those two men weren’t on the list of attendees.

  Paco wouldn’t budge. “This is not a request, this is an order. Santi, Nacho, hop on,” he said, motioning at his two associates. And then looking at the driver, “Let’s not waste any more time. Start the engine.”

  When the group disembarked on the northernmost tip of Fisher Island, Teddy heard Paco whisper to his henchmen, “Have a little walk but stick close enough. And don’t make yourself seen.” While it wasn’t unusual that his mentor brought along soldiers when deals were concluded in dodgy places, Fisher Island certainly did not qualify as one. The island was swarming with loyal men from the Corporacion.

  As they entered the sumptuous mansion, Teddy remembered why he liked the place so much. It wasn’t the exquisite colonial style interior, nor was it the fact that they were on an island surrounded by nothing but water. It wasn’t even the babes walking around the estate. No, if he felt at home straight upon setting foot in the Padrino’s villa, it was because of the exquisite smell. The delightful scent of fried calamari, sangria-roasted pork, freshly-baked tres leches cakes and plantain flambé. It was a feast out of all proportions, courtesy of Herrera’s private chefs. The Cuban mobsters had bottomless stomachs and the sheer quantity of homemade food would have easily fed a small Cuban village for a few days.

  Joaquin Herrera wasn’t a man of effusive welcomes, and after the last guests had arrived, they all took seat around the oval ebony table in the dining room. Teddy caught himself thinking that there was something disturbing about the view from the patio windows. It was almost entirely hindered by the strip of palm trees, with the rare openings offering a glimpse of the wide oceanic expanse.

  There was no hiding his broad, somewhat silly smile. Teddy relished being at the table of ten of the most revered mobsters of the country – all true hustler and businessmen. He felt like he had become a man of that caliber as well. His eyes surveyed the impressive audience, and he thought that he would have liked to work more closely with any of those men. If only they weren’t heartless bastards. Then, he realized that Carlos the bodyguard was there as well, already stuffing his swollen face with traditional Cuban shortbread cookies. That was definitely one man Teddy did not want to work with.

  “What you looking at?” Carlos said before he was finished chewing. Crumbs fell from his mouth, but he did not bother cleaning himself.

  “I’m looking at you making love to that cookie, Carlos. It’s a beautiful sight,” Teddy replied with a cheeky smile. Everyone laughed, including Joaquin Herrera.

  “You fucking pig, I could whack your ass with one finger.” Carlos was pointing at Teddy in cold rage. He was still chomping. Teddy was biting his tongue. All he wanted was to make another joke about the man’s fat fingers.

  “Calm down…no disrespect, Carlos. I am just a rookie trying to learn how the big boys behave, remember?” Teddy said.

  “Are you?” Joaquin interjected. “It looks to me like you’re here with men no smarter th
an you, no stronger than you. You’re the equal to those men.” He took a sip of Cuban tequila. “You’re doing a good job with the bolita operations. Paco certainly taught you well.”

  “That’s an understatement,” another man said. He was gaunt and dressed in black from neck to toes. The organization’s finance officer, Teddy thought, and incidentally the banker of the bolita business. The man went on, “Not many segments of the Corporacion have grown so fast over the past few years. I’m not even sure Paco is needed anymore.”

  Chuckles resonated through the dining room.

  “Forgive him, please. Of course, we need Paco,” Joaquin Herrera replied and turning to Paco, he added, “Accountants can be as scary with a pen as a gunman with a nine-millimeter.” Carlos burst into laughter. Paco wasn’t laughing.

  The dinner went on for another hour of grotesque and bombastic culinary orgy. The servants were pouring tequila again and again into everyone’s glasses. Laughter got louder, hands got shakier. Even Paco seemed to be having a good time, at last.

  Two of the Cubans were daring Teddy to down as many drinks as they did, a challenge he was more than happy to take up. He was a quarter-Irish after all, on his grandfather’s side, and in those instances, he could feel his Gaelic blood wake up and simmer with increasing intensity.

  After the third tequila shots, all the men around the table had joined the fray. And moments later, empty bottles of Havana Club Rum and Guayabita de Pinar – a sweet guava fruits liquor – were scattered all over the table.

  The mobsters were cheering in chorus. The mood was jovial and inebriated beyond measure, and in an instant of clarity, Teddy became aware that Joaquin Herrera was absent from his seat. He barely had time to wonder how long the man had been away.