“No rush,” Joe said. “We’d all be out of a job.”
Esteban said, “My sister and I would be fine. We have this restaurant and two in Havana and one in Key West. We have a sugar plantation in Cárdenas and a coffee plantation in Marianao.”
“So why do this at all?”
Esteban shrugged in his perfect dinner jacket. “Money.”
“More money, you mean.”
He raised his glass to that. “There are other things to spend money on besides”—he waved his arm at the room—“things.”
“So says the man with a lot of things,” Dion said, and Joe shot him a look.
Joe noticed for the first time that the west wall of the office was given over entirely to black-and-white photographs—street scenes mostly, the facades of nightclubs, a few faces, a couple of villages so dilapidated they’d fall over in the next wind.
Ivelia followed his gaze. “My brother takes them.”
Joe said, “Yeah?”
Esteban nodded. “On my trips home. It’s a hobby.”
“A hobby,” his sister said with a scoff. “My brother’s photographs have been published in Time magazine.”
Esteban gave it all a diffident shrug.
“They’re good,” Joe said.
“Someday maybe I’ll photograph you, Mr. Coughlin.”
Joe shook his head. “I’m with the Indians on that one, I’m afraid.”
Esteban gave that a wry smile. “Speaking of captured souls, I was sorry to hear of the passing of Senor Ormino last night.”
“Were you?” Dion asked.
Esteban gave that a chuckle so soft it was almost indistinguishable from an exhaled breath. “And friends tell me Gary L. Smith was last seen on the Seaboard Limited with his wife in one Pullman and his puta maestra in another. They say his luggage looked hastily packed but there was a lot of it.”
“Sometimes a change of scenery gives a man a new lease on life,” Joe said.
“Is that the case with you?” Ivelia asked. “Have you come to Ybor for a new life?”
“I’ve come to refine, distill, and distribute the demon rum. But I’m going to have trouble doing that successfully with an erratic import schedule.”
“We don’t control every skiff, every tariff officer, every dock,” Esteban said.
“Sure you do.”
“We don’t control the tides.”
“The tides haven’t slowed the boats to Miami.”
“I don’t have anything to do with boats to Miami.”
“I know.” Joe nodded. “Nestor Famosa does. And he assured my associates that the seas this summer have been calm and predictable. I understand Nestor Famosa is a man of his word.”
“By which you imply I’m not.” Esteban poured them all another glass of rum. “You also bring up Senor Famosa so that I will worry he could overtake my supply routes if you and I aren’t in accord.”
Joe took his glass off the table and sipped the rum. “I bring up Famosa—Jesus, this rum is flawless—to illustrate my point that the seas were calm this summer. Unseasonably calm, I’ve been told. I don’t have a forked tongue, Senor Suarez, and I don’t speak in riddles. Just ask Gary L. Smith. I want to cut out any middlemen and deal with you directly. For that, you can raise your price a bit. I’ll buy all the molasses and sugar you’ve got. I further propose you and I cofinance a better distillery than the ones we’ve got fattening all the rodents along Seventh Avenue. I didn’t just inherit the late Lou Ormino’s responsibilities, I inherited the city councillors, cops, and judges in his pockets. Many of these men won’t talk to you because you’re Cuban, no matter how highly born. You can have access to them through me.”
“Mr. Coughlin, the only reason Senor Ormino had access to those judges and police was because he had Senor Smith as his public face. Those men not only will refuse to do business with a Cuban, but they will also refuse to do business with an Italian. We are all Latin to them, all dark-skinned dogs, good for labor, but little else.”
“Good thing I’m Irish,” Joe said. “I believe you know someone named Arturo Torres.”
A flick of the eyebrows from Esteban.
“I heard he got deported this afternoon,” Joe said.
Esteban said, “I heard that too.”
Joe nodded. “As a gesture of good faith, Arturo was released from jail half an hour ago and is probably downstairs as we speak.”
For one moment, Ivelia’s long flat face grew longer with surprise, even delight. She glanced over at Esteban and he nodded. Ivelia went around his desk to the telephone. While they waited, they sipped some rum.
Ivelia hung up the phone and returned to her seat. “He’s down at the bar.”
Esteban sat back in his chair and held out his hands, eyes on Joe. “You would want exclusive rights to our molasses, I suppose.”
“Not exclusive,” Joe said. “But you can’t sell to the White organization or anyone affiliated with them. Any small operations not associated with them or us can still go about their business. We’ll bring them into the fold eventually.”
“And for this I get access to your politicians and your police.”
Joe nodded. “And my judges. Not just the ones we have now but the ones we’ll get.”
“The judge you reached today was federally appointed.”
“And has three children with a Negro woman in Ocala that his wife and Herbert Hoover would be surprised to learn about.”
Esteban looked at his sister for a long time before turning back to Joe. “Albert White is a good customer. Has been for some time.”
“Has been for two years,” Joe said. “Ever since someone cut Clive Green’s throat in a whorehouse on East Twenty-fourth.”
Esteban raised his eyebrows.
“I’ve been in prison since March of ’27, Senor Suarez. I’ve had nothing to do but my homework. Can Albert White offer you what I’m offering?”
“No,” Esteban admitted. “But to cut him out would bring me a war I can’t afford. I simply can’t. I would have liked to have met you two years ago.”
“Well, you’re meeting me now,” Joe said. “I’ve offered you judges, police, politicians, and a distilling model that’s centralized so we both share all the profits evenly. I’ve weeded out the two weakest links in my organization and kept your prized liquor cook from being deported. I did all this so you would consider ending your embargo on the Pescatore operation in Ybor because I thought you were sending us a message. I’m here to tell you I heard the message. And if you tell me what you need, I’ll get it. But you must give me what I need.”