Last Missile Out of Havana: Chapter 2

It began with an invitation from Lider Maximo himself. He wanted Anna and her big tits at a party he was throwing at one of the most heavily guarded buildings in east Havana, La Vivienda. Anna knew she was a showpiece for the regime, that she was being exploited for the juxtaposition of her Junoesque beauty and its politically correct allusions to the heroic, overly wrought Stalinist sculptures lining the Paseo del Prado and her steely, no-nonsense Maybeline eyes. She didn't care. She knew the West's women's movement would frown on such behavior but she also knew to indulge in life on the level she aspired meant using whatever got her through the door to a bigger and better apartment or car or vacation in Spain.

She was surprised at how little it took to get the car. In America in 1959, a '59 Caddy convertible, the one with the rocket fins was a status symbol. In Cuba today, it still is, albeit a rusty one. Anna's car was a gift from Fidel. He said it reminded him of her. Something about the tail lights. Anna blushed and made the old man happy that night. When she got out of bed the next day, however, she noticed the Caddy's paint job and been brushed on and that the only standard instrument left on the panel behind the steering wheel was the car's left turn signal. All of the other instruments, including the speedometer and gas gauge were missing, victims of 40+ years worth of scavenging. She wondered if it even ran. She would have been surprised if there were keys in the ignition and, since there wasn't, took the two wires hanging loosely from beneath the dash and expertly hooked them together, using one of her earrings to weigh down one wire against the other. The V8 turned over with a loud, unmuffled roar scattering pigeons from the driveway outside Fidel's home. When she looked up over the huge steering wheel, she saw the guards looking at her and smiling knowingly. She smiled back and shot them a bird. She looked for something to make the top go up and, not finding it, stepped out of the car and walked back to the neatly folded canvass roof and pulled it up. It was a joke. A bad joke. The thing had more holes in it than a comrade's underwear. She shook her head and smiled. She should have known better. He knew she wanted a car and this was it. From a distance, like her country, it looked good. Up close, of course, was another thing. Still, it wasn't bad for a blow job. At least she had some wheels. Rust had taken its subversive toll on the regime's transportation system. Walking or riding a bike was more reliable than waiting for a vintage Blue Bird bus or worst, hitching a ride on an old Soviet truck left over from the "good ol' days". She got back in the car and, before driving out of the compound, looked back up at the second-story bedroom window. He was standing in the shadows, watching her from behind the louvered shutters as he smoked a cigar. And sucked oxygen from a tank.

The old bastard is taking a long time to die, she thought.

She knew he would be there. If it wasn’t him, it’d be someone else watching for him. She smiled and blew him a kiss before roaring down the driveway in a dark cloud of smoke.

A few days later, Anna got the invitation to the party at La Vivienda.