PROLOGUE

HAVANA, CUBA 1953

            On Tareef Zabad’s sixtieth birthday, as the setting sun began to blind drivers heading home along El Malecón, a chain of cars, trucks and limousines set out from the casino Cosa Buena and drove two blocks to its most hated rival, El Sheik.  The caravan encircled the building to form a ring of steel.  When the seal was complete, hundreds of men carrying guns, bats, torches, axes and machetes disembarked.  They formed a large cluster in front, sent a smaller group to the back, and waited for the darkness.

            Leaning over the parapet, Tito watched the gathering army, each slow deliberate exhale longer than the one before.  The photo burned its image into his palm.  Bitter memories collided; tiny explosions went off in his head.  The violence was everywhere—he needed to corral it.

            It was not the evening Tito expected when earlier that morning he entered the John Tann vault at El Sheik and meticulously filled two seafaring chests with neatly stacked piles of Cuban pesos.  It was more as homage than for protection that he had strapped a machete across his chest and holstered a Colt .44 Peacemaker to his side.  He tossed the trunks into the back seat of his Cadillac convertible, nestled his large frame behind the steering wheel, and drove to the Zabad ranch with two antique bit keys buried in his pocket.

            When he strutted into the ranch house, the heavy chests hanging airily from his burly arms there was no insulting talk of interest owed.  Such were the desperate inclinations of lesser men—men who stretched their necks around a corner before making a turn, who made sure to judge an opponent before rising from their stools.

            “Happy Birthday Tareef,” He placed the trunks down at his feet.  “You don’t look half your age.”

Tareef waved him in.  “Because it is well meant, I accept that gracious lie.”

“Where’s Manny?”  Tito said, “I didn’t see him by the barbecue pit.”

            “He saw a flock of pheasant and rode off to hunt.  I told him we had enough with two pigs and a goat, but you know my son.”

            Tito licked his lips and nodded.

            “I owe everything to you Tareef—my strength, my success.  I could never thank you properly because that would take the rest of my life, but as for the money I can promise that it’s all there exactly like you brought it to me.  I don’t suppose you want to count it?”

            Tareef pointed toward the humidor and sat down at his desk.  “I decided on your character a long time ago.  Nothing has changed.  As for your strength and success, you would have realized them without us, but I thank the fates for bringing you to us.  No one will ever hold you down.  The anger you carry will surely drag you down, but a man can win a hundred fights and still not know if he is a fighter.  It is on the ground that he will learn the truth—when he makes the decision to stand, or accept the fate that has been dealt to him.  I am confident that you will always find your way back to your feet.

            “Now, will you stay for a game of chess?  Las malas lenguas me dicen que has estado practicando.”

            “I’ve been practicing a lot, and I’ve become a very dangerous player, but I have to get back to the casino and get everyone ready for tonight.”

            With his smile showing teeth, Tareef slid a mahogany chessboard between them.  “Then we shall make it a quick match.”