They Call Me Cuban Pete

My name is Lalo Diaz. Long ago, before I became a killer for hire, I was given the nickname Cuban Pete, after the Desi Arnaz song. Desi had brought the Conga craze to America, become a stage and screen star, and a popular bandleader. My nickname proved ironic after Desi himself decided to hire me as his personal bodyguard during the third season of I Love Lucy. I was his trusted problem solver at a time when he and Lucy were living very different lives from the couple they played every Monday night at nine.

Our paths could have crossed earlier. I was born in Santiago de Cuba, like him. We were both from well-off families (his more so than mine) and we both suffered great losses during the “political reorganization” of Cuba in 1933. Since immigrating to America, I followed Desi’s career with enthusiasm, proud that a brother from the Homeland was achieving success. My experience was not as glamorous as his. After years of struggling, I failed to make anything of myself.

The war came and I enlisted. In the Pacific, I found myself in a situation not unlike what Desi later portrayed in Bataan, my favorite of his films. I didn’t think I would make it home. But I did.

I moved to Los Angeles. In the library downtown I studied biographies of great Americans. I asked myself, if these men had found themselves in my shoes, what would they do to get ahead? How far would they go? So I became a criminal.

A headfirst dive into the most violent annals of American capitalism gave each day a golden sheen. Everywhere I went, I was shown respect and saw firsthand that no person or system in America really cared what color your skin was as long as you made something of yourself. I became rich working as a freelance killer and enforcer across Los Angeles County, taking jobs for everyone — the colored dope pushers on the Southside, the heads of all the movie studios, and even the top man himself, Mickey Cohen. I still kick up monthly payments, even while he’s in the slammer for not paying his taxes.

*

Bev Brownstein’s cathouse was on Franklin, across from Dr. Hodel’s old mansion. It was a rainy night in February and I’d just spent an hour with a Swedish blonde named Eve. Before leaving, Bev called me to the bar.

“Another client needs a favor,” Bev said and handed me a Mojito.

“What client?”

“Desi Arnaz.”

I’d heard from some of the girls that Desi came here, but this idea seemed too fantastic. It was unsettling to have a man I perceived in such mythical terms so bluntly humanized.

Bev sipped champagne from a crystal flute. “Someone’s making trouble for him.”

Bev was protected by Mickey Cohen’s mob. Despite what you may have heard, Mickey C still had a lot of power in L.A., even from prison. If Bev needed muscle, all she had to do was pick up the phone. “Why is this a job for me?”

“Desi wants a fellow Cuban. He made that clear.”

So Desi Arnaz might need someone killed. “What’s his problem?”

We never discussed it, but Bev knew how I made a living.

“He didn’t say. I just think you two will hit it off.”

“I’ll see him.” I slid her a fifty.

*

I wore a white Gabardine jacket I’d bought that morning on Rodeo Drive. The skies were clear. I drove across town in my cherry red ’54 DeSoto. When I arrived at the Pacific Dining Car, Desi was already in a booth and drinking.

“Mr. Arnaz?”

He wore a Roman style Brioni suit with broad shoulders and a Don Loper tie. “Pete?” he said.

“That’s me.”

We shook hands.

“I am a fan,” I said.

“Kind of you to say.”

His face was a little fatter, but he still looked like the man on all those album covers I owned. I sat.

“I heard you are called Cuban Pete, like my song,” he said in Spanish. I could already tell that whenever we were alone we would be speaking to each other in our native language.

“My real name is Lalo. The man who first called me Pete was also a fan of yours. You are the biggest Cuban in this country.”

Desi laughed, as if he still couldn’t believe his own biography. I always heard that despite his confidence, he was a humble man. Our server arrived. Desi ordered another Bacardi and I had a Mojito. We both got baseball steaks.

I said, “Did Bev tell you that I also come from Santiago de Cuba? I remember when your father was the mayor.”

Desi smiled proudly. “He was the youngest in the town’s history.”

“Do you remember the Caribbean Castle hotel?”

“Of course.”

“My father started the chain.”

Desi whistled. “I brought many girls there.”

“It’s a tragedy that he couldn’t keep it open. He was always an outspoken capitalist. That made him a target.”

Our drinks arrived.

“Bev said that you could help me.”

“I’d like to.”

“This periwinkle blue Pontiac has been following me.” He looked around, like someone might be watching.

“Following you?”

He took another sip. “I’ve seen it all over town. It keeps on popping up, again and again.”

“Did you get a look at the driver?”

“It was hard at first. I couldn’t get close enough. I thought maybe it was some reporter, possibly from Confidential Magazine, or some crazy fan. The driver finally showed his face at Desilu Friday night.”

“What did he want?”

Desi rubbed his thumb and forefinger together. “Money. To keep quiet about what he’s seen. He wanted me to understand what he was capable of, so he told Lucy that I visit Bev’s. He even showed her a photograph.” Desi finished his Bacardi. “He threatened to tell the media all my secrets if I don’t pay him, not just Lucy. The whole show almost fell apart when Winchell just hinted in his column that Lucy was a Red. A scandal of this magnitude can’t happen now. We wouldn’t survive it.”

“How much did he ask for?”

“A million dollars! Can you believe that?” Desi ranted about how unbelievable it all was in the same way Ricky Ricardo did when he was exasperated by Lucy’s shenanigans. It was surreal feeling like the plot of my life had somehow become an episode of the show.

“What did Lucy do when this guy told her about Bev?”

“She went fucking crazy. She started throwing things and screaming at me backstage, right in front of Bill and Vivian.” He meant William Frawley and Vivian Vance, who played Fred and Ethel. “She was already mad at me for forgetting the date of our anniversary this year and then this two-bit punk tells her that I’ve been to Bev’s! Lucy’s kicked me out!”

I listened in awe.

“These American women are so difficult! I’m at the Biltmore until we reconcile.”

“The punk in the Pontiac, any idea who he was?”

“He was Cuban, I know that. His accent made it obvious. My security got his license plate. His name is Jorge Felix Delsol.”

“That name mean anything to you?”

“Never heard of him.” Desi blinked nervously.

“Desi, do you want me to kill him?”

He froze. To ease his concern, I thought about sharing my professional code with him. I never killed children and I avoided women. But it was too soon to get that specific. “I just need to know what we’re talking about,” I said.

“I suppose if Delsol were to go to jail and talk, the scandal could be bad for our ratings.” He waited. “So you really could do something like that?”

“I have, many times.”

Desi thought it over. “I want Delsol out of my life. I don’t want him expecting a million dollars from me. However you see fit to get rid of him, I’ll pay you.”

“How much?”

“Ten thousand.”

“It’s a deal.”

Desi and I shook hands. Our baseball steaks arrived.

*

I called an LAPD pal who could find the Pontiac and offered him a hundred dollars. He said to call back in an hour. Desi and I drove around.

“I don’t like people following me,” Desi said and lit a panatela. “A man deserves privacy. My father had a second family. I have many half siblings. No one ever gave Papa a hard time.”

When I called back from a booth, my pal reported that a K-Car spotted the Pontiac outside the Coach and Horses in West Hollywood. I told Desi. He insisted he was coming along.

At the bar, the Pontiac was parked outside. We walked in. The crowd was thin. Alfred Hitchcock and Jimmy Stewart were at a booth with two Paramount suits.

“There!” Desi pointed. Near the bathrooms, there was a small Latin man in a blue zoot suit. “You’re going to see what you get messing with me now!” Desi yelled at Delsol in Spanish.

Delsol did a double take — Mother of God, it’s Cuban Pete.

I grabbed Delsol by the wrist and twisted. He slipped out of my grip and swung at me with his free hand. He caught my jaw and I stepped back, dazed. He drew a switchblade. I picked up a glass from the bar and tossed it at his face. He fell backward. Blood flowed. I kicked him three times and he went unconscious.

Across the room, Alfred Hitchcock watched, excited. If he didn’t know, I was sure the two Paramount suits would tell him to keep quiet about this. I was valuable to all the studios.

Desi got Delsol’s legs and I took his arms. Together we carried him out to the alley. It would have been smarter to put him in my car, but I didn’t want to get blood on my upholstered seats. I smacked Delsol three times. He woke and got to his feet. I drew my .38. Desi kept a lookout behind me.

Jorge Felix touched his bleeding face.

“Why are you trying to blackmail Mr. Arnaz?” I asked in Spanish.

“I work for Romero.”

I turned. Desi recognized the name Romero. It was obvious. I suspected he knew much more than he’d let on.

“And?” I said to Delsol.

“Desi owes Romero money. Romero wants the debt settled. ”

I looked from Delsol to Desi. Desi gave me a look that said he would explain later. I looked back at Delsol. “Where can I find this Romero?”

He gave us an address in Angelino Heights. I wrote it down.

“Where are the rest of the photographs?” I asked.

“The one I gave to Lucy is the only I had. Romero has the rest.”

I punched Delsol hard in the gut. He fell forward. “You better not fuck with Mr. Arnaz ever again. If you do, I won’t be so nice next time.”

Delsol gasped for breath. “I won’t.”

I placed the barrel of the .38 between Delsol’s eyes. “If any pictures of Mr. Arnaz show up, I’m going to hold you personally responsible.”

“I won’t release any photos,” he said.

“Get out of here.”
Delsol ran off.

When we were back on the road I asked Desi who Romero was.

He lit another cigar. “This Cuban gangster I knew back in Miami — an independent, lone wolf type. He did muscle jobs, loan sharking, ran bolita out of a bodega. I used to place bets there if I ever had a few extra cents, which was rare. Back in Cuba, Romero was one of Batista’s snipers. The rumor is that he got kicked out of the military for being a homo.” Desi waited. “Back then, I was struggling.”

“My first years in Miami were hard as well,” I said. “My father died of a heart attack six months after we first arrived to Florida. I believe it was heartbreak over everything he lost.”

“It was so bad for me I cleaned the shit out of bird cages.”

“You what?”

Desi nodded. “It was at a pet shop Little Havana. I did it all day.”

Again, I was speechless. It seemed impossible that Desi had ever done more degrading work than me.

“I took out a loan from Romero to get myself ahead. I could tell that he might have had the hots for me. He made a pass one day. I don’t know why he thought that was okay, but I kept quiet so I could get the loan and used that money to get my first band together. Then I got my first job with Xavier Cugat.”

“How big of a loan was it?”

“Five thousand dollars. I was late on a few payments, but I made them all, including the interest. My debt is paid.”

“And he’s got his lackey after you because you’re so famous now?”

“That must be it. I hear from yahoos all the time. Everyone wants a piece of what I’ve built. There’s a lot of stake with this show.”

I held up the address. “Don’t worry. I’ll take care of him.”

*

Next stop, Angelino Heights. On the way, Desi asked me if I was married.

“Once, when I was young,” I told him. “She died in 1933.”

Desi turned. ’33 was the year of Revolution.

“Her name was Carmen.” I hadn’t spoken about Carmen in years. “I was seventeen, she was sixteen. We were separated the day everything turned bad. I tried to find her, to protect her, but it was no use. They had targeted me. I was the rich son of the hotel magnate. They targeted Carmen too because she was my wife. My father worked hard to build something for himself. How did the people of Cuba treat him? By raping and killing his daughter-in-law. I’m still proud of the Homeland, but that day I knew I needed to live in a country with a future.”

Desi patted my shoulder. “I saw the heads of rich men displayed on spikes along the side of the road. ’33 was a bad year. ”

We arrived at the house in Angelino Heights. I parked.

A young blonde walked a poodle toward the lake. Desi watched her. “Ai-yai-yai-yai-yai, what an ass on that one.” He sighed. “My whole life, women have gotten me into trouble. Ever since I was twelve and tried to fuck the maid’s daughter.”

After a while, I decided that it was safe to poke around in the back of the house. It didn’t look like anyone was home in the unit that Romero lived in, and there was a back fence with a private stairway that led right up to his unit. I told Desi that I wanted to go up there and look around. He once again said that he was coming along. I agreed.

We got out of my car and walked to the white picket fence. I drew a knife, slid it between the slats, caught the black metal lock and flicked it open. I walked into Romero’s backyard, the unkempt weed-filled dirt patch below a second floor balcony. We walked up the stairway.

On the back balcony, there was an air mattress and a dying succulent in a blue tin. The balcony looked toward downtown. We walked in.

There was a kitchen and a spare living room. A picture frame was turned face down on the table. I stood it upright. It showed a Cuban man, his wife, and their four kids.

“That’s Romero,” Desi said.

In the bedroom, there was a poster above the bed. It was a blown-up frame of Desi playing the bongos in the closing sequence of Too Many Girls. On the sheets beneath it were semen stains.

Desi and I looked at each other.

We searched for the stash of photos. We couldn’t find any.

Someone knocked. I put a finger to my mouth, signaling for Desi to be quiet. I looked through the keyhole. It was a little old lady.

“Yes?” I said.

“Mr. Romero? It’s me, Mrs. MacBean.”

I opened the door. Desi stepped behind me, away from her view. He knew she would go crazy if she saw Ricky Ricardo in person.

“You’re not Mr. Romero,” she said.

“No, I’m not. Who are you?”

“Mrs. MacBean, the landlady. I saw someone coming up the back stairs. I assumed it was Mr. Romero.”

“I’m a friend of Mr. Romero’s. I’m supposed to meet him here, but he hasn’t shown and I’m a little worried. When does he normally get back?”

“Why, Mr. Romero hasn’t been here all week. He’s paid up through February, but I was inquiring if he’d be staying for March as well.”

I thanked Mrs. MacBean and told her that I would ask Romero when I saw him. She went away.

*

Nelly Adler’s girls waited around in lingerie for the next lineup. I looked out the window. Nelly ran a new cathouse in West Hollywood. So far, only the top levels of the LAPD and the richest stars knew about it. Desi was upstairs with a girl.

“Get that worried look off your face, Pete,” Nelly said. “I’ve got security.”

I nodded, but reminded myself that Romero had been one of Batista’s snipers. Average L.A. muscle wasn’t trained to deal with him.

Desi was exhausted from the show, and Lucy still would not speak to him outside of work. Romero knew about Bev’s so he decided on Nelly’s tonight.

A half-hour in, there was a crashing sound and a woman’s scream. They came from upstairs. I looked at Nelly. Her face was white. I ran up. From the hallway I heard Desi shouting in Spanish.

I banged on the door. “It’s me, Cuban Pete!”

The door opened. Desi was naked but covered himself with a pink satin pillow. He pointed at the window. There was a bullet-sized hole in the glass. A naked woman was on the floor. She moaned and clenched her right arm. Blood seeped through her fingertips.

“It was a sniper,” Desi shouted. “He missed!”

I looked at the small clean hole through the glass. Behind me, Nelly’s bodyguards showed. They looked bewildered.

“Go get the son of a bitch!” Desi shouted at me.

I raced down the stairs, past Nelly and out to my DeSoto. On Doheny I saw a green Ford pickup ahead of me, speeding. I gunned it and got close. A trim Latin man was behind the wheel. It was Romero. I rolled my window down, aimed at the front passenger side tire and fired. The truck careened out of control and smashed into a light pole on Santa Monica. I parked and got out. Pedestrians ran. I opened Romero’s passenger side door. He was unconscious and his bleeding nose looked broken. A Manlicher rifle was in the backseat. I touched the barrel. It was still hot.

I pulled Romero’s keys from the ignition and opened the trunk. There I found a leather briefcase with a manila folder inside. It was full of photographs of Desi with prostitutes. Also in the case were three rolls of undeveloped film. I put the case in my trunk. Then I went back to the Ford and pulled Romero into my backseat.

On the streets I heard sirens but none followed me. After a while, when it felt safe, I parked at the mouth of the large tunnel that went underneath the Hollywood Bowl and pulled Romero out.

“Why are you squeezing Mr. Arnaz?” I asked.

“You mean the bongo player? The wannabe Yankee?” His voice echoed in the tunnel.

I punched him in the gut. “Do you think you deserve his money?”

“Yes!” He swung at me and missed. I pistol-whipped him in the face. He struggled to balance. “Desi was just some peasant who came to me for a loan. I had to do something about what he’s become! I was so disgusted, always hearing the stories about how women can’t resist that bourgeois asshole.”

“I saw the poster of him you keep above your bed. Apparently men can’t resist him either.”

He grabbed for my throat. I shot him twice, once in the chest and a second time between the eyes. Then I dragged his body into my trunk that was already lined with black tarp.

*

Back at Nelly’s, I saw floodlights. There was some sort of commotion. Nelly and Desi were out front. There were no sirens. I parked and walked closer.

Howard Rushmore, Bob Harrison’s head writer at Confidential, was on the lawn with a camera. A sidekick held the lights, which were aimed at Desi. Flashbulbs popped. Nelly and her two bodyguards blocked Desi from the camera.

Howard shouted, “What is Mr. Arnaz doing at this brothel? Our readers deserve the truth!”

Desi ran back inside. I got close and knocked Rushmore on his ass.

He looked up. “What business of this is yours, Pete?”

Rushmore and I knew each other well.

“I’m looking after Mr. Arnaz now.”
“That so?”

“Forget everything you saw tonight.”

“I heard one of Nelly’s girls got shot.”

“I’m not going to repeat myself.”

He stood up and brushed off the seat of his pants. “I didn’t even get any usable shots. But his magazine’s working on a much bigger story that I can’t stop. It will run eventually, even if you take me out. Let the Latin lover boy know. America’s going to know the truth about him soon.”

“Get out of here while I’ll still let you.”

He and his sidekick took off.

Back inside, Nelly told me an ambulance had driven the wounded girl to a hospital. The paramedics would keep quiet about the call — Nelly paid them off too. When the coast was clear, Desi and I left. I told him that Romero was in the trunk.

We drove to Griffith Park and I went down a deserted path. I’d used it in the past. Desi watched me dig a hole and dump Romero into it. He didn’t seem fazed. I covered the body with kerosene and lit a match.

“He was in love with you,” I said. I tossed the photos and film into the fire.

“Can you blame him?” Desi said, grinning. The bright glow from the flames illuminated Desi’s face. He swept a bit of floating ash from his shoulder.

“Romero wasn’t the only enemy keeping tabs on you,” I said. “Rushmore is going to keep quiet about what he stumbled on tonight. But you’re going to have more problems from Confidential down the road.”

“That means I’ll need you to stick around.” He got back in my DeSoto and waited while I covered Romero’s remains. Then I got back in too.

“I’ve got people who depend on me to be available for them,” I said. “One of them is Mickey Cohen.”

Desi looked in the backseat at the bloodstains from Romero’s nose. I’d just have to get my seats reupholstered.

“Keep your other career,” Desi said. “But I’m your main client. I’ll pay you whatever you want.”

*

Desi and I played gin rummy. It was eleven thirty in the morning. Desi always got up late. He wore a silk smoking jacket and smoked another panatela. Someone knocked at his door. I answered it.

It was Lucille Ball.

“Hey fella.” She saw my holstered .38. “Who are you?”

“My name is Lalo Diaz, but they call me Cuban Pete.”

“That’s cute. Where’s my husband?”

I invited her in and stood in the corner. She wore a simple black dress and a mink stole. In person, Lucille was stunning. There was little of the goof she played on TV.

Desi approached her. “So happy to see you, honey.”

Lucy waited. “I must be pretty dumb.”

“Why do you say that?”

“Because I actually miss you.” She waited again. “Do you miss me?”

Desi looked worried that this might be a trick question.

“Spit it out, you Cuban mushmouth.”

“Of course I miss you. When we fight this way, it tears me up inside.”

“Our fights are no reason to punish the babies.” As she stared at him, the bitterness in her eyes dissolved. He was still her Valentino, even after all these years. “I was figuring you could come home.”

“When?”

“Well, we’ve got to film the show tonight,” she said. “After that.”

They kissed. Lucille looked my way. “Where’d you pick this one up?”

“He helped me with that wacko who came to the studio.”

“Helped you? Helped you how?”

“Never mind about that. I’ll see you tonight, sweetheart.”

After Lucille left, Desi and I stopped by a flower shop on Beverly. He bought a bouquet of white roses. From there, I drove him to Cedars of Lebanon. A hospital orderly, who I had called in advance, helped me sneak Desi in.

“Mr. Arnaz wants to visit a wounded fan.” I slid him a fifty. “He doesn’t want his charity advertised.”

In her room, Nelly’s girl was sleeping. Her arm was in a cast. She woke. Desi whispered to her. He gave her the roses and an envelope.

We drove on to Desilu. I took a seat in the audience. The in-studio orchestra played the familiar theme song that ran at the start of each episode over the iconic image of the satin heart. Desi came out, illuminated by a spotlight and holding a microphone. “Ladies and gentlemen, my name is Desi Arnaz. I’m the President of Desilu and the man who plays Ricky Ricardo.” The crowd applauded. Next, Desi introduced William Frawley and Vivian Vance. “And finally,” Desi said, “Allow me to introduce the star of the show, the Vice President of Desilu, and my favorite redhead, Lucille Ball!” The entire audience was on its feet, clapping and cheering.

We settled in as filming began. Tonight’s episode, which was for the back half of season three, had a scene that took place in Ricky Ricardo’s nightclub, the Tropicana. We all watched as Desi sang and played the bongos.

*

This short story originally appeared in issue #12 of Switchblade Magazine. Available for purchase here: Switchblade: Issue Twelve