Where There's Smoke by Mel McKinney Page A

Batista and the Mafia had so sickened Paulo that he had reluctantly left Victor Salazar and Noches Cubanas a year before the Bonafaccios murdered his former employer. When Raul had shown up in Miami, seeking to start a small restaurant bearing the name of his father’s Havana establishment, Paulo had been reborn. Greeting the world at Victor’s Noches Cubanas as its chief maître d’ had been his whole life.
    By the time Castro had swept away the pleasure palaces and scrubbed his homeland clean of the Mafia, Paulo had another life, in Miami’s Little Havana—with Raul and his restaurant. But Miami was not Havana.
    Yes, he would return home with Raul. Cuba needed him and many more like him. The revolutionary wind, for
now a frenetic hurricane of change, would spend itself in time. Then the real work would begin: the work of rebuilding and living instead of dreaming.
    To Paulo, all governments suffered a common flaw. Inevitably, they forgot about the people they were supposed to serve and protect. A scant three years after Cuba was shed of her dictator, her savior was busy quelling the voices he did not want to hear. Maybe, in years to come, these growing pains would ease and the irrepressible Cuban people would again emerge, cleansed of the corruption and excess of the Batista years and seasoned by Castro’s revolutionary stew. If so, Paulo wanted to be there for that glorious reawakening.
    He slid from the stool and smiled at himself in the mirror behind the bar as he smoothed his peppered mustache, straightened his tie, and prepared to open the restaurant. Ah, such lofty thoughts! But we will see , he mused. Raul and his Rosa; Paulo and … Who knows? Maybe Rosa has a cousin or even an aunt. At his age, he could not be too choosy.
    The phone rang. A reservation, he hoped. There were only four on the book that night.
    â€œGood afternoon, Noches Cubanas,” he spoke, the richly modulated greeting flowing automatically.
    â€œPaulo! A miracle has happened! Not only will we return to Cuba as partners, we will be covered with the glory of matadors! The gangsters may have murdered my father, but his treasure is alive, ready to serve our people. I am returning to Miami in the morning. My plane leaves here at nine and arrives there at ten.

    â€œNow, listen carefully and do exactly as I say. Others who would keep Victor’s treasure from us may discover what I have found. We must act quickly to protect it.”
    Paulo stood at the bar, tense with expectation. “Yes, Raul, go ahead. I am listening.”
    The old Cuban’s eyes widened as he absorbed his employer’s words. So, he would be a revolutionary hero after all.
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    Paulo returned four hours later. It was eight-thirty and four men were just entering the restaurant. His heart skipped when he saw them and he was scarcely able to conceal the alarm of recognition behind the façade of his greeting.
    â€œGood evening, gentlemen. A table for four? Right this way.”
    He slid four menus and a wine list from the maître d’s pedestal and began to lead them into the dining room. A painful clamp on his upper arm arrested him.
    â€œHold on there, Mr. P. Where’s the boss?”
    Paulo spun around and flashed a weak smile at the wolfish grin of Joseph Bonafaccio Jr., the only person who had ever called him “Mr. P.”
    â€œSeñor Bonafaccio! And Señor Romelli. What a great pleasure to see you again.”
    Mierda , he thought, trembling as Romelli released his vice grip. Raul was right to have called ahead. These hombres are not here for dinner.
    â€œSo, Mr. P., you didn’t recognize me.” Bonafaccio patted his stomach. “I haven’t gained that much in eight years, have I?”

    Paulo looked down.
    â€œYeah, better you don’t answer that one.” Bonafaccio laughed. “Look, it’s good to see you. You look great. Now I’d really like to have a little talk with