We got there in the early evening. The sun was just setting over Havana, bathing everything in reddish gold. The streets were filled up with nightly revelers, as we drove under the palm trees and the neon glow of a thousand times, straight to the Poker Palace. I got the feeling we were being watched. Mixing with pink Cadillacs and silver Rolls Royces in a battered and bullet-ridden jeep, it would be hard to stay unseen.
When we arrived at the Poker Palace, I stopped the jeep and stepped outside. Henry Wallace scrambled outside, and he and Weatherby moved inside at an excited dash. The rest of us followed, and walked in through the swinging doors to the empty casino floor. Sly Baum was there, embracing his son.
“Oh, my boy, my boy,” he said, lifting Henry Wallace off of the ground and then kissing his forehead. “My beautiful boy. You’re all right.” He looked up at me and Weatherby as he motioned for one of the waiters to bring us and his son some water. “You’ve done an excellent job. I can’t thank you enough.”