Towards the end of Prohibition,

the Mob began to look around for

new opportunities to consolidate
and legitimize their operations
through casinos and hotels.
They didn’t have far to look.
Just across the Florida Straits,
Cuba was waiting.

WELCOME TO BLACKTAIL.
 C O N T E N T S

01. DRINKS LIST 02. LANSKY’S DREAM

P r i c e s d o n o t i n c l u d e 8 . 8 7 5 % N Y S S a l e s Ta x . Meyer Lansky’s plan was beyond

audacious: the creation of a vast criminal
A discretionary 20% service charge will be
state that would control the levers and
added to all parties of 5 or more.
institutions of a whole country. It would be
a world where money just went round and
round and never stopped, like a
rigged roulette wheel.

H I G H B A L L / p . 0 3 /

// T.J. English / p . 3 3 /

P U N C H / p . 0 9 /

ONE MAN’S XANADU -

S O U R / p . 1 5 / 03 . The Story of The Riviera Hotel

The Riviera Hot el represen t ed t he

O L D - FA S H I ON E D
C O C K TA I L
cu lm in a t ion of a ll L a n sky’s pla n s. It
/ p . 2 1 /
wa s t o be t he u lt im a t e g a m blin g a n d
en t ert a in m en t com plex . L u x u riou s in
every det a il, it ha d every t hin g g oin g
f or it – ex cept t im in g .
/ p . 2 7 /

// A history / p . 6 1 /
 / B L A C K TA I L / 01 / Drinks List /

A L L A B O A R D T H E
M O N E Y - G O - R O U N D

When Meyer Lansky and Charles ‘Lucky’ Luciano arrived

in Havana, they brought two things: a bag full of money
and a plan. The plan was breathtaking in its ambition – the
eventual creation of an entire international criminal state.
And the bag? Seed money for this, the mob’s great wager:
stealing an entire country.

BIG GUY AND LITTLE GUY & THE COUNTRY

T H AT C O U L D F I T I N A B A G

So this one day I am minding my own and they catch my eye –

a little guy and a big guy coming out of the lobby. Good suits,
tie-clips, shoeshine. Little Guy is nervous, wears his hat down
low over his eyes. He’s holding on tight to this beat-up old
attaché case like a CPA would carry. What’s he got in there?
I figure his newspaper, maybe a baloney sandwich and a note
from his dry-cleaner. But as for Big Guy, well he ain’t got no
attaché case but I reckon he’s packing everything he needs in
the pocket of that nice jacket.

B L A C K T A I L

1.
 / B L A C K TA I L / 01 / Drinks List /

S E R V E S T Y L E 01/05
drink s ec tion

Invented in Manhattan around

1890 – a time when no American
drinker would have countenanced
adding water to a good spirit – this
U N D ER S TARTER’S ORDERS “high priest of tall drinks” is today’s

THE TRACK | THE SLIPS | THE SKIM perfect session drink.

Word gets around that Big Guy and Little Guy are in Havana on business. I know what that means:
coupla wise guys show up, wave a few bucks around and think it gets you a piece of the action.
Well, that don’t cut it, bub. If you want in around here, it’s gonna cost big. Just the way it is. So I
make myself known and arrange a few introductions. Big Guy and Little Guy are very appreciative

3.
and put me to work, running numbers at the track and of course, helping collect the skim.
 / B L A C K TA I L / 01 / Drinks List /

H I G H B A L L

MOJITO
Cuban Rum Blend, Lime, Mint Syrup,
Aromatic Bitters, Club Soda

RUM & COLA

Bahamian Rum, Fernet Branca, Cola Syrup,
Aromatic Bitters, Brut Champagne

  B O L D A S B R A S S 
Irish Whiskey, Genever, Fino Sherry, Chardonnay,
Lemon, Boston Bittahs, Club Soda

FAT CAT
Gin, Reposado Tequila, Italian Bitter,
Apricot, Rhubarb, Lemon, Sour Ale

IMPORT-EXPORT IS WIN-WIN
RUM-RUNNING | SWEETENING THE POT ALL DRINKS 18 .00
Back in the States, people are still mighty thirsty, especially for what Cuba’s got to offer. But since
those barrels ain’t what you might call exactly legal, there are certain export taxes and whatnot that
need to change hands first, and Little Guy is often at the docks collecting this whatnot. Stateside,
Big Guy is handling deliveries and distribution, where some import taxes are extracted. So they

5.
got it working both ways. The dough is sent back to Cuba, the pot grows and everybody’s happy.
 / B L A C K TA I L / 01 / Drinks List /

H I G H B A L L

YANKEE DOLLAR
Bourbon, Peated Scotch, Peach,
Barley Syrup, Lemon, Soda

N I T T Y- G R I T T Y
Amontillado Sherry, Caribbean Rum, Banana, Curaçao,
Mint Syrup, Black Cardamon, Brut Champagne

CAYO COCO
Cuban Rum Blend, Genever, Coconut, Macadamia,
Lime, Peychaud’s Bitters, Salt, Club Soda

RUM & GINGER

Jamaican Rum, Passionfruit, Lime,
Aromatic Bitters, Ginger Beer

I N B E D W I T H B A T I S T A
CASES FULL OF RESPECT | THE DEAL ALL DRINKS 18 .00
I explain to Little Guy that if you really want to get somewhere around here, you gotta make
nice with Batista. That’ll cost you several attaché cases to start with. Then maybe another
every month. In return, things get fixed. Locked doors open. Obstacles melt away. Skulls
get cracked and somebody gets filled with daylight. Whatever it takes, right? Little Guy

7.
understands Batista. What’s more, he’s selling something that Little Guy wants to buy: a country.
 / B L A C K TA I L / 01 / Drinks List /

S E R V E S T Y L E 02/05
drink s ec tion

One of the oldest mixed drinks,

punch truly began to flourish in India,
during the Age of Empire. Thereafter,
wherever colonization was taking
T H E F L O W O F T H E D O U G H place, a simple yet elegant version

PRESIDENT BATISTA | DISTANT DRUMS based on local ingredients would soon

be sure to follow.
Money’s like water, it gets everywhere. By the time Batista is president, he has Little Guy’s
skim flowing every which way – up to the top brass and into the pockets of every bus boy
down the line. But everybody’s happy, except for a bunch of jelly beans in the jungle playing
at soldiers. Every so often these compadres creep out, make a big noise, get everybody riled

9.
up and disappear again. Regular Robin Hood stuff. Then money gets back to normal.
 / B L A C K TA I L / 01 / Drinks List /

P U N C H

NACIONAL
Venezuelan Rum, Banana, Apricot,
French Bitter, Yuzu, Pineapple, Lime

MARY PICKFORD
Cuban Rum Blend, Maraschino, Pineapple,
Pomegranate, Lime, Burlesque Bitters

GULF STREAM
Mezcal, Irish Whiskey, Overproof Rum,
Falernum, Apple, Dill, Lime, Maraschino

B A L L E R I N A 
Vodka, Rainwater Madeira, Apricot, Ginger,
Pineapple, Lemon, Nutmeg

LOOKING FOR A GOOD TIME?

SIN CITY | MORALITY & IMMORALITY ALL DRINKS 18 .00
Now Havana is a regular fleshpot. Whatever tickles your fancy can be found here. There’s real
classy upscale joints where you don’t even feel yourself getting fleeced, you’re having such a good
time, and there’s the backstreet cathouses where anything goes, usually along with your pocketbook.
Now Little Guy and Big Guy ain’t so interested in this as revenue but it’s valuable in other ways

11.
– say, if some pally needs leaned on. So they keep an eye on who’s up to what and so forth.
 / B L A C K TA I L / 01 / Drinks List /

P U N C H

FINE & DANDY

Cognac, Arrack, French Bitter, Orange, Passionfruit,
Pomegranate, Pineapple, Lime, Aromatic Bitters, Nutmeg

BIG KAHUNA
Puerto Rican Rum, Strawberry, Orange, Carrot,
Greek Yoghurt, Aromatic Bitters

PINA COLADA
Caribbean Rum, Overproof Rum, Pineapple,
Coconut, Vanilla, Cream, Lime, Salt

GIN COBBLER
Gin, Fino & PX Sherries, Falernum, Yellow Chartreuse,
Grapefruit, Lemon, Orange and Peychaud’s Bitters, Nutmeg

S E X & S E N S I B I L I T Y
THE WAGES OF SIN | THE CHAIN ALL DRINKS 18 .00
Sex sells, ain’t that what they say? And the tourists crowd out joints like the Shanghai
every night, to be morally outraged and then take that outrage back to Dullsville, Illinois
and Tuesday meatloaf and the 7.56 to the office and the gals in the typing pool. And all the
time, dough is changing hands, moving along the chain, making skim, paying off pimps,

13 .
kicking back to the owners, and the owners’ owners. Sure, sex sells alright. It sells money.
 / B L A C K TA I L / 01 / Drinks List /

S E R V E S T Y L E 03/05
drink s ec tion

Though related to punch, the sour is

snappier and shorter, with just three
core ingredients – alcohol, citrus &
sugar. The Cuban classic is perhaps
T H E E X I L E R E T U R N S the most famous of all sours,

A C O N F E R E N C E | A C O R O N AT I O N | A C E L E B R AT I O N the Daiquiri.

After the War, Big Guy turns up outa the blue. Seems he got pinched and went to the Big House,
then sent off to exile in Italy, never to return. Which is exactly what he’s done. And he ain’t here
for a suntan. A big conference – which is also a coronation – is arranged. The families agree
to rearrange their interests, and they anoint Big Guy top banana. The bus boys get very nice

15 .
tips and Old Blue Eyes himself arrives and everything is ring-a-ding-ding and just peachy.
 / B L A C K TA I L / 01 / Drinks List /

S O U R

DAIQUIRI
Classic / Frozen / Banana / Strawberry /
Pineapple / Coconut / Hemingway

Cuban Rum Blend, Lime, Sugar

SUNSHINE SUPERMAN
Blanco Tequila, Cachaça, Lemongrass,
Guava, Lime, Ponzu, Egg-White

G R A V Y T R A I N 
Bourbon, Trinidad Rum, Jamaican Rum, Banana,
Pineapple, Lime, Cinnamon, Black Pepper, Nutmeg

W I L D O R C H I D 
Cognac, Spanish Vermouth, Apple, Fig,
Lemon, Caramel, Black Cardamon 

T H E H A N D O F H I S T O R Y
FUNDING THE CAUSE | ARROWS FOR ROBIN HOOD ALL DRINKS 18 .00
You know all that dough that gets splashed around in tips to waiters and showgirls and bus boys
and bell hops? Well, some of it finds its way back to Castro and his make-believe GI Joes in the
jungle. For old Batista is not a popular guy, what with all the skull-cracking and so forth. Also,
he’s living very high indeed when a lot of folks here ain’t. Understandably, this upsets people.

17.
The whole Robin Hood schtick is playing very well, and Little Guy starts to pay attention.
 / B L A C K TA I L / 01 / Drinks List /

S O U R

BACCARAT
Brandy, Applejack, Jamaican Rum, Curaçao,
Port, Banana, Guinness Syrup, Egg, Nutmeg

VENTRILOQUIST
Blanco Tequila, Overproof Rum, Mezcal, Amontillado Sherry,
Pineapple, Pepper, Lime, Hellfire Bitters

TEAR-JERKER
Cuban Rum Blend, Pisco, Pear, Lemon, Vanilla,
Macadamia, Cherry, Absinthe

ONE-ARMED BANDIT
Genever, Aquavit, Italian Bitter, Fino Sherry,
Button Mushroom, Lemon

F R O M R U M T O G U N S
THE TIDE IS TURNING | HELP BY THE HATFUL ALL DRINKS 18 .00
Money talks, right? And sometimes what it says is, ‘Bang, bang – you’re dead.’ You see, all the
donations and small change that’s been going into those jipipapas – the straw hats you see
outside the coffee shops, well it mounts up. And then it goes to supplying those guerrilla types.
Think about that. Mob money is buying guns for other people – people who may not in fact

19.
share your outlook on certain things and may indeed wish you harm. Now, ain’t that ironical?
 / B L A C K TA I L / 01 / Drinks List /

S E R V E S T Y L E 04/05
drink s ec tion

In addition to alcohol and sugar,

the signature ingredients of this
quintessential American tipple are
bitters and ice – which Cuban bars
S H O W T I M E began to import especially from

GLITZ & GLAMOR | RISK & REWARD Boston as far back as 1815.

With gun-running, there are big risks everywhere you look. But there’s always someone who says,
‘I’ll take those odds.’ Take JD Carroll. Couldn’t settle after the War, so he becomes a flyboy for hire.
He gets a kick out of it, sure, and he is very nicely rewarded as well. And like all these guys, old JD
ain’t exactly interested in saving for a rainy day. He’s a spender, likes to hang out at the Tropicana

21.
like a regular Joe Tourist and take in the show. And so the money works its way back around.
 / B L A C K TA I L / 01 / Drinks List /

OLD-FASHIONED

W H I Z Z K I D 
Bourbon, Cognac, Cachaça, Amaro,
Vanilla, Cherry Bitters 

JUNGLE BOOGIE
Irish Whiskey, Trinidad Rum, Port, PX Sherry, Apricot, Pear,
Pineapple, Agave, Orange & Aromatic Bitters

F I R E B R A N D 
Old Tom Gin, Pale Cream Sherry, Italian Blanc Vermouth,
American Bitter, Fennel, Cherry, Peach Bitters

COMMANDO
Mezcal, Pale Cream Sherry, Italian Bitter, Amaro,
Almond, Blueberry, Burlesque Bitters

THE CIRCULAR MONEY MACHINE

ROUND AND ROUND IT GOES | CHICKENS & EGGS ALL DRINKS 18 .00
In this world, everybody pays. That’s life. JD Carroll tips a showgirl. Showgirl pays the pit
boss. Pit boss pays the manager. Manager pays Little Guy. That’s the miracle of the skim –
enough to hurt but not enough to kill. Gotta keep the chickens healthy and laying, Little Guy
is forever saying, usually as he’s collecting the day’s eggs. And Little Guy is very interested

23.
in chickens, says it’s the only thing he can’t get good in Cuba. I guess they’re wrung out.
 / B L A C K TA I L / 01 / Drinks List /

OLD-FASHIONED

G U A N T A N A M E R A 
Irish Whiskey, Scotch Whisky, Applejack, Madeira,
Amaro, Ancho Chili, Cumin

B L I N D M A R I A C H I 
Guyanese Rum, Rye Whiskey, Italian Blanc Vermouth,
Rhubarb, Yuzu, Huckleberry, Cucumber Bitters

D O C T O R Z H I V A G O 
Bourbon, Irish Whiskey, Drambuie,
Benedictine, PX Sherry, Ginger, Walnut

GUERRILLA WAR
Guatemalan Rum, Scotch Whisky, Madeira, Amaro,
Coffee, Burlesque Bitters, Absinthe

T H E R I V I E R A
THE FINAL PIECE | A DREAM FULFILLED ALL DRINKS 18 .00
After all these years, Little Guy is ready to put together the final part of his plan. That
part has a name, which is The Riviera, and is to be the razzlest dazzlest joint since ever
– a swanky hotel, a casino that never closes and a nightclub to beat anything Vegas
can offer. Batista money is going in and, after a little persuading, a lot of Mob dough.

25.
Work begins and is of course completed on time. Well, these guys know construction.
 / B L A C K TA I L / 01 / Drinks List /

S E R V E S T Y L E
05/05
drink s ec tion

Drinks in this category resemble an

Old-Fashioned, but are softened by
the addition of fortified wine.
The Cuban classic, the iconic
THE WALLS ARE MADE OF GOLD! El Presidente, has been dubbed

A P I CT U R E - PERFEC T PA LA C E | MOV IE STA R S & TO U G H G U Y S “the aristocrat of cocktails”.

Picture it. Marble as far as the eye can see. Turquoise mosaics by the yard. Sunken
gardens with cute little bridges. Fancy-schmancy paintings and sculptures everywhere.
The nightclub is big enough to hold an orchestra. And here’s the kicker: the casino has
actual gold-leaf walls. Everything about the Riviera squeaks money. There’s a big high-

27.
tone gala opening with Hollywood types, who always love to rub up against some genuine
tough guys. Later I see the architect in the casino. He’s returning his fee one game at a time.
 / B L A C K TA I L / 01 / Drinks List /

COCKTAIL

EL PRESIDENTE
Bahamian Rum, Panama Rum, Mezcal,
Orange, Pomegranate, Mole Bitters

BRIGADIER
Blanche Armagnac, Port, Vermouth,
Verjus, Curaçao, Cacao

SITTING DUCK
Old Tom Gin, Italian Blanc Vermouth,
Strega, Peach Shrub, Vanilla 

CRY BABY
Barbados Rum, Dominican Rum, Italian Vermouth,
Banana, Ginger, Cinnamon, Pimento Bitters

AN APPOINTMENT WITH CASTRO

TICK, TOCK | ONE LAST THROW ALL DRINKS 18 .00
It’s getting hard to ignore – revolution is in the air. But still the good times carry on, the band
keeps playing, the cards are dealt and the roulette wheel keeps spinning. And the dough
keeps rolling in. But deep down, we know. In the counting room, I can hear what the radio is
saying, that Castro and the compadres are coming. We keep counting. Suddenly, Little Guy

29.
is there with a coupla nice new attaché cases. And he just starts cramming them with bills.
 / B L A C K TA I L / 01 / Drinks List /

COCKTAIL

R O B I N H O O D 
Celery Vodka, Aquavit, Fino Sherry,
Tomato & Jerk Bitters

SHARPSHOOTER
Caribbean Rum, Gin, Pale Cream Sherry,
Verjus, Guava, Sesame

FIRE-CRACKER
Blanco Tequila, Oloroso Sherry, Cacao,
Peach, Dandelion

FLIGHT OF THE CONDOR

French Vermouth, Rye Whiskey, Bourbon, Mead,
Yellow Chartreuse, Banana, Gentian, Decanter Bitters

B U S T E D F L U S H
REBELS IN THE STREETS | NO MORE BETS ALL DRINKS 18 .00
Getaway time. I watch Little Guy throw his cases into the trunk and hightail it outta there. It’s
clear that the game is up for him, for all of us, for now. The Robin Hoods are in the streets and
brother, that’s all she wrote. Batista will soon be gone too. Whatever you can carry is what you can
keep. The rest gets left behind. Little Guy cut his losses. ‘I crapped out’ he says. I guess we all did.

31.
 / BLACKTAIL / P i e r A . / N Y C / / BLACKTAIL / 02 / L a n s k y’ s D r e a m /

T.J. English is a multi-award-

winning author of true-crime
bestsellers, including Havana
No c t u r n e , T h e S a v a g e C i t y a n d
Paddy Whacked – books
characterized by their hard-hitting
language, meticulous research and
historical accuracy. His journalism
has appeared in publications
i n c l u d i n g Va n i t y Fa i r , E s q u i re a n d
P l a y b o y . A f o r m e r Ne w Yo r k C i t y
taxi driver, in 2018 English will
publish his eighth book, this one on
the subject of the Cuban
underworld in America.
02. PAR T T W O

LANSKY’S DREAM
BY T. J . E N G L I S H

To l d b y M e y e r L a n s k y ’ s o l d f r i e n d No r m a n
Rothman, here is a chapter from the annals of
Goodfella gangsterismo – that period before
Castro came to power, when the Cuban regime
c o n s p i re d w i t h t h e Mo b i n s h a p i n g L a n s k y’s
plan to run gambling in Havana.

The story is at times violent – and the

language pulls no punches either.
T. J . E N G L I S H

32. 33.
 / BLACKTAIL / 02 / L a n s k y’ s D r e a m /

JUNE, 1933
Meyer flipped open the suitcase on the bed. It opened, butterfly-style, like a woman
spreading her legs.

I know that’s a crude comparison. I apologize. But that’s what it was like. There was
millions of dollars in cash in that suitcase. It was breathtaking.

General Batista looked at the money. For a second his eyes widened. Then
he caught himself. He was doing that thing men sometimes do in these situations,
trying to pretend like that amount of money wasn’t a startling sight. As if he saw it
every day.

He reached over and closed the suitcase, pulling the zipper and latching the latch.
There was a trace of a smile on his lips, and he said, “I think we can do business.”

It felt odd to me that I was there. Meyer had insisted that I join him on the trip to
Havana to meet with the man he had referred to as “the future power in Cuba.” Ok.
When Meyer calls, I usually answer. But being there felt like watching two people
engage in the act of sex. I have, by the way, done that before. I am not an innocent
babe in the woods. But in this case it made me feel like the third wheel. At the time,
my involvement in this transaction was purely theoretical.

We didn’t stick around in Cuba. Meyer had to get back to New York, and I had my
carpet joints in Broward County that needed my attention. In that little seaplane,
flying over the Straits of Florida — speaking loudly over the sound of the engine —
Meyer explained the deal. The money for Batista was an investment. It had been my
friend’s plan ever since the Roaring Twenties to set up operations in Cuba. True, the
Volstead Act had just been rescinded. Booze was no longer illegal; it would appear
that the boys had just lost their biggest racket since the dawn of man. Things were
going to be different. Still, Meyer had big plans. He always did.

35.
 / BLACKTAIL / P i e r A . / N Y C / / BLACKTAIL / 02 / L a n s k y’ s D r e a m /

“The island will be good for us,” said my lifelong friend. “Ninety miles off the coast,
close enough so’s you can piss on it from Key West, but an entirely different country.
Nobody can touch us there. Not the cops and not the feds.” Meyer took a deep breath
and gripped my forearm. “Norman, it’s gonna be our little playground, and we’re
gonna get rich.”

It was a big dream, that’s what it was. At the time, I had no idea that this dream
would take decades to evolve, but I knew that it was going to be a hell of a ride. Three
million clams stuffed in a suitcase for the General had convinced me of that.

NOVEMBER, 1946
November was the best time to be in Cuba. The weather was still warm but not that
sweltering tropical stew you get during the summer months. A gentle breeze came
down from the north, and the jacaranda trees made the entire island smell like
French perfume. The women wore bright flowers in their hair, and everyone walked
with a kind of dancer’s syncopation in their hips. This was the paradise they wrote
song lyrics about, a place that lived in the hearts of every dime-store romantic from
here to the Bronx.

They told me to be at the airport to meet the Fischetti brothers, Rocco and Chuckie.
Initially, they didn’t tell me the brothers were going to have with them Frank Sinatra,
the biggest star in the world.

I only just got to Havana the day before. I’d come from Las Vegas, where I’d been
presiding over the grand opening of the Sands Hotel & Casino. I had a million things
to do in Vegas. It was the worst time possible for me to step away from my duties
there. But, once again, it was Meyer. He told me, “We’re having a gathering of the
brain trust. The biggest conference since ’31 in Chicago. All the big shots will be
there, including Mr. You Know Who.”

I looked at Meyer and said nothing. Luciano. It had been all over the newspapers that
he was in Havana.

Meyer looked at me and said, “Yeah, that’s the one.”

It was a thing we had: the ability to read the other person’s mind without saying a word.

36. 37.
/ BLACKTAIL / P i e r A . / N Y C / / BLACKTAIL / 02 / L a n s k y’ s D r e a m /

We had this kind of telepathy since our days on Delancey Street, on the Lower East
Side, organizing the corner card games with the back-alley machers and the guineas,
while having to dodge the Mick coppers.

Finally, Meyer told me, “Frankie from Hoboken is coming in.”

So, here I was at the airport waiting for Frankie — me and about three dozen reporters
and photographers who somehow knew he was due to arrive.

When Frank got off the plane, he was carrying a suitcase, just like Meyer said he
would be. My job, Meyer said, was to make sure that suitcase got from Sinatra to
Luciano without any delays or interruptions.

On the tarmac, the reporters and photographers descended on Frank like a flock of
wild geese. I was alarmed, but Frank wasn’t: I gathered he’d encountered situations
like this many time before. He barreled right through the mob, elbowing aside the
ink-stained wretches as if he were a running back crossing the goal line. When he saw
me, he smiled, “Norman, baby, there you are. The Little Man told me you’d be here.”

“Good to see you, Mister Sinatra. Welcome to Havana.”

The haggle of reporters surged forward. Frank pushed them aside. “Hey,” he snarled,
“don’t make me lose my temper.”

I reached over to take the suitcase, but Frank immediately pulled it away. “Oh no,”
he said. “I’m delivering this straight to our friend myself. Nobody comes between me
and Mister L.”

“Alright, but come with me. You’ll never get out of here if you go through the terminal.
I’ve got a car waiting for you on the other side.”

By now a handful of Cuban military police had arrived on the scene. They separated
the hordes of fans and media types so that we could make our escape through a
private exit.

On the drive in from the airport, Frank asked me who had already arrived. I told him
the names — Genovese, Gambino, Anastasia, Trafficante Jr., etc., etc. It was a long list.
Frank got quiet. I got the impression he was impressed, maybe even in awe. It was,
after all, the most esteemed collection of mafiosi since the heyday of Prohibition.

38. 39.
 / BLACKTAIL / P i e r A . / N Y C / / BLACKTAIL / 02 / L a n s k y’ s D r e a m /

At the Hotel Nacional, surrounded by an entourage of security people, we went

straight to Luciano’s suite on the sixth floor. Charley himself answered the door.
He’d just stepped out of the shower; he was wearing a robe, and his black hair was
wet and slicked back. He’d aged a lot since I’d last seen him. I guess prison will do
that to a man. But he was still Lucky Luciano, the boldest gangster in the underworld.

Lucky and Frank hugged like long, lost brothers. I’d always heard there was a strong
connection between the two. Their people came from the same little village in Sicily.
And then there were the rumors that Luciano was the one who got Frank out of his
contact with bandleader Tommy Dorsey. The Mob helped get Frank started on his
own. He was indebted to them and spent the rest of his career kissing every goomba
ass that came his way.

Frank threw the suitcase on the sofa and cracked it open. Cash neatly stacked.
Two million clams.

I was beginning to get the impression this entire Cuba venture was nothing more than
a series of suitcases filled with greenbacks being passed around between mobsters,
generals, celebrities and politicians.

The next three days went by like a weekend retreat for some of the most notorious
heavy hitters in the American underworld. Each day, they had an official meeting in
a private conference room at the Nacional. I was not privy to those meetings. I may
have been a business partner to many of these men, but I was not a member of their
private fraternity. Outside of a couple gambling arrests in my youth, I was clean. Not
so much as a misdemeanor on my record. Meyer used to bust my chops about that.
He’d introduce me to people by saying, “This is my friend Norman Rothman. He’s
holier than a Brooklyn rabbi.”

The boys were there to talk business. I was there to make sure that when they weren’t
talking business, they were relaxed and having a good time. Mostly, that meant
supplying them with women, of which Cuba had an abundance. Some of these men
wanted hookers, but others simply wanted a beautiful showgirl from one of the clubs
that they could parade around on their arm as they gambled in the casinos or took in
a show at the Tropicana.

Lining up tail for the boys was how I first met Olga.

40 . 41 .
/ BLACKTAIL / P i e r A . / N Y C / / BLACKTAIL / 02 / L a n s k y’ s D r e a m /

I’d heard about Olga. Nobody knew exactly what her talent was. Was she a showgirl?
Technically, no, though she did occasionally make an appearance on stage. Was she a
singer? Definitely not. I’d heard her try, she could peel the paint off the wall with her
voice. Was she an actress? Funny thing is, she would eventually have an acting career.
Mostly, she was hired to walk in front of the camera. She wasn’t expected to do much.
She didn’t have to. In a city filled with beautiful women, Olga Chaviano was simply
the most exotic creature in all of Havana — which is how she got her nickname, The
Goddess of all Goddesses.

“You are the most beautiful woman I’ve ever seen,” I said when I first met her.

“I’ve heard that before,” she answered, with a heavy Cuban accent.

Meyer was there at the time. Later, he said to me, “I haven’t seen you that tongue-tied
since your bar mitzvah.”

Olga was a formidable woman. Yes, she was beautiful and an absolute tigress in bed,
but she was also quite possibly crazy. I knew she was sleeping with other men, and,
I heard, other women, including the most luscious showgirls at the Tropicana. She
had a ferocious, uncontrollable temper. We had some angry shouting matches, once
even right on the casino floor, which was embarrassing to me. I take great pride in my
professionalism in the gaming business. It’s been the secret of my success and likely
what has kept me alive over the years. To lose my cool in front of the customers was
an absolute no-no.

Even so, I could not quit Olga Chaviano. Everyone assumed it was because she had
the most shapely tush in all of Havana, and that may have been part of the reason. But
mostly, I continued to lavish attention — and money — on her because she was my
link to reality on the island.

Olga was Afro-Cuban, from the city of Santiago, on the eastern part of the island. She
had come to Havana as a teenager, a nobody, and turned herself into a somebody all
on her own. And she had done so never losing touch with her roots among the Cuban
people. She lived with and took care of her mother, and she still lived in Central
Havana, el barrio, even though she had enough money of her own to live in one of the
better neighborhoods, like Vedado or Miramar.

42 . 43 .
 / BLACKTAIL / P i e r A . / N Y C / /
Olga was the first one who told me that the true Cuban people, the campesinos,
despised Fulgencio Batista. To them, he was a tyrant. And she was also the first one
to speak a name that would come to haunt us all.
At the time, he had never even been mentioned in the newspapers. But Olga said
to me, “There’s a young lawyer from the university, a political leader, his name
is Fidel Castro.’
“Yeah,” I said. “So what?”
“One day this man will make a lot of trouble for you and your American friends.”
I didn’t know what she was talking about and paid little attention. By the time I did
start paying attention, it was already too late.
 “Even Moses couldn’t do that on his own,” he said. When he saw that I was serious, he
It was a Sunday, and the Mobster conference was in its final day. The boys had their
last closed-door meeting. It was a long one, getting underway at 1pm and lasting late
into the afternoon.
The boys had much to talk about. Primary on their agenda was Lansky’s dream of
establishing a base of operations on the island. With increased investments in the
casinos and nightclubs, Havana had the potential to be a big money-maker. But Meyer
always saw it as more than just that. With a friendly government in power in Cuba, the
Mob could launder its proceeds from the U.S. and even use the island as a launching
pad for other ventures in South America, in Europe and around the world.
There was another item on the agenda that was even more important to me. In fact, I
was one of the people who had first brought it to Meyer’s attention. It had to do with
Benny Siegel, Meyer’s best friend from the old neighborhood.
Benny had been using sizable cash investments from the boys to build his dream
project, the Flamingo Hotel & Casino in Vegas. The cost overruns were causing
big problems. The hotel had been under construction for a year and a half, with no
completion date in sight. The entire operation had become one big money pit. And
that wasn’t even the worst of it. A more serious problem was that, according to an
44 .
BLACKTAIL / 02 / L a n s k y’ s D r e a m /
outside auditor I hired to secretly assess the project, Benny’s lady friend, Virginia
Hill, was skimming money from the Flamingo account. This had been brought to
Benny’s attention, and he had, as of yet, done nothing about it.
The Mob in Vegas was irate. Moe Dalitz from Cleveland, who was a good friend, told
me, “He’s making us look bad.” By “us,” Moe meant the Jewish boys in the Mob. Some
referred to us as Lansky’s Boys, or the Jewish Mafia. We were a minority faction
amongst the mafiosi. The Italians had their own reasons for being angry with Benny —
he was costing them money. But Moe, myself and the other Hebrews were concerned
about our credibility and reputations.
I asked around. The Italians, including Carlo Gambino back home in New York, were
angry enough to hit Ben Siegel. I told Meyer, “You better talk to your friends. Smooth
the waters. Benny could use an advocate.”
added, “I’ll see what I can do.”
The mobsters came out of their meeting around 5pm. I had arranged for a lavish
dinner in the restaurant at the Nacional. It was their final night together. Though they
were tanned and relaxed after a long weekend of sun bathing and swimming mixed
in with business, I got the sense that night there was tension in the air. I discreetly
asked Meyer, “How are things going?”
He looked at me with a deep sadness in his eyes. He answered my question by saying,
“I want you to know I did all I could. And now it’s out of my hands.”
I looked at my old friend. It was another of those moments where words were not
required. I had a pretty good idea that Benjamin Siegel, who we had both known since
he was eleven years old, was doomed.
I asked no further questions, and, a few days later, headed back to Vegas to take care
of business at the Sands. A few months went by, then Moe stopped by the casino to
say hello.
“See the morning papers out of L.A.?” he asked.
“No,” I said.
He dropped a copy of the Los Angles Herald on the green felt of the blackjack table.
45 .
 / BLACKTAIL / P i e r A . / N Y C / / BLACKTAIL / 02 / L a n s k y’ s D r e a m /

The front page jumped out at me like an angry Doberman Pinscher: MOB BOSS
BUGSY SIEGEL MURDERED. The article was accompanied by what had to be the most
gruesome photo to ever appear in a newspaper. There was my old pal Benny Siegel,
splayed out on the sofa in his home, his left eye shot out of his head, blood streaming
down his face.

I skimmed the article. There was considerable speculation about who might have
been behind the hit, but nowhere did it say anything about what I knew to be true:
that this brutal act had roots that went straight back to Havana.

NOVEMBER, 1956
I could never get over how much Fulgencio Batista looked like a Hollywood matinée
idol. He had thick black hair lightly streaked with grey, perfectly symmetrical facial
features, and a perennial suntan. Handsome Latino. A little Cesar Romero, a little
Ricardo Montalbán. He looked nothing like a brutal army general, or tinpot dictator.
I’d heard he had a temper, but in public he remained inscrutable, with a kindly,
solicitous smile that almost made him appear dim-witted.

Batista, myself, Meyer and a dozen other dignitaries — including the U.S. Ambassador
and the president of Pan Am — were standing in a vacant lot near the Malecón,
the city’s famous seafront roadway. Meyer was holding a shovel. There were a few
reporters and one photographer present. Though this was a public event, there were
no spectators. A recent spate of bombings by the anti-Batista underground resistance
had everyone on edge, with many Cubans staying indoors. Nonetheless, the show
had to go on. Batista’s people had arranged this little press conference to convince
himself — and Meyer — that all was normal on the island.

“This project, the Riviera Hotel & Casino, will be the most modern facility ever built
in the city of Havana,” said Batista. Having lived with his wife for a number of years
in Daytona Beach, El Presidente’s English was perfect. He added, “This shows that
investment in our country will reap immediate benefit, both locally for our growing
tourist business in Havana, but also for the Americans, who we consider to be our
staunchest ally in the hemisphere.”

46 . 47 .
/ BLACKTAIL / P i e r A . / N Y C / / BLACKTAIL / 02 / L a n s k y’ s D r e a m /

Everyone applauded politely, then Batista turned to Meyer and said, “Señor Lansky,
would you like a to say a few words?”

“Oh, you know, I don’t normally speak publicly unless I’m under a subpoena.”

Everyone laughed, perhaps a bit too heartily.

Said Meyer, “The only thing I’d like to say is, let’s get this project started.” He lifted
the shovel and drove it into the ground. The photographer began snapping pictures.

I don’t know when I’d ever seen my old friend so proud. He had a big grin on his
face and despite his protestations, out of the earshot of the reporters he was
uncharacteristically verbose.

“We will spare no expenses,” he told Batista about the hotel/casino project. “The
entire place — the hotel, casino and three different nightclubs — will be a work of
art. People will come from around the world just to see the design.”

The President was impressed. These two men had made a huge commitment to one
another that went back more than twenty years, and now it was paying off.

Meyer and I left the ground-breaking ceremony. We sat in the back of Meyer’s
Cadillac. In the front, his driver, Jaime, kept his eyes on the road. Jaime was salt of
the earth, a Cuban who attended school in the U.S. and then landed a job as a croupier
in Las Vegas. When I met the guy at the Sands, I asked him, “Hey, how would you like
to return to Cuba to undertake a very special job as a valet for Señor Meyer Lansky?”

Jamie’s eyes opened wide. We had him on a plane to Havana two days later. Meyer
liked the guy, as I knew he would, and from that day forward the Little Man had a
new driver.

We were all quiet for a while, with Meyer looking out at the passing ocean. Then I said,
almost absentmindedly, “I wish Benny could have been here.”

Meyer tightened up, and I knew I’d made a mistake. In the nine years since Benny
Siegel was murdered, Meyer and I had rarely said a word about it.

“You know what?” he said, still looking out at the ocean. “With this venture, the
Riviera, I’m gonna show my guinea partners that a Jew can get the job done right.
We’re gonna come in on time and under budget, with the most dynamic facility ever
created in this country or any other. And then all of them — Trafficante, Anastasia,

48 . 49 .
 / BLACKTAIL / P i e r A . / N Y C / / BLACKTAIL / 02 / L a n s k y’ s D r e a m /

Gambino, even your bubala from Vegas, Moe Dalitz — they can all kiss my happy and retrieved a piece of paper with an address written on it. He handed the paper to
hebe ass.” the driver and said, “Jaime, can you take us to this address. Right away.”

Meyer turned to me and patted my leg. “No disrespect, Rabbi Rothman.” “Sure, boss,” said Jaime. He made an immediate right turn and headed towards the

Meyer could be cute. outskirts of the city.

I couldn’t leave well enough alone. Within a couple minutes, I brought up another I didn’t ask my friend where we were going, but I knew from experience that I was

taboo subject. “What about these bombings?” I asked. “It seems that maybe the about to get a demonstration of some sort.

resistance in gaining momentum in the city.”

Meyer sighed. “Look,” he said, “you can’t stop every little bomb from exploding 
around Havana. The rebels think they can turn the people against Fulgencio. I don’t
see it happening. You’re talking about a man who has controlled the military in this
country since before the war.” It looked like an abandoned factory or airplane hangar, though we were nowhere near
the airport. Then it occurred to me that it was a military installation. There were a
I was quiet for a bit, and then said, “Yes. But there’s a problem.”
couple soldiers standing guard outside a huge sliding gate.
“What’s that?”
Meyer told Jaime to wait in the car. We got out. It was dark. As we approached the gate,
I didn’t like bringing it up, but I couldn’t keep my mouth shut. Olga was the one
one of the soldiers shined a flashlight on both of us. I don’t think they recognized me,
who first told me. “Don’t you understand?” she said, “Batista took over the country
but they recognized Meyer. Without saying anything, they slid open the gate so that
by force in a golpe de estado — what you call a coup d’état. To the people, he is not
Meyer and I could enter.
legitimate. And to many, he will never be. I don’t care how many hotels and casinos
It was a cavernous warehouse. The only light was in the center of the room. There
your friends construct on his behalf.”
were some men gathered beneath a single bare bulb, though from the distance I
Olga’s comment hit me like a smack in the face. Of course, she was right. There would
couldn’t quite make out who or what it was. As we got closer, the scene came into
always be a faction of the Cuban people trying to unseat Batista, because he was an
focus. There was a man in a short-sleeved shirt, wearing glasses, standing over
illegitimate ruler.
another man who was strapped in a chair. The guy in the chair had his pants and
I explained it to Meyer. He didn’t want to hear it. “You been talking to that crazy underwear down around his ankles. There were electrodes attached to his testicles,
puttana of yours again?” with electrical wires that ran across the floor to a table, where another man sat with
Meyer was not an overtly crude man, so I was surprised to hear him be so dismissive what looked like a car battery, or some kind of generator.
of the woman who meant more to me than anyone — with the exception of my wife.
The guy in the chair was young — a kid in his early twenties, and he was covered
“My friend, she may not be highly educated, but she’s no dummy. She’s out there with
with grime and sweat. He looked like he’d been beat up pretty bad. His lip was split
the people. She knows what’s going on.”
open and his left eye was black and blue and bulging out of his head. There was drool
Meyer remained quiet. He knew he’d been rude. When he spoke, his voice was soft and dripping from the corner of his mouth and he was breathing heavily. But he was alert,
apologetic. “Norman, I wanna show you something.” He reached inside his coat jacket his eyes darting around the room as Meyer and I approached.

50 . 51 .
 / BLACKTAIL / P i e r A . / N Y C / / BLACKTAIL / 02 / L a n s k y’ s D r e a m /

The man in the short-sleeved shirt looked at Meyer and acknowledged his presence
with a nod. I finally got a good look at him and could see who it was: Rolando Masferrer,
the leader of a notorious Batista death squad known as Los Tigres — the Tigers. He
had a pencil-thin mustache and wavy black hair, and he was smoking a cigarette.

I’d met Masferrer a couple times and never doubted for a minute that he was a
complete psychopath. There were other men around the room, but they were in the
shadows and I couldn’t see their faces.

Masferrer turned to the guy in the chair. He said something in Spanish. I was not
fluent, but I’d picked up a fair amount in the years since I’d moved permanently
to Havana. Masferrer was asking the guy, “¿Quién plantó la bomba?” — who planted
the bomb?

The kid squirmed but was unable to move much. He lifted his head and tried to
spit at Masferrer, but all he produced was a bloody trickle that mostly dribbled
down his chin.

Masferrer nodded towards the man at the table. He applied the bare, frayed wires
from the electrodes to the generator.

The kid jerked and twitched and let out a horrifying, high-pitched scream. The
electrical charge to his testicles lasted for about ten seconds, and when it stopped,
he slumped in his chair. For a second, I thought he was dead, but then he moved a bit
and opened his eyes.

Masferrer pulled out a revolver from the waist of his pants. He checked the gun’s
cylinder, saw that it was loaded, then spun the cylinder and pointed the weapon at
the guy in the chair.

The kid said, “Matarme y cien compañeros tomarán mi lugar.”

It took me a few seconds to decipher what they guy was saying. “Kill me and one
hundred fellow revolutionaries will take my place.”

Something about this statement made Masferrer chuckle. “This asshole is crazy,” he
said in English, to no-one in particular, then he took a deep drag on his cigarette.

52 . 53 .
/ BLACKTAIL / P i e r A . / N Y C / / BLACKTAIL / 02 / L a n s k y’ s D r e a m /

I heard some scuffling as a man from the shadows stepped forward, followed by
a couple underlings. It wasn’t until the man came into the light that I saw who it
was: Batista.

It was startling enough to see the president of the country walk into the middle of
a brutal torture session, but what Batista did next really threw me. He walked over
to me and Lansky. First, he put his hand out to Meyer; they shook hands. Then he
reached towards me. I looked at the hand and was struck by how well-manicured
were his fingernails. He had a tasteful diamond ring on his pinky finger.

We shook hands.

Batista turned and nodded for Masferrer to hand him the gun. He took the gun and
stood in front of the man in the chair. In English, he said to the man, “I admire your
bravery. But you realize, do you not, that you will never defeat us.”

The man looked confused. I couldn’t tell if it was because he didn’t understand
English, or if he was, at this point, barely conscious. Then he summoned whatever
strength he had left. He sat up and said to Batista, “Hasta la victoria siempre.”

I recognized this phrase as a slogan that was popular with the rebels. “Until victory
always.” The literal translation didn’t make sense to me, but I knew what it meant.
“We will never give up until we win.”

Batista pursed his lips. I wasn’t sure, but I thought he looked sad. Then he stepped
forward, pressed the gun to the guy’s forehead and pulled the trigger.

Brain matter and skull fragments exploded from the back of the man’s head. He
convulsed in the chair and then became limp.

We didn’t wait around. Meyer tapped me on the shoulder and nodded for us to leave.

Outside, Jaime was waiting for us. We climbed into the back seat of the Cadillac and
drove towards the city in silence until Meyer spoke up. “Batista will never let the
rebels take over the country.”

That night, I sat on the edge of the bed, puffing on a little Montecristo panatella. Olga,
the most beautiful woman in Cuba, lay stretched out behind me.

“What’s wrong?” she asked.

54 . 55 .
 / BLACKTAIL / P i e r A . / N Y C / /
I told her what happened. She sat up, put an arm around my shoulder, and with her
other hand took my cigar, puffed on it, and blew a perfect smoke ring. “If you were
smart,” she said, “you’d get out of here before the uprising is complete.”
She handed me the panatella. “Will you come with me?” I asked.
She took a deep breath. “I am Cuban. I belong here with my people.”
“But you work in the nightclubs. If there’s a new government, they’ll treat you like an
enemy of the people, a friend of the Americans.”
Olga waved a hand. She seemed to have lost patience with the conversation. “Life is
unpredictable, as it should be. Now stop talking.”
She lay back on the bed. She was wearing a see-through negligee that showed her
entire form. As I looked at her, we both heard the sound of machine-gun fire from
somewhere outside in the dark.
Olga reached up and grabbed me with both arms, drawing me to her.
DECEMBER, 1957
Somehow, Meyer pulled it off. He opened his hotel-casino in record time, and it
was a beauty. Everyone turned out for the opening night. They had a Champagne
reception in the lobby. Batista was there. It was as if Lansky’s triumph was designed
to obliterate the reality of what was happening out there on the island. The entire
eastern part of Cuba had been taken over by the 26th of July Movement. Castro had
gone from being a nobody to being an international celebrity. He was interviewed on
the front page of the New York Times, where he was portrayed as a kind of tropical
Robin Hood.
In Havana, we stuck our heads in the sand and ignored what was happening. “Batista
has things under control,” was our mantra.
At the Riviera, the main nightclub was called the Copa Room. Meyer and I stood
backstage opening night and watched Ginger Rogers as she performed her show.
The room was packed to capacity, and Rogers sang and danced on stage with earnest
abandon. After watching the show for thirty minutes or so, Meyer said to me, “Well,
she can wiggle her ass, but she can’t sing a goddamn note.”
56 .
BLACKTAIL / 02 / L a n s k y’ s D r e a m /
Meyer and I laughed. In fact, we laughed so hard we thought we might split our guts
open. Meanwhile, out there on the island, the rebels took over the city of Trinidad
and set their sights on Santa Clara.
One night, we all went to the sex show at the Shanghai Theater. The performer
Superman was there with his fifteen-inch pinga. Meyer wasn’t there. He thought the
Shanghai was low-class, and of course he was right. But whenever I had visitors from
the States, which was often, they wanted to go to the Shanghai, and I never got tired
of seeing their reactions when Superman came out on stage or swung overhead on a
trapeze, his huge schlong flapping in the wind.
We met Meyer later at El Floridita. It was one of those memorable Havana nights.
Everybody was there — Errol Flynn, who had become a regular in Havana; Marlon
Brando, who was on the hunt for the perfect conga drum; the British writer Graham
Greene; and, of course, the man who made El Floridita famous, Ernest “Papa”
Hemingway. The story was that the restaurant had created a drink especially for
Papa: the daiquiri. I knew it was bullshit; the daiquiri had been around long before
Hemingway showed up, but it was a good marketing ploy. Hemingway did nothing to
discourage the story that it was his signature drink.
That night, Hemingway was there in his usual spot at the bar. I’d met the man a couple
times before, but I was surprised that as I walked by him on the way to the men’s
room, he said, “Rothman, how are things in the casino business?”
I stopped. “Well, you know what they say: the house always wins.”
Papa smiled. “Ah, so the house would have you believe.”
It’s not every day that you find yourself chatting with the greatest American writer.
I didn’t want to let this moment go by. I said to Hemingway, “Papa… is it alright if I
call you Papa?”
“Please do.”
“If you were to come into my casino and bet everything you owned — your finca, your
boat, your money, everything — would you put your holdings on Batista or on this
fellow Castro?”
57 .
 / BLACKTAIL / P i e r A . / N Y C /

Hem i ngway furrowe d hi s b row. “ G oo d G o d , Ro t h m a n . Th a t ’s a s e r i o us

f u c k ing quest i on.”

I shrugged: yes it was. But I knew he would find the question irresistible, I waited...

Papa drained his daiquiri to the bottom of the glass and said. “Two to one
on Castro.”

Later that night, I told Meyer and Santo Trafficante what Hemingway had said.
They scoffed. Said Santo, “What does he know? He sits in front of his typewriter
all day and drinks daiquiris.”

Many years later, I thought about that night, about how all my friends and partners
had it wrong, and Hemingway had it right.

Maybe that’s why they gave the bastard the Nobel Prize.

58 .
 / BLACKTAIL / P i e r A . / N Y C / / B L A C K TA I L / 03 / One Man’s Xanadu - The s tory of The Riviera H o t e l /

03 . PAR T T H R E E

It was intended to rival the best of Las

ONE MAN’S XANADU
Ve g a s a n d Mo n t e C a r l o . A n d f o r a b r i e f ,
The Story of
b r i l l i a n t t i m e t h e R i v i e ra a p p e a re d t o
s u c c e e d . B u t re v o l u t i o n w a s c o m i n g , a n d The Riviera Hotel
history would not be denied. Soon,
L a n s k y’ s c a s i n o t u r n e d o u t t o
be a castle in the air.

60 . 61.
/ B L A C K TA I L / 03 / One Man’s Xanadu - The s tory of The Riviera H o t e l /

Step in from the stifling tropical heat of Havana.

Feels good, doesn’t it – that cool air wherever you go?

For a hotel in the 1950s, central air conditioning was an impressive detail in a building of
impressive details. No more wheezing, rattling units dripping from bedroom windows.
Just fresh cool air, venting silently and efficiently throughout the entire hotel, into every
bedroom and function room, into the restaurant and bars, into the Copa nightclub. And
of course, into the casino.

All of this was exactly as Meyer Lansky, the Riviera’s prime mover, had envisaged.
Architecturally, the hotel was a major statement in itself – the modernist,
eye-catching symbol of a new Havana, ‘the Monte Carlo of the Caribbean’. But the
Riviera was something more. It was the culmination of decades of scheming, the
embodiment of Lanksy’s greatest and grandest dream. It was his 21-story, 440-room
Shangri-La; his Xanadu.

Welcome to the pleasure-dome

From conception to execution, everything about the Riviera was to be vast and of
superior quality, from its broad promenade-style lobby to its sunken gardens, from its
huge nightclub able to accommodate an entire orchestra to its lavish pool area with 75
individual cabanas, each with two separate dressing rooms and telephones.

But first it had to be built.

A site was easily identified – a former sports arena overlooking the blue Gulf of Mexico.
Finding an architect was the next hurdle to be overcome. This was not because of lack of
interest; quite the opposite. Several leading figures were approached, including Philip
Johnson (the Seagram Building; MoMA) and Wayne McAllister, who had designed the
Desert Inn, The Fremont and The Sands in Las Vegas.

63.
/ BLACKTAIL / P i e r A . / N Y C / / B L A C K TA I L / 03 / One Man’s Xanadu - The s tory of The Riviera H o t e l /

64 . 65.
 / BLACKTAIL / P i e r A . / N Y C / / B L A C K TA I L / 03 / One Man’s Xanadu - The s tory of The Riviera H o t e l /

They both respectfully declined the commission, due significantly to Lansky’s insistence
that the hotel be completed within six months.

The name of Igor Polivetski, the so-called dean of the Miami Modern school of
architecture, was proposed. He accepted and began design work almost immediately.
Irving Feldman, who had built numerous hotels and apartment blocks on Miami Beach,
was named general contractor.

Polivetski’s design was groundbreaking, angular and futuristic. A giant Y-shaped tower
rose on thin columns to take advantage of the view over the Gulf. The floor slabs extended
out beyond the exterior walls towards the end of the building’s cantilevered ocean-facing
wing, lending the building a dramatic sculptural quality. Beautiful turquoise mosaic
tiling covered the surface of the tower in a tasteful reference to the hotel's imposing
seafront location.

Next to the tower was the all-important casino itself, a large windowless dome swathed
in mosaic and gilt, like some great golden Fabergé egg. The table games – roulette,
blackjack, craps, chemin de fer (baccarat) – were arrayed beneath custom-made gold
and crystal chandeliers. A row of ceaselessly chattering slot machines lined the curved
perimeter wall.

The hotel interiors were created by the leading resort design firm of the day, Los
Angeles-based Parvin-Dohrman. Led by Albert Parvin, the firm commissioned works
from some of the major Cuban artists of the period. Rolando López Dirube created
several large murals, while Florencio Gelabert designed the entwined mermaid and
swordfish sculpture at the hotel entrance, as well as the twirling dancers called Ritmo
Cubano in the lobby. Cundo Bermúdez created a two-story abstract metal installation
that is encircled by the lobby staircase.

Promotional literature boasted of dining ‘in the Grand Manner’ in L’Aiglon restaurant,
‘where the atmosphere is cosmopolitan; the décor tropical; the service continental;
the food superb!’ Guests were served beneath crystal chandeliers and surrounded
by candelabras and gold-veined mirrors. On the walls, large hand-painted murals by
Hipólito Hidalgo de Caviedes showed Cubans at play, celebrating Carnival.

66 . 67.
/ BLACKTAIL / P i e r A . / N Y C / / B L A C K TA I L / 03 / One Man’s Xanadu - The s tory of The Riviera H o t e l /

68 . 69.
 / BLACKTAIL / P i e r A . / N Y C / / B L A C K TA I L / 03 / One Man’s Xanadu - The s tory of The Riviera H o t e l /

The world is watching

The Riviera was conceived with a double purpose: entertainment and gambling. When
it opened to a great fanfare in December 1957, it was the largest hotel-casino in the
world outside of Las Vegas. On the evening of the inaugural gala, Ginger Rogers – real
Hollywood royalty – played the Copa Cabaret room. A few weeks later, chat show host
Steve Allen taped a live episode of his primetime Sunday night show that was in many
ways an extended commercial for the hotel. Steverino’s images of guests in evening
wear, of glamorous showgirls and cheery A-listers, of the sheer expanse of luxury
on view beamed directly into the homes of millions of eager potential visitors amounted
to priceless publicity.

And right from the first day, the Riviera was judged a sensation, drawing not just movie
stars and celebrities, but high-stakes players – gamblers who thought nothing of writing
a check for $20,000 or $30,000 at the end of an evening. In its first four months of
operation alone, the casino took over $3 million.

Despite its known Mob associations, the hotel was at pains to stress its status as a
destination resort of real elegance and decorum. A strict dress code was enforced. Men
wore tuxedos and women wore gowns and serious jewelry. Gaming in the casino was
hushed and reverent – as befitted the seriousness of the stakes.

By then Havana was the play city of the world – alive to the seductive rhythms of its
rumbas and sambas and mambos – and the Riviera its premium attraction.

It was all going so well. And then.

While the band played on and the good times seemed destined to keep rolling, other
currents were swirling beyond the exquisite turquoise walls of the Riviera. Revolution
was in the air. Time was running out for the Batista regime, and with it, the Havana Mob
and their business interests.

Discontent had been brewing for years, and there had been numerous sporadic incidents
and incursions. But what had once seemed unthinkable now became inevitable. Castro
and his ragtag army were coming. They were unstoppable.

72 . 73 .
/ BLACKTAIL / P i e r A . / N Y C / / B L A C K TA I L / 03 / One Man’s Xanadu - The s tory of The Riviera H o t e l /

‘Rien ne va plus’ – no more bets.

Of course, Lansky was not unaware of this. But he kept the party going as long as he
could, which is to say as long as the cash kept flowing. If the Rivera was Lansky’s greatest
dream, it was also his greatest gamble. And he lost. Within a year of the Riviera’s opening,
both Lansky and Batista had fled Cuba, and a victorious Fidel Castro was holding a press
conference – on the floor of the very Copa Cabaret itself. Within two years Castro had
nationalized the island’s hotels and casinos and outlawed gambling.

But this wasn’t the end for the Riviera. Far from it. If Lansky’s dream proved short-lived,
his legacy did not. The Riviera endures intact and virtually unchanged – an extraordinary
1950s time capsule.

It’s all still there: the murals, sculptures, paintings and bronzes; the vast marble floor,
the custom-made coffee tables and credenzas in the lobby, the hand-painted screens
and chandeliers; even the original flatware in the restaurant. And that view from every
bedroom out across a glittering timeless azure sea.

In Xanadu did Kubla Khan

A stately pleasure-dome decree…

‘Kubla Khan’, Samuel Taylor Coleridge

74 . 75 .
 In BlackTail a lost world
lives on, a world of
elegance and glamor, of
courtesy and charm; and
above all, of peerless
cocktails. We embrace the
lush life. Join us.

B L A C K T A I L
 Thanks to Vern Evans and Åke E: son Lindman for use of
present day images. Historical images courtesy of Design, Illustration & Printing by Drinksology®
Museum of Miami, HistoryMiami Archives & Research Center, drinksology.com
Library of Congress, Alamy and Getty Images.