Reyes arranged through Rosen to have his family flown out of Cuba in 1958, along with a small, tense syndicate of educated people.A pirate's ransome in cash was paid to charter a DC-3 to Miami. Tomas was thrilled from the moment he climbed aboard the commercialised Douglas C-47. Formerly a troop carrier, the refitted Skytrain rattled and roared. Yet aloft it flew as steadily as a pelican. Pressed against the window, Tomas could see the ancient Morro pass below. Far away and obscured by clouds were the Escambray Mountains where the Holy Spirit moved upon the earth. Further along this verdant vertebrae the Sierra Maestre climbed the heights of solitude. When they landed at Miami International there was a grand TWA Constellation taxiing down a runway. Sleek and feminine in the sun. Once inside the concourse they hurried along in a herd laden with cloth tote bags, canvas flight bags and pieces of light luggage. Reyes wore his blue blue stripe seersucker suit and Teresa wore a blue floral print blouse and a pleated tan skirt. They walked confidently with Tomas.
He strolled insolently, with the collar of his black poplin jacket turned up and his hands jammed into his pockets. Hoodsville. Elvis. Cookie Cookie Lend Me Your Comb. He flicked the Ace pocket comb through raven hair slick with Wildroot Cream Oil. Feeling independent, cool, and slightly dangerous, he began to lag behind. Daydreaming. American Bandstand. He had only watched Dick Clark once, at the big hotel where his Uncle Zoot worked. The hotel was owned by the mobster Meyer Lansky, who insisted that his television could pull in WTVJ Miami.
Uncle Zoot was Teresa's older brother Hermano Lopez. He was nicknamed Zoot because he wore garish purple Angelino zoot suits during World War Two. Spiffy, he thought. Then some tourist brat brayed, "Hey, lookit the schmo dressed up like da Jokah in Batman!"
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