Back in the late ’80s, when the Cold War was on life support and everyone was scrambling for a piece of the Soviet world, Jack Calloway found himself knee-deep in a Cuban supply chain that officially didn’t exist.
Technically, nothing Jack did was illegal. Technically. He had the right contacts, the right papers, and plausible deniability—plus a moral compass calibrated more for usefulness than legality. At the time, he was moving rigged computer equipment, photocopiers, and electronics into Cuba through Panama—disguised as Ait Conditioners if anyone asked. But it wasn’t the cargo that made this story interesting. It was the man who flew it.
Juan “Puma” Pérez—not his real name—was the president of a surprisingly well-funded Panamanian airline. Calloway met him during one of his quieter operations, and the two struck up a working relationship that grew into a strange sort of friendship. Puma was short, loud, always impeccably dressed, and never seen without his signature mustache. Not much of a looker, but money can work wonders—and Puma had more than enough of that.
He had an apartment in Aventura, Florida, where he liked to stay when business brought him north. That’s where Calloway got to know him better. The man had the life—airplanes, cash, family… and a mistress.
She was stunning. Blonde, tall—strikingly similar to Michelle Pfeiffer in Scarface. Jack always wondered if it really was Pfeiffer. Puma set her up in a high-rise condo and paid her bills, no questions asked. But questions eventually came. She was a stewardess and they would meet wherever their flights crossed paths.
One night, she told Puma to leave his wife and marry her.
He laughed.
She didn’t.
The fallout was swift. She didn’t just make a scene—she went nuclear. She took a hammer to Puma’s prized possession: a 195 silver Mercedes-Benz 300SL Roadster convertible that was in the condo parking garage and broke everything it. Mirrors, windows, dash board, AC vents, every light, every detail, every panel. She was very detailed and goal oriented. Back then, it was worth $90,000. Today? North of a million. But this one had history. It was a gift from his wife’s father, the true power behind the airline.
When the wife and then old man found out what happened to his car, it wasn’t just a domestic spat anymore—it was war. Puma’s wife gave him a clear ultimatum: clean up your mess, fix my father’s car with your own money, and keep your damn mistress out of the headlines.
That’s when Jack got the call. Not for smuggling. For parts. Rare, impossible-to-find Mercedes parts scattered across the globe. It started with a favor, then a call to Germany, then a container out of Argentina. Piece by piece, Jack helped rebuild the roadster while watching Puma’s world fall apart.
Meanwhile, the shipments to Cuba slowed down. Soviet coordination broke down. Deals died on the tarmac. All because a blonde with a hammer shattered more than just glass—she cracked open the whole operation.
And that’s how Jack learned: in the shadow world of espionage, smuggling, and off-the-books diplomacy, it’s never the politics that get you. It’s the people.
EPILOGUE
I never saw Michelle, Juan, or the car afterward. I lost track of Them. As always the names of the innocent and not-so-innocent have been changed. This story is 95% true as best I remember, except for the names of course. As far as I know, they all lived to a ripe old age—including the car. Or maybe the wife’s father had him whacked. Such is life.
SIDEBAR
Though his car was not the Gull-Wing, that is what we used to call it la GAVIOTA. A bad omen if they fly inland or act unusually—possibly signaling a storm or death at sea. If you killed a seagull, it brings bad luck because they carry the souls of lost sailors.
MORE JACK CALLOWAY STORIES
No Pardon from Death
Pain – The Weight of War
The Shadow Economy
Poppy Wars
Shadow Doctrine and Moral Flexibility
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