L.A. was prison camp. Florida was summer camp.
He flew back to Miami quicksville. Boyd had signed on the Mexican dope farm as the Cadre’s chief supplier. Chuck flew the initial fourteen pounds down for cutting and brought it back at six times the weight. Trafficante kicked loose bonuses for all Cadre personnel.
He gave them sawed-offs and magnums. He gave them bulletproof vests and cherry-new dopemobiles.
Fulo chose a ’59 Eldo. Chuck picked out a sweet Ford Vicky. Delsol, Obregón, Paez and Gutiérrez were all Chevy men. Spics will be spics—they tacoized their sleds from stem to stern.
He met the men and got to know them.
Gutiérrez was solid and quiet. Delsol was calculating and smart. His cousin Obregón seemed borderline dicey—Boyd was starting to think he might run light on balls.
Santo Junior retooled his Miami dope biz. The Cadre took over the nigger trade exclusively.
Boyd decreed free tastes for all local junkies. The Cadre dispensed a shitload of shit totally gratis. Chuck renamed Niggertown Cloud Nine.
They segued from philanthropy to business. They prowled and sold their shit in two-man cars—with shotguns in plain sight. A junkie tried to rob Ramón Gutiérrez. Teo Paez cut him down with rat-poison-laced buckshot.
Santo Junior was pleased so far. Santo proffered the #1 Cadre Commandment: You may not sample the merchandise. Pete proffered Commandment #2: If you use Big “H,” I will kill you.
Miami was Crime Heaven. Blessington was the Pearly Gates To.
The campsite took up fourteen acres. The installation included two bunkhouses, a weapons shed, an operations hut, a drill field and a landing strip. A dock and speedboat launch site were still in construction.
Cadre recruiters jumped the gun and sent some training prospects down. Local crackers took offense at the spic squatters on their turf. Pete hired some unemployed Klansmen to work on the dock. The move facilitated a temporary peace—Klavernites and exiles were toiling together.
Fourteen squatters were now in residence. More exiles were fleeing Cuba every day. There were more CIA campsites pending—with forty-odd projected by mid-1960.
Castro would survive—just long enough to make Boyd and him rich.
The cross burned high and wide. Pete caught the glow from half a mile out.
A dirt road veered off the highway. Signs pointed the way: “Nigger stay out!” “KKK—White Man Unite!”
Bugs popped in through his air vents. Pete swatted them off. He saw a barbed-wire fence and Klansmen at parade rest.
They wore white robes and hoods with purple piping. Dig their kanine kompanions: sheet-swaddled Doberman pinschers.
Pete flashed Banister’s gate pass. The pointy-heads checked him out and waved him in.
He parked beside some trucks and went strolling. The cross lit up a segregated pine-forest clearing.
Cubans milled around on one side. Whites boogie-woogied on the other. A row of sign-plastered trailers divided them.
On his left: Klan bake sale, Klan rifle range, vendors hawking Klan regalia. On his right: the Blessington campsite duplicated.
Pete strolled the redneck side. Pointy-hoods bobbed his way—Hey, man, where’s your sheet?
Bugs buzz-bombed the cross. Rifle shots and target pings overlapped. The humidity was close to 100%.
Nazi armbands went for $2.99. Jew rabbi voodoo dolls—a steal at 3 for $5.00.
Pete walked by the trailers. He saw a sandwich board propped up against an old Airstream: “WKKK—Rev. Evans Anti-Communist Crusade.”
A hi-fi speaker was bolted to the axle. Sound sputtered out—pure crackpot gibberish.
He looked in the window. He saw twenty-odd cats pissing, shitting and fucking. A tall geek was screaming into a microphone. A cat was clawing some short-wave wires, about to get French-fried to kingdom come.
Pete scratched one prospect and kept walking. All the Caucasoids wore hoods—he couldn’t match Hudspeth or Lockhart to their mug shots.
“Bondurant! Down here!”
It was Guy Banister’s voice, booming up from below ground level.
A hatch snapped out of the dirt. A periscope thingamajig popped up and wiggled.
Guy had rigged himself a fucking bomb shelter.
Pete dropped down into it. Banister pulled the hatch shut behind him.
The space was twelve-by-twelve square. Playboy pinups covered the walls. Guy had socked in a shitload of Van Camp’s pork & beans and bourbon.
Banister retracted the telescope. “You looked lonesome all by yourself with no sheet.”
Pete stretched. His head grazed the ceiling.
“It’s sweet, Guy.”
“I thought you might like it.”
“Who’s paying for it?”
“Everybody.”
“Which means?”
“Which means I own the land, and the Agency put up the buildings. Carlos Marcello donated three hundred thousand for guns, and Sam Giancana put up some money to buy off the State Police. The Klan folks pay to enter and sell their wares, and the exiles work four hours a day on a road crew and kick back half their pay to the Cause.”
An air cooler hummed full-blast. The shelter was a goddamn igloo.
Pete shivered. “You said Hudspeth and Lockhart would be here.”
“Hudspeth was arrested for grand theft auto this morning. It’s his third offense, so there’s no bail. Evans is here, though. And he’s not a bad fellow, if you stay off the topic of religion.”
Pete said, “He’s got to be psycho. And Boyd and I don’t want psychos working for us.”
“But you’ll employ more presentable psychos.”
“Have it your way. And if it’s Lockhart by default, I want a few minutes alone with him.”
“Why?”
“Any man who parades around in a sheet has got to be able to convince me he can keep things compartmentalized.”
Banister laughed. “That’s a big word for a guy like you, Pete.”
“People keep telling me that.”
“That’s because you’re dealing with a higher type of person now that you’re Agency.”
“Like Evans?”
“Point taken. But offhand, I’d say that that man has stronger anti-Communist credentials than you do.”
“Communism’s bad for business. Don’t pretend it’s anything more than that.”
Banister hooked his thumbs in his belt. “If you think that makes you sound worldly, you’re sadly mistaken.”
“Yeah?”
Banister smiled, too smug to live. “Accepting Communism is synonymous with promoting Communism. Your old nemesis Ward Littell accepts Communism, and a friend of mine in Chicago told me that Mr. Hoover is building a pro-Communist profile on him, based on his inactions more than his actions. You see where being worldly and accepting gets you when the chips are down?”
Pete cracked some knuckles. “Go get Lockhart. You know what Boyd wants, so explain it to him. And from here on in, shitcan the lectures.”
Banister flinched. Banister started to open his mouth.
Pete went “Boo!”
Banister scurried out the hatch, double-time quick.
The silence and cold air felt sweet. The canned goods and liquor looked tasty. The wallpaper looked sweet—Miss July, especially.
Say the Russians drop the A-bomb. Say you hole up here. Cabin fever might set in and convince you the women were real.
Lockhart dropped down the hatch. He wore a soot-flecked sheet, cinched by a gunbelt and two revolvers.
He had bright red hair and freckles. His drawl was deep Mississippi.
“The money I like, and the move to Florida don’t bother me. But that no-lynching rule has gotta go.”
Pete backhanded him. Dougie Frank stayed upright—give him an A-plus for balance.
“Man, I have killed oversized white trash for less than what you just did!”
Punk bravura: Give him a C-minus.
Pete slapped him again. Lockhart
pulled his right-hand piece—but didn’t aim it.
Nerves: A-plus. Sense of caution: B-minus.
Lockhart wiped blood off his chin. “I like Cubans. I might stretch my racial-exclusion policy and let your guys into my Klavern.”
Sense of humor: A-plus.
Lockhart spit a tooth out. “Give me something. Let me know that I’m more than just some punching bag.”
Pete winked. “Mr. Boyd and I might put you on a bonus plan. And the Agency just might give you your own Ku Klux Klan.”
Lockhart did a Stepin Fetchit shuffle. “Thank you, massah! If you was pro-Klan like a real white man, I’d kiss the hem of your sheet!”
Pete kicked him in the balls.
He went down—but didn’t yelp or whimper. He cocked his gun—but didn’t fire.
The man got passing marks overall.
34
(New York City, 9/29/59)
The cab crawled uptown. Kemper balanced paperwork on his briefcase.
A graph showed primary-election states divided by county. Intersecting columns listed his law-enforcement contacts.
He checkmarked the presumed Democrats. He crossed out the presumed GOP hardcases.
It was boring work. Joe should simply buy Jack the White House.
Traffic slogged. The cabbie rode his horn. Kemper played a game of Devil’s Advocate—dissembling practice never hurt.
Bobby questioned his constant Florida sojourns. His response verged on indignation.
“I’m in charge of forwarding McClellan Committee evidence, aren’t I? Well, the Sun Valley case sticks in my craw, and Florida’s a state that Jack needs to carry in the general election. I’ve been down there talking to some disaffected Teamsters.”
The cab passed through slums. Ward Littell crashed his thoughts.
They hadn’t talked or corresponded in a month. The D’Onofrio killing made a brief news splash and stayed unsolved. Ward didn’t call or write to comment.
He should contact Ward. He should find out if Mad Sal’s death derived from his work as Ward’s informant.
The driver stopped at the St. Regis. Kemper paid him and quick-walked to the desk.
A clerk hovered. Kemper said, “Would you buzz my suite and ask Miss Hughes to come down?”
The clerk slipped on a headset and punched his switchboard. Kemper checked his watch—they were running way late for dinner.
“She’s on the phone, Mr. Boyd. There’s a conversation in progress.”
Kemper smiled. “It’s probably Miss Hughes and my daughter. They talk for hours at hotel rates.”
“It’s Miss Hughes and a man, actually.”
Kemper caught himself clenching. “Let me have your headset, would you?”
“Wellllll …”
Kemper slipped him ten dollars.
“Wellllll …”
Kemper went to fifty. The clerk palmed it and handed him his earphones.
Kemper slipped them on. Lenny Sands was talking, very high-pitched and fey.
“… As terrible as he was he’s dead, and he worked for the drunk just like me. There’s the drunk and the brute, and now the brute has me writing these preposterous articles about Cuba. I can’t name names, but Laura, my God …”
“You don’t mean my friend Kemper Boyd?”
“He’s not the one I’m afraid of. It’s the brute and the drunk. You never know what the drunk will do, and I haven’t heard from him since Sal was killed, which is driving me absolutely stark raving …”
It was compartmental turbulence. It would have to be contained.
35
(Chicago, 10/1/59)
Waves pushed litter up on the shore. Paper cups and cruise-boat programs shredded at his feet.
Littell kicked them out of his way. He passed the spot where he dumped the Montrose B&E swag.
Garbage then, garbage now.
He had three dead men to light candles for. Jack Ruby seemed to be safe—he called the Carousel Club once a week to hear his voice.
Sal resisted torture. Sal never said “Littell” or “Ruby.” Kabikoff knew him only as a cop in a ski mask.
“Mad Sal” and “Sid the Yid”—the nomenclature used to amuse him. Bobby Kennedy allegedly loved Mob nicknames.
He was sloughing off his Phantom reports. He was sloughing off his Red Squad work. He told SAC Leahy that God and Jesus Christ were leftists.
He cut Helen down to one night a week. He quit calling Lenny Sands. He had two constant companions: Old Overholt and Pabst Blue Ribbon.
A sodden magazine washed in. He saw a picture of Jack Kennedy and Jackie.
Kemper said the senator had hound blood. Kemper said Bobby held his marriage vows sacred.
Fat Sid said their dad knew Jules Schiffrin. Schiffrin kept the real Pension Fund books—liquor couldn’t numb that one fact.
Littell cut over to Lake Shore Drive. His feet ached and his trouser cuffs spilled sand.
It was dusk. He’d been walking due south for hours.
His bearings clicked in. He saw that he was three blocks away from a real live destination.
He walked over and knocked on Lenny Sands’ door. Lenny opened up and just stood there.
Littell said, “It’s over. I won’t ask anything else of you.” Lenny stepped closer. Words roared out in one long string. Littell heard “stupid” and “worthless” and “coward.” He looked Lenny in the eyes and stood there while he roared himself breathless.
36
(Chicago, 10/2/59)
Kemper snapped the lock with his Diners Club card. Lenny didn’t learn that it takes deadbolts to keep rogue cops out.
Littell never learned that INFORMANTS DON’T RETIRE. He observed the retirement gala from the street—and saw Ward soak up abuse like a true flagellant.
Kemper closed the door and stood in the dark. Lenny walked to the A&P ten minutes ago, and should return within half an hour.
Laura learned not to press embarrassing topics. She never mentioned that call at the St. Regis.
Kemper heard footsteps and key sounds. He moved toward the light switch and screwed the silencer to his piece.
Lenny walked in. Kemper said, “It’s not over.”
A shopping bag fell. Glass broke.
“You don’t talk to Laura or Littell again. You work Hush-Hush for Pete. You find out everything you can about the Pension Fund books and report exclusively to me.”
Lenny said, “No.”
Kemper hit the switch. The living room lit up—antique-overfurnished and très, très effete.
Lenny blinked. Kemper shot the legs off an armoire. The crash shattered bone china and crystal.
He shot up a bookcase. He shot a Louis Fourteen couch into stuffing wads and wood chips. He shot up a hand-painted Chippendale wardrobe.
Sawdust and muzzle smoke swirled. Kemper got out a fresh clip.
Lenny said, “Yes.”
DOCUMENT INSERT: 10/5/59. Hush-Hush magazine article. Written by Lenny Sands, under the pseudonym Peerless Politicopundit.
CANCEROUS CASTRO COMMUNISTICALLY CALCIFIES CUBA WHILE HEROIC HERMANOS HUNGER FOR HOMELAND!
He’s been in power a scant ten months, but the Free World already has the number of that slogan-slamming, stogie-stinking strongman Fidel Castro!
Castro ousted the democratically-elected anti-Communist Cuban Premier Fulgencio Batista last New Year’s day. The bombastic bushy-bearded beatnik bard promised land reforms, social justice and pickled plantains on every plate—the standard stipends of welfare-waffled Commie commissars. He took over a small bastion of freedom 90 miles off U.S. shores, pathologically picked the pockets of patriotic patriarchs, nauseously “nationalized” U.S.-owned hotel-casinos, fried the friendly fragrant fields of the United Fruit Company and generally absconded with astronomical amounts of America’s most peon-protecting, Commie-constraining export: money!!!
Yes, kats and kittens, it all comes down to divinely-deigned dollops of dollars—U.S., of course, those gorgeously garlanded gree
nbacks replete with pulsatingly powerful Presidential portraits, caricatures captivating in their corrosive condemnation of Communism!!!
Item: the beatnik bard bamboozled beleaguered bellhops at the formerly swank Nacional and Capri hotels in Havana, nastily nationalized their tips and rapidly replaced them with a regiment of rowdy Red regulators—bandy-legged bantamweight bandidos who also serve as crucifyingly-corrupt craps croupiers!
Item: fruit fields frantically french-fried! Peons passionately protected by America’s altruistically-altered egalitarian economy are now welfare-wilted, pauper-periled Red Recidivists grubbing for Commie compensation!
Item: Raul “The Tool” Castro has flamboyantly flooded Florida with hellishly horrific, hophead-hazarding amounts of the demonically deadly “Big H”: Heroin!!!: He’s bent on needle-notching vast legions of Cuban immigrant slaves: zorched-out zombies to spread the cancerous Castro gospel between bouts of Heroin-hiatused, junkie-junketeered euphoria!
Item: there’s a growing number of Cuban exiles and homegrown American patriots who take egregious exception to the beatnik brothers’ broadside of bamboozlement. Right now they’re recruiting in Miami and South Florida. These men are tantalizingly tough tigers who have earned their orange-and-black—not Red—stripes in the jungles of Castro’s jam-packed, jerry-rigged jails. Every day, more and more men like them are arriving on America’s shores, anxious to sing the mellifluous melodies of “My Country ’Tis of Thee.”
This reporter talked to an American named “Big Pete,” a dedicated anti-Communist currently training anti-Castro guerrillas. “It all comes down to patriotism,” Big Pete said. “Do you want a Communist dictatorship 90 miles off our shores or not? I don’t, so I’ve joined the Cuban Freedom Cause. And I’d like to extend an invitation to all Cuban exiles and native-born men of Cuban descent. Join us. If you’re in Miami, ask around. Local Cubans will tell you we mean business.”
Item: with men like Big Pete on the job, Castro should be considering a new career. Hey! I know a few coffeehouses in L.A.’s way-out Venice West who could use a gone beatnik poet like Fidel! Hey, Fidel! Can you dig it, Daddy-O?
Remember, dear reader, you heard it first here: off the record, on the Q.T. and very Hush-Hush.