He heard footsteps behind him. Hands slammed him across the hood and ripped off his gunbelt.
He gouged his face on a sharp strip of chrome. He saw Chick Leahy and Court Meade kick Mal’s door down.
Big men in suits and overcoats swarmed him. His glasses fell off. Everything went claustrophobic and blurry.
Hands dragged him into the street. Hands cuffed and shackled him.
A midnight-blue limo pulled up.
Hands grappled him in. Hands shoved him face-to-face with J. Edgar Hoover.
Hands slapped tape across his mouth.
The limo pulled out. Hoover said, “Mal Chamales is being arrested for sedition and advocating the violent overthrow of the United States of America. Your FBI service is terminated as of this day, your pension has been revoked, and a detailed profile of you as a Communist sympathizer has been sent to the Justice Department, the bar associations of all fifty states and the deans of every university law school in the Continental U.S. Should you go public with information pertaining to Kemper Boyd’s clandestine activities, I will guarantee you that your daughter, Susan, and Helen Agee will never practice law, and guarantee that the interesting coincidence of your three-week absence and the destruction of Jules Schiffrin’s Lake Geneva estate will be mentioned to key organized-crime figures who might find that coincidence intriguing. In keeping with your leftist sympathies and bleeding-heart concern for the financially wretched and morally impaired, you will now be deposited into a venue where your instincts for self-abnegation, self-flagellation and pinko vicissitudes will be fully appreciated. Driver, stop the car.”
The limo decelerated. Hands uncuffed him and unshackled him.
Hands dragged him out the door. Hands dumped him into a South Side gutter.
Colored piss bums walked up and checked him out. Say what, white man?
DOCUMENT INSERT: 12/18/60. Personal note: Kemper Boyd to Attorney General Designate Robert F. Kennedy.
Dear Bob,
Congratulations, first of all. You’ll make a splendid Attorney General, and I can envision Jimmy Hoffa and certain others swinging from yardarms already.
Hoffa makes for a good segue point. The purpose of this letter is to recommend former Special Agent Ward J. Littell for a Justice Department counselship. Littell (the Chicago Phantom who has worked for us sub-rosa since early 1959) is a 1940 Summa Cum Laude Notre Dame Law grad, Federal-Bar licensed. He is considered brilliant in the field of Federal Deportation Statutes and will be bringing with him a good deal of recently accrued anti-Mob, anti-Teamster evidence.
I realize that Littell, in his anonymous capacity, has been out of touch with you for some time, and hope that that fact will not dampen your enthusiasm for him. He is a splendid attorney and a dedicated crimefighter.
Yours,
Kemper
DOCUMENT INSERT: 12/21/60. Personal note: Robert F. Kennedy to Kemper Boyd.
Dear Kemper,
Per Ward Littell, my answer is emphatically “No.” I have received a report from Mr. Hoover that, though perhaps biased, persuasively paints a portrait of Littell as an alcoholic with ultra left-wing tendencies. Mr. Hoover also included evidence that indicates that Littell was receiving bribes from Chicago Mob members. This, to me, negates the viability of his alleged anti-Mob, anti-Teamster evidence.
I realize that Littell is your friend, and that he did work hard for us at one time. Frankly, though, we cannot afford even the slightest taint on our new appointees.
Let’s consider the Littell matter closed. The question of your Kennedy Administration employment remains, and I think you’ll be pleased with what the President-elect and I have come up with.
Best, Bob
DOCUMENT INSERT: 1/17/61. Personal letter: J. Edgar Hoover to Kemper Boyd.
Dear Kemper,
Three-fold congratulations.
One, your recent evasion tactics were superbly efficacious. Two, your Marilyn Monroe aside had me going for quite some time. What a myth you have created! With luck, it will enter what Hush-Hush would call the “Peephole Pantheon!”
Thirdly, bravo for your appointment as roving Justice Department counsel. My contacts tell me you’ll be concentrating on voting rights abuse in the south. How fitting! Now you’ll be able to champion left-inclined negroes with the same tenacity that you embrace right-wing Cubans!
I think you’ve found your metier. I would be hard-pressed to conceive of work more suitable for a man with such a lenient code of loyalty.
I hope we’ll get the chance to be colleagues again.
As always,
JEH
58
(New York City, 1/20/61)
She’d been crying. Tear streaks had ruined her makeup.
Kemper stepped into the foyer. Laura cinched her robe and stepped away from him.
He held out a small bouquet. “I’m going down to the Inaugural. I’ll be back in a few days.”
She ignored the flowers. “I figured that out. I didn’t think you put on that tuxedo to impress me.”
“Laura …”
“I wasn’t invited. Some neighbors of mine were, though. They donated ten thousand dollars to Jack’s campaign.”
Her mascara was running. Her whole face looked off-kilter.
“I’ll be back in a few days. We’ll talk things over then.”
Laura pointed to an armoire. “There’s a check for three million dollars in the top drawer. It’s mine, if I never contact the family again.”
“You could rip it up.”
“Would you?”
“I can’t answer that question.”
Her fingers were cigarette-stained. She’d left overflowing ashtrays out in plain sight.
Laura said, “Them or me?”
Kemper said, “Them.”
Part III
PIGS
February–November 1961
DOCUMENT INSERT: 2/7/61. Memorandum: Kemper Boyd to John Stanton. Marked: CONFIDENTIAL/HAND POUCH DELIVER.
John,
I’ve been subtly pressing Little Brother and a few White House aides for information, and I am sad to report that as of this date the President is ambivalent about our invasion plans. The imminent nature of the plans apparently has him waxing indecisive. It’s obvious that he doesn’t want to deal with something so pressing this early in his administration.
The President and Attorney General Kennedy have been briefed by Director Dulles and Deputy Director Bissell. Little Brother attends many high-level presidential briefings; it is obvious that he is becoming the President’s chief advisor on all urgent matters. Little Brother (to the consternation of some friends of ours) remains fixated on Organized Crime and seems to be uninterested in the Cuban issue. My contacts tell me that the President hasn’t updated him on the “at-ready” status of our invasion plans.
The Blessington campsite stands pre-invasion ready. Recruit training cycles have been suspended; as of 1/30/61, the forty-four bunks have been filled with graduate troops culled from other induction camps: men specifically trained in amphibious warfare tactics. These men now stand as the Blessington Invasion Force. Pete Bondurant and Douglas Frank Lockhart are putting them through rigorous daily maneuvers and report that their morale is very high.
I visited Blessington last week, to assess its at-ready status prior to Mr. Bissell’s 2/10/61 inspection. I’m happy to report that Pete and Lockhart have whipped things into top-flight shape.
Landing crafts are now docked at camouflaged inlets built by laborers recruited from Lockhart’s Klan Klavern. Chuck Rogers gave Ramon Gutierrez a refresher flying course as part of a Bondurant-devised plan to have Gutierrez portray a Castro defector and fly into Blessington on Invasion Day with doctored anti-Castro atrocity photographs to be leaked to the press as genuine. Weapons and ammunition stand inventoried and at-ready. An in-let a half mile from the campsite is being prepared to house the troopship that will carry the Blessington invasion force. It should be at-ready by 2/16/61.
I am no
w free to spend occasional time in Florida, chiefly because the brothers believe the falsehood that I established over a year ago: that Mr. Hoover has coerced me into spying on anti-Castro groups in the Miami area. My current Justice Department assignment (investigating the accusations of Negroes denied voting rights) should have me sequestered in the south for some time. I specifically requested this assignment because of its proximity to Miami and Blessington. My southern background convinced Little Brother to give me the job, and he has allowed me to choose my initial target districts. I picked the area surrounding Anniston, Alabama. There are eight daily commercial flights to Miami, which should make job hopping just a matter of a ninety-minute plane ride. Should you need me, call my service in D.C. or contact me directly at the Wigwam Motel outside Anniston. (Don’t say what you’re thinking: I know it’s beneath me.)
Again, let me stress the importance of obfuscating all Agency-Outfit links to Little Brother. I was as amazed and dismayed as our Sicilian colleagues when Big Brother tapped him for AG. His anti-Outfit fervor has if anything increased, and we do not want him to learn that Messrs. C.M., S.G. and J.R. have donated money to the Cause, or that our Cadre business even exists.
I’ll close now. See you in Blessington 2/10.
KB
DOCUMENT INSERT: 2/9/61. Memorandum: John Stanton to Kemper Boyd. Marked: CONFIDENTIAL/HAND POUCH DELIVER.
Kemper,
I received your memo. Things sound excellent, although I wish Big Brother wasn’t waffling. I’ve developed some new additions to our basic Blessington Invasion Plan. Will you tell me what you think when we meet at the inspection?
1.—I’ve assigned Pete Bondurant and Chuck Rogers to coordinate on-site Blessington security and communications between Blessington and other launch sites in Nicaragua and Guatemala.
Rogers can fly between sites, and I think Pete will be especially effective as a rover-peacekeeper.
2.—Teo Paez has brought in a new recruit: Nestor Javier Chasco, DOB 4/12/23. Teo knew the man in Havana when he was running a string of informants for United Fruit. Chasco infiltrated numerous left-wing groups and once foiled an assassination attempt on a UF executive.
When Castro took over, Chasco infiltrated Raul Castro’s on-island heroin operation and siphoned dope to anti-Castro rebels, who of course sold it and used the money to purchase weapons. Chasco is an experienced dope trafficker, an expert interrogator, and a Cuban Army-trained sharpshooter lent out by President Batista to various South American government leaders. Teo says that Chasco assassinated no less than fourteen leftist insurgents between the years 1951 and 1958.
Chasco, who had been supporting himself by selling marijuana, escaped Cuba by speedboat last month. He contacted Paez in Miami and begged him to find him pro-Cause work. Teo introduced him to Pete Bondurant and later described the meeting to me as “Love at first sight.”
You were unreachable, so Pete contacted me and recommended Nestor Chasco for Immediate Blessington and Cadre employment. I met Chasco and was very impressed. I hired the man immediately and had Pete introduce him to the other Cadre members. Paez told me that the meetings were amicable. Chasco is learning the Cadre business ropes and doubling as a Blessington drill instructor. He’ll be shuffling between Blessington, Miami and our formal facilities in Guatemala and Nicaragua—a case officer passing through Blessington noted his training skills and put in an expedite personnel request directly to Mr. Bissell.
You’ll meet Chasco at the inspection. I think you’ll be impressed, too.
3.—During the actual invasion time frame, I want you and Chasco to patrol the Cadre’s Miami business sites. Our on-island sources expect some invasion plan intelligence to leak to Cuba, and I want to make sure that local pro-Castro groups don’t try to hit us when they think we’re focusing solely on invasion logistics. It should be easy for you to get away. Miami is Anniston-accessible and you can tell Little Brother that Mr. H. sent you in to monitor pro-Castro activity.
I’ll close with an embarrassing request.
Carlos M. gave Guy Banister an additional $300,000 gun money. The man is a great friend to the Cause, and he has some very great (and I think justified) fears regarding Little Brother. Can you find out what Bobby’s plans are regarding Carlos?
Thanks in advance for considering this. See you tomorrow in Blessington.
John
59
(Blessington, 2/10/61)
Eyes left, eyes right. Port arms, snap the bolt—let’s see those carbon-free M-1 chambers.
The drill field sparkled. The trainees moved like spic Rockettes—every turn and slapdown was synchronized.
Lockhart called cadence. Néstor Chasco played flag bearer. The Stars & Stripes and Pit Bull Monster fluttered.
Pete lead a white-glove inspection line. Richard Bissell and John Stanton trailed him—civilian squarejohns in worsted wool suits.
The trainees wore starched fatigues and chrome helmets. Fulo, Paez, Delsol, and Gutiérrez stood off in a squad leader flank.
Boyd watched from the dock. He didn’t want rank-and-file recruits to know him.
Pete checked weapons and handed them back. Bissell patted shoulders and smiled. Stanton stifled yawns—he knew it was all PR bullshit.
Lockhart yelled, “Shoulderrr arms! Guide-on front and centerrr!”
Forty-four rifles went up. Chasco marched ten paces forward and about-faced.
Chasco saluted. Chasco snapped his flags out at arm’s length.
Lockhart yelled, “At ease!” The men hoisted down one by one for a nifty ripple effect.
Bissell gawked. Stanton applauded.
Boyd was eyeballing Chasco. Stanton built the little shitbird up as Jesus Christ sans mercy.
Chasco ate tarantula meat and drank panther piss. Chasco killed Reds from Rangoon to Rio.
Chasco coughed and spat on the pavement. “It is a pleasure to be here with joo in America. It is an honor to be able to fight the tyrant Fidel Castro, and an honor to introduce to joo Señor Richard Bissell.”
Locomotive cheers went up—choo-choo-choo fifty voices strong.
Bissell waved the noise down. “Señor Chasco is right. Fidel Castro is a murderous tyrant who needs to be taken down a peg or two. I’m here to tell you that we’re going to do it, most likely in the not-too-distant future.”
CHOO-CHOO-CHOO-CHOO-CHOO-CHOO—
Bissell stabbed the air Kennedy-style. “Your morale is high, and that’s damn good. There’s also some pretty damn high morale inside Cuba, and I would have to say that right now that morale is running about three or four brigade’s worth. I’m referring to on-island Cubans just waiting for you to establish a beachhead and show them the way to Fidel Castro’s parlor.”
CHOO-CHOO-CHOO-CHOO-CHOO—
“You men, and many other men, are going to invade and recapture your homeland. You are going to link with anti-Castro forces living on-island and depose Fidel Castro. We have close to sixteen hundred troops now stationed in Guatemala, Nicaragua and along the Gulf Coast, ready to be launched from coastal installations. You are among those troops. You are a crack unit which will see action. You will be backed by surplus B-26s and escorted to your homeland by a task force of U.S. Navy supply boats. You will succeed. You will spend Christmas with your loved ones in a liberated Cuba.”
Pete gave the signal. A forty-four-gun salute shocked Bissell speechless.
Stanton threw a lunch at the Breakers Motel. The guest list was White Men Only: Pete, Bissell, Boyd, Chuck Rogers.
Santo Junior owned the place. Blessington men dined and drank on the cuff. The coffee shop served starchy wop food—strictly shitsville.
They hogged a choice window table. Bissell hogged the conversation—nobody could squeeze a word in. Pete sat down next to Boyd and picked at a plate of linguine.
Chuck handed out beers. Boyd passed Pete a note.
I like Chasco. He’s got that “Don’t underestimate me because I’m puny” look that I associate with W.J. Littell. Can we
send him in to shoot Fidel?
Pete scribbled up his napkin.
Let’s have him shoot Fidel & WJL. Jimmy’s scared & pissed because his Fund books got clouted & we’re the only ones who know who did it. Can’t we do something about it?
Boyd wrote NO on his menu. Pete laughed out loud.
Bissell took offense. “Did I say something funny, Mr. Bondurant?”
“No, sir. You didn’t.”
“I didn’t think so. I was saying that President Kennedy has been briefed several times, but he still won’t commit to an invasion date, which I don’t find amusing at all.”
Pete poured himself a beer. Stanton said, “Mr. Dulles describes the President as ‘enthusiastic, but cautious.’ ”
Bissell smiled. “Our secret weapon is Mr. Boyd here. He’s our Kennedy confidante, and I imagine that if push came to shove, he could reveal his covert Agency standing, and then overtly advocate our invasion plan.”
Pete froze the moment: Boyd about to lose it six ways from Sunday. Stanton stepped in. “Mr. Bissell’s joking, Kemper.”
“I know that. And I know that he understands how complex our alliances have become.”
Bissell fingered his napkin. “I do, Mr. Boyd. And I know how generous Mr. Hoffa, Mr. Marcello and a few other Italian gentlemen have been to the Cause, and I know that you possess a certain amount of influence in the Kennedy camp. And as the President’s chief Cuban-issue liaison, I also know that Fidel Castro and Communism are a good deal worse than the Mafia, although I wouldn’t dream of asking you to intercede on our friends’ behalf, because it might cost you credibility with your sacred Kennedys.”
Stanton dropped his soup spoon. Pete let a big breath out eeeasy. Boyd put out a big shit-eating grin. “I’m glad you feel that way, Mr. Bissell. Because if you did ask me, I’d have to tell you to go fuck yourself.”