BJ: Del’s Den in Stamford, Connecticut.
JFK: Right. What do you say, Barb? Shall we switch jobs?
BJ: It’s a deal. And after I take over, I’ll fire J. Edgar Hoover and order Bobby to take a vacation.
JFK: You’re thinking like a Kennedy now.
BJ: How so?
JFK: I’m going to let Bobby be the one to give Hoover the sack.
BJ: Stop looking at your watch.
JFK: You should hide it from me next time.
BJ: I will.
JFK: I have to go. Hand me my trousers, will you?
BJ: They’re wrinkled.
JFK: It’s your fault.
Single door slam deactivates mike. Transcript close: 5:42 p.m., April 24, 1962.
DOCUMENT INSERTS: 4/25/62, 4/26/62, 5/1/62. Top Hoodlum Program wiretap outtakes: Los Angeles, Chicago and Newark venues. Marked: CONFIDENTIAL/TOP SECRET/ DIRECTOR’S EYES ONLY.
Los Angeles, 4/25/62. Placement: Rick-Rack Restaurant pay phone. Number dialed: MA2-4691. (Pay phone at Mike Lyman’s Restaurant.) Caller: Steven “Steve the Skeev” De Santis. (See THP File #814.5, Los Angeles Office.) Person called: unknown male (“Billy”). Six minutes and four seconds of non-applicable conversation precedes the following.
SDS: And Frank shot his big fucking mouth off and Mo believed him. Jack’s my boy, blah, blah. Jewboy Lenny told me he stuffed half the fucking ballot boxes in Cook County.
UM: You say Frank like you know the man personal.
SDS: I do, you fuck. I met him backstage at the Dunes Hotel once.
UM: Sinatra’s a hump. He walks Outfit and talks Outfit, but he’s really just a stupe from Hoboken, New Jersey.
SDS: He’s a stupe who should pay, Billy.
UM: He should. Every time that rat prick Bobby comes down on the Outfit, Frankie should take a shot to the nuts. He should pay double for what that cunt Bobby’s doing to Jimmy and the Teamsters, and triple for that stroll through Guatemala Uncle Carlos had to take.
SDS: The Kennedys should pay.
UM: In the best of all worlds they would.
SDS: They got no sense of fucking gratitude.
UM: They got no sense, period. I mean, Joe Kennedy and Raymond Patriarca go way back.
SDS: No sense.
UM: No fucking sense.
Non-applicable conversation follows.
Chicago, 4/26/62. Placement: North Side Elks Club pay phone. Number dialed: BL4-0808 (pay phone at Saparito’s Trattoria Restaurant). Caller: Dewey “The Duck” Di Pasquale. (See THP file #709.9, Chicago Office.) Person called: Pietro “Pete Sap” Saparito. Four minutes and twenty-nine seconds of non-applicable conversation precedes the following.
DDP: What’s worse than the clap and the syph is the Kennedys. They are trying to grind the Outfit into duck shit. Bobby’s got these racket squads set up all over the country. These are cocksuckers who can’t be bought for love or money.
PS: Jack Kennedy ate at my restaurant once. I should have poisoned the cocksucker.
DDP: Quack, quack. You should have.
PS: Don’t start that duck routine with me, you hump.
DDP: You should invite Jack and Bobby and his racket squad guys to your place and poison them all.
PS: I should. Hey, you know my waitress, Deeleen?
DDP: Sure. I heard she plays skin clarinet with the best.
PS: She does. And she banged Jack Kennedy. She said he had this little piccolo dick.
DDP: The Irish ain’t hung for shit. It’s a well-known fact.
PS: Italian men have the biggest.
DDP: And the best.
PS: I heard Mo’s hung like a mule.
DDP: Who told you?
PS: Mo himself.
Non-applicable conversation follows.
Newark, 5/1/62. Placement: Lou’s Lucky Lounge pay phone. Number dialed: MU6-9441 (pay phone at Reuben’s Delicatessen, New York City). Caller: Herschel “Heshie” Ryskind (See THP file #887.8, Dallas Office). Person called: Morris Milton Weinshank (See THP file #400.5, New York City Office). Three minutes and one second of non-applicable conversation precedes the following.
MMW: We’re all sorry you’re sick, Hesh. We’re all pulling for you and praying for you.
HR: I want to live long enough to see Sam G. kick Sinatra’s skinny bantamweight tuchus from here to Palermo. Sinatra and some CIA shitheel convinced Sam and Santo that Jack the K. was kosher. Use your noggin and think, Morris. Think about Ike and Harry Truman and FDR. Did they give us grief like this?
MMW: They did not.
HR: I know it’s Bobby and not Jack that’s the instigator. But Jack knows the rules. Jack knows you can’t sic your rabid dogs on people who did you favors.
MMW: Sam thought Frank had pull with the brothers. He thought he could get Jack to call Bobby off.
HR: Frank was dreaming. The only pull Frank’s got is with his putz. All Frank and that CIA guy Boyd want to do is suck the big Kennedy cock.
MMW: Jack and Bobby got nice hair.
HR: Which somebody should part with a forty-five caliber dum-dum.
MMW: Such hair. I should have such hair.
HR: You want hair? Buy a fucking wig.
Non-applicable conversation follows.
DOCUMENT INSERT: 5/1/62. Personal note: Howard Hughes to J. Edgar Hoover.
Dear Edgar,
Duane Spurgeon, my chief aide and legal advisor, is terminally ill. I need a replacement to go on retainer immediately. Of course, I would prefer a morally-sound lawyer with an FBI background. Could you recommend a man?
All best,
Howard
78
(Washington, D.C., 5/2/62)
Their bench faced the Lincoln Memorial. Nannies and small children scampered by.
Hoover said, “The woman is quite good.”
“Thank you, Sir.”
“She lures King Jack into provocative traps.”
Littell smiled. “Yes, Sir. She does.”
“King Jack has mentioned my forced retirement twice. Did you tell the woman to prod him in that direction?”
“Yes, Sir. I did.”
“Why?”
“I wanted to increase your stake in the operation.”
Hoover straightened the crease in his trousers. “I see. And I cannot fault your logic.”
Littell said, “We want to convince the man to make his brother tone down his assault on my clients and their friends, and if they think you have copies of the tapes, it will go a long way toward convincing them to retain you.”
Hoover nodded. “I cannot fault your logic.”
“I would rather not go public with the tapes, Sir. I would rather see this resolved behind the scenes.”
Hoover patted his briefcase. “Is that why you asked me to return my copies temporarily?”
“Yes, Sir.”
“You don’t trust me to keep them in cold storage?”
Littell smiled. “I want you to possess absolute deniability should Robert Kennedy bring in outside agency investigators. I want all the tapes kept in a single location, so that they can be destroyed if necessary.”
Hoover smiled. “And so that, if worse comes to worse, Pete Bondurant and Fred Turentine can be portrayed as the sole perpetrators of the plot?”
Littell said, “Yes, Sir.”
Hoover shooed a perching bird away. “Who’s financing this? Is it Mr. Hoffa or Mr. Marcello?”
“I’d rather not say, Sir.”
“I see. And I cannot fault your desire for secrecy.”
“Thank you, Sir.”
“Suppose public exposure becomes necessary?”
“Then I would go forward in late October, right before the congressional elections.”
“Yes. That would be the optimum time.”
“Yes, Sir. But as I said, I would rather not—”
“You needn’t repeat yourself. I’m not senile.”
The sun broke out of a cloud bank. Littell broke a slight sweat.
“Yes, Sir
.”
“You hate them, don’t you?”
“Yes, I do.”
“You’re not alone. The THP has private taps and bugs installed in fourteen critical organized crime locales. We’ve been picking up a good deal of Kennedy resentment. I haven’t informed the Brothers, and I’m not going to.”
“I’m not surprised, Sir.”
“I’ve compiled some wonderfully vituperative outtakes. They are hilariously colloquial and profane.”
“Yes, Sir.”
Hoover smiled. “Tell me what you’re thinking.”
Littell smiled. “That you trust me. That you trust me because I hate them as much as you do.”
Hoover said, “You’re correct. And my God, wouldn’t Kemper be hurt if he overheard King Jack’s assessment of his character?”
“He would be. Thank God he has no idea this operation exists.”
A little girl skipped by. Hoover smiled and waved.
“Howard Hughes needs a new right-hand man. He asked me to find him someone with your qualifications, and I’ve recommended you.”
Littell grabbed the bench. “I’m honored, Sir.”
“You should be. You should also know that Howard Hughes is a very disturbed man with a rather tenuous hold on reality. He only communicates by telephone and letter, and I think there’s a fair chance that you may never meet him face-to-face.”
The bench shook. Littell folded his hands over one knee.
“Should I call him?”
“He’ll call you, and I would advise you to accept his offer. The man has a silly, if exploitable, plan to purchase Las Vegas hotel-casinos a few years from now, and I think the notion has intelligence-gathering potential. I told Howard the names of your other clients, and he was quite impressed. I think the job is yours for the asking.”
Littell said, “I want it.”
Hoover said, “Of course you do. You’ve been hungry all your life, and you’ve finally reconciled your desires with your conscience.”
79
(Orange Beach, 5/4/62)
They had 3:00 a.m. moonlight to work by. It was half a curse—total dark meant SURPRISE.
Pete pulled off the blacktop. He saw sand dunes up ahead—big high ones.
Néstor draped his legs across Wilfredo Delsol. Wilfredo the Mummy was duct-taped head to toe and stuffed between the front and back seats.
Boyd rode shotgun. Delsol wheezed through his nose. They kidnapped him at his pad on their way out of Miami.
Pete shifted to four-wheel drive. The Mummy lurched and banged Néstor’s legs.
The jeep bounced between dunes. Boyd examined their track obfuscator—rake prongs attached to metal tubing.
Néstor coughed. “The beach is half a mile. I walked it twice.”
Pete braked and cut the engine. Wave noise came on strong. Boyd said, “Listen to that. If we’re lucky, they won’t hear us.”
They got out. Néstor dug a hole and buried Delsol in sand up to his nose.
Pete tossed a tarp over the jeep. It was light tan and sand-dune compatible.
Néstor rigged the rake gizmo. Boyd inventoried hardware.
They had silencer-fitted .45s and machine guns. They had a chainsaw, a clock bomb and two pounds of plastic explosive.
They slapped on lampblack. They loaded up their packs.
They walked. Néstor dragged the rake. Tire tracks and footprints disappeared.
They crossed the blacktop and hiked up to a parallel access road—about a third of a mile. The road-to-waveline sand strip was roughly two hundred yards wide.
Néstor said, “The State Police never patrol here.”
Pete held up his infrareds. He spotted clumps 300 yards down the strip.
Boyd said, “Let’s get close.”
Pete stretched—his bulletproof vest fit tight. “There’s nine or ten men just above the west sand. We should come up along the shoreline and hope the goddamn surf noise covers us.”
Néstor crossed himself. Boyd filled his hands and his mouth—with two .45s and a Buck knife.
Pete felt earthquake tremors—9.999-fucking-9.
They walked down to the wet sand. They hunkered low and crab-crawled. Pete got this wild-ass notion: I’M THE ONLY ONE WHO KNOWS WHAT THIS MEANS.
Boyd walked point. The shapes took form. Smashing waves supplied audial cover.
The shapes were sleeping men. One insomniac was sitting up— check that glowing cigarette tip.
They got close.
They got closer.
They got very very close.
Pete heard snores. A man moaned in Spanish.
They charged.
Boyd shot the cigarette man. Muzzle flash lit a line of sleeping bags.
Pete fired. Néstor fired. Silencer thuds overlapped.
They had good light now—powder glare off four weapons.
Goose down exploded. Screams kicked in loud and faded into tight little gurgles.
Nestor brought a flashlight in close. Pete saw nine U.S. Army bags, shredded and blood soaked.
Boyd popped in fresh clips and shot the men point-blank in the face. Blood hit Néstor’s flashlight and shaded the beam light red.
Pete heaved for breath. Bloody feathers blew into his mouth.
Néstor kept the light steady. Boyd knelt down and slit throats. He went in deep and low—windpipes and spinal cords snapped.
Néstor dragged the bodies out.
Pete turned the sleeping bags over and stuffed them with sand.
Boyd patted them into shape. It was good simulation—the boat men would see dozing men.
Néstor dragged the bodies down to a tide pool. Boyd brought the chainsaw.
Pete yank-started it. Boyd spread the stiffs out for cutting.
The moon passed by low. Néstor supplied extra light.
Pete sawed from a crouch. The teeth caught on a leg bone straight off.
Néstor pulled the man’s foot taut. The teeth whirred through easy.
Pete sawed through a string of arms. The saw kept bucking into the sand. Skin and gristle pop-pop-popped in his face.
Pete quartered the men. Boyd severed their heads with his Buck knife. One swipe and one tug at the hair did the job.
Nobody talked.
Pete kept sawing. His arms ached. Bone fragments made the belt-motor skip.
His hands slipped. The teeth jumped and raked a dead man’s stomach.
Pete smelled bile. He dropped the saw and puked himself dry.
Boyd took over. Néstor fed body parts to the tide pool. Sharks thrashed in to eat.
Pete walked down to the surf line. His hands shook—lighting a cigarette took forever.
The smoke felt good. The smoke killed the bad smells. DON’T THEY KNOW WHAT THIS MEANS—
The sawing stopped. Dead silence underscored his own crazy heartbeat.
Pete walked back to the tide pool. Sharks flailed and leaped halfway out of the water.
Néstor loaded the machine guns. Boyd twitched and fidgeted—high-pitched by Boyd cool-cat standards.
They crouched behind a shoal bank. Nobody talked. Pete got Barb on the brain wicked good.
Dawn hit just past 5:30. The beach looked plain peaceful. The blood by the sleeping bags looked like plain old wave seepage.
Néstor kept his binoculars up. He got a sighting at 6:12 a.m.
“I see the boat. It’s about two hundred yards away.”
Boyd coughed and spat. “Delsol said six men would be aboard. We want most of them off before we fire.”
Pete heard motor hum. “It’s getting close. Nestor, you get down there.”
Néstor ran over and crouched by the sleeping bags. The hum built to a roar. A speedboat bucked waves and fishtailed up on shore.
It was a rat-trap double outboard, with no lower compartment.
Néstor waved. Néstor yelled, “Bienvenidos! Viva Fidel!”
Three men hopped off the boat. Three men stayed on. Pete signaled Kemper: ON for you/OFF for me.
&n
bsp; Boyd threw a burst at the boat. The windshield exploded and blew the men back against the motors. Pete gunned his men down with one tight strafe.
Néstor walked up to them. He spit in their faces and capped them with shots in the mouth.
Pete ran up and vaulted onto the boat. Boyd circled around to the outboards and finished his three with single head pops.
The heroin was triple-wrapped and stuffed in duffel bags. The sheer weight was astonishing.
Néstor slapped the plastic explosive next to the outboards. The bomb clock was set for 7:15.
Pete off-loaded the dope.
Néstor tossed the sleeping bags and his three dead men on board.
Boyd scalped them. Néstor said, “This is for Playa Girón.”
Pete rope-tied the wheel to the helm bracings and turned the boat around. The compass read south-southeast. The boat would stay on course—barring gale winds and tidal waves.
Boyd hit the motors. Both blades caught on his first pull. They jumped off the sides and watched the boat skid off.
It would explode twenty miles out to sea.
Pete shivered. Boyd tucked the scalps into his pack. Orange Beach looked absolutely pristine.
Santo Junior would call. He’d say, Delsol fucked me on a deal. He’d say, Pete, you find that cocksucker.
Santo would omit details. He wouldn’t say the deal was Commie-linked and a direct betrayal of the Cadre.
Pete waited for the call at Tiger Kab. He took over the switchboard—Delsol never showed up for work.
Cab calls were backlogged. Drivers kept saying, Where’s Wilfredo?
He’s at a hideout pad. Néstor’s guarding him. There’s a pound of Big “H” in plain sight.
Boyd drove the rest of the dope to Mississippi. Boyd was stretched a wee bit thin, like he crossed some line with killing.
Pete felt the real line. DON’T YOU KNOW WHO WE FUCKED?
They’d watchdogged Delsol for two weeks running. He didn’t betray them. The dope rendezvous would have been canceled if he did.
He’s at his fake hideout. He’s an instant junkie—Néstor shot tracks up his arms. He’s zorched on horse—waiting for this goddamn phone call.
It was 4:30 p.m. They split Orange Beach nine and a half hours ago.
Cab calls came in. The phones rang every few seconds. They had pickups backlogged and twelve cabs out—Pete felt like screaming or putting a gun to his head.