Harlot's Ghost

by Norman Mailer

  In the face of that kind of political abuse, poor Milton Eisenhower quit, and the deal fell through.

  Jack has not, however, given up. When the Tractors for Freedom Committee collapsed last June, some exiles started a Cuban Families Committee for the Liberation of the Prisoners of War, and the Kennedys granted them tax-exempt status. The Committee did not get very far, however, through the summer, but recently Castro has been in touch with them and is looking for a deal. As a warrant of his good intentions, he sent back to Miami—as I’m sure you are aware—those sixty crippled prisoners who arrived last week. At Bobby’s request (and I was naturally delighted that he thought I would be of value on this) I flew down to Miami to give him a private observer’s view of the event. I was more than a little involved, however, with the possibility that you might be there. I was both glad you weren’t and also disappointed. (My Alpha and Omega are as far apart as outstretched arms—what would it be like to love someone with both halves of oneself?) At any rate, chin up, dear Harry, I soon forgot all about you. There was a crowd of something like fifteen or twenty thousand Cubans jamming the airport, and while Cubans appear to like crowds, I don’t. As a privileged witness, however, with last-minute credentials from the Department of Justice, I was able to see from up close how these sixty maimed men, Castro’s bait, so to speak, came off the plane, sixty men with year-old wounds, meeting a field of relatives and friends twenty thousand strong, all waving white handkerchiefs. The near relations were, of course, gathered in a nearby chorus of weeping humans. Harry, sixty men came off the plane, all crippled, leg missing on one, arm gone on another, a third was led, eyes shut forever. People were trying to sing the Cuban national anthem, but broke down. How slowly and painfully they came down the ramp. A few knelt to kiss the ground.

  As soon as I was back to Washington, Bobby received me in his office and wanted to hear every last detail I could furnish. Just two nights ago, he invited Hugh and myself to meet one of the returnees, a fellow named Enrique Ruiz-Williams (nickname Harry), and he was marvelous, a burly honest fellow, appearing simple in manner until I realized that it was rugged honesty, not naïveté, that one was dealing with. He has one of those deep voices that comes up out of the chest with no impediment as if there is a lot of clear-minded force in the soul and the voice is its natural wind. You realize after a time that the man is exactly what he appears to be. (Which can happen only when Alpha and Omega are in rapport.)

  To my pleasure, Harry Ruiz-Williams had had a couple of conversations with Castro, and what I heard intrigued me. During the fighting at the Bay of Pigs, Ruiz-Williams was thrown into the air by an artillery shell and came down with half a hundred pieces of shrapnel in his body and both feet smashed. Bobby later told me that he had a hole in his neck, another wound in his chest, broken ribs and a paralyzed arm.

  In such condition, he was, of necessity, left behind in a small house by the sea with other wounded men when San Román and the remains of the Brigade retreated into the swamp. Later that day, Castro arrived with his troops and came to look at the wounded. Williams reached under his pillow for a pistol and tried to fire it. Perhaps he merely made the attempt. He was in a fever and does not remember exactly. He did, however, hear Castro say, “What are you trying to do, kill me?”

  Williams answered, “That’s what I came here for. We’ve been trying to do that for three days.”

  Castro, apparently, was not angry.

  “Why wasn’t he?” I asked Williams.

  “I think,” said Williams, “that Fidel Castro saw my answer as a logical response.”

  Before Williams left Havana with his wounded mates, Castro spoke to him again. “When you get to Miami,” he said, “be careful not to talk bad about America because they will get mad. And don’t talk bad about me, because I will get mad. Stay in the middle.” Irony is obviously in no short supply for Mr. Castro.

  In turn, Harry Williams is most impressed by Bobby Kennedy. “When I met him,” he told me, “I was expecting to see a very impressive guy, the number-two man in the country. But there I saw this young man with no coat on, sleeves rolled up, his collar open, and his tie down. He looks at you very straight in the eyes. I was able to tell him everything I thought. The United States is responsible, I told him, but the Brigade don’t want to play the Communist game.”

  Since that first meeting, Bobby has been using a good portion of his valuable time to advise Williams. It is typical of Bobby. Politicians expend emotion in about the way successful people invest their money—coldly, and for profit. Jack’s honor, therefore, is that he will not express an emotion unless he feels some faint but legitimate glow within; Bobby’s honor is to spend emotion lavishly, like a poor man buying gifts for his children. The Brigade has become one of Bobby’s orphans. He will not give up on it. He will get them out before it is over.

  Devotedly,

  Kittredge

  10

  I HAD BEEN IN MIAMI ON THAT DAY, APRIL 14, 1962, WHEN THE SIXTY wounded members of the Brigade came back to Miami, but I had not been out at International Airport. Harvey had given orders that JM/WAVE personnel, unless on specific assignment, were not to be present for the occasion. All too many of our Cuban agents might be able to point us out to friends.

  If I had known that Kittredge would be there, I would have disobeyed the order, yet, now, reading her letter, I was critical of the tone. I thought she was becoming much too impressed with both of the Kennedy brothers.

  One did not have long to brood about it. A note came two days later by way of the pouch.

  April 25, 1962

  Harry,

  Forgive the shift in method, but wanted to reach you overnight. Sidney Greenstreet, of all people, was over for dinner this evening. Afterward, while doing my best to make conversation with Mrs. Greenstreet, Sidney and Hugh, having settled in the study, got into quite an altercation. You don’t often hear my husband raise his voice, but clearly, I heard him say, “You will most certainly take him along, and that’s an end of it.”

  I am reasonably certain you are the person referred to. Keep me informed.

  Hadley

  That was a name Kittredge took on sometimes when communicating by pouch. And Sidney Greenstreet had to be Bill Harvey. Harlot often referred to Wild Bill as “the fat man.”

  Kittredge’s note gave the alert. I was not surprised when a cable came in for me that morning via LINE/ZENITH—OPEN signed GRANDILOQUENT. It merely said: “Place a call via seek.” Harlot and I were back to the secure phone.

  “I have a job again,” were his first words. “Let us promise ourselves it is not too large for you.”

  “If there are doubts,” I answered, “why choose me?”

  “Because I’ve since learned what it was you were working on with Cal. That’s good. You never told me. I need someone who can keep his mouth shut. You see,” said Harlot, “this looks to be a bit more of the same, although under better management.”

  “Yessir.”

  “Rasputin remains the target.”

  It was a mark of progress that Harlot expected me to grasp what he meant. Rasputin could only be Castro. Who else had ever evaded so many attempts on his life? Of course, there was really no need to use concealment—we were on a secure phone—but Harlot had his penchants.

  “The fat man was miserable,” he went on, “to learn that I’ve made you his companion for all this, but then he will grow used to the notion. He had better.”

  “I have a question. Are you heading this one up?”

  “Let’s say I’m sharing the bridge with Old Tillers.”

  “Has McCone given approval?” It was not a proper question to ask, but I sensed that he would reply.

  “Don’t think of McCone. Heavens, no. He’s not equipped.”

  I didn’t have to inquire about Lansdale. Hugh would not invite Lansdale. “What do we call it?” I asked.

  “ANCHOVY. A palette of tinted anchovies. Fat man is ANCHOVY-RED; you are ANCHOVY-GREEN; I am ANCHOVY-BLUE; and
Rasputin is ANCHOVY-GRAY. You’ll be meeting soon with a gentleman whom Classy Bob used to employ. Johnny Ralston. He will be ANCHOVY-WHITE.”

  “And what about”—I did not know how to describe him. Of course, we were secure on seek, but given the manners of the moment, I did not want to use his name—“what about Touch-Football?”

  “Yes, call him that. Good. Touch-Football. He doesn’t really want to know. Just keeps exhorting everyone to bring in results, but don’t bring his nose into contact with his mind.”

  “Yessir.”

  “You will accompany ANCHOVY-RED everywhere on this venture. Doesn’t matter whether he likes it or not.”

  “Will he call on me every time?”

  “He will if he doesn’t want any uncomfortable moments with me.”

  On that, Harlot hung up.

  I would not have long to wait. Harvey, I knew, was at Zenith today. My phone soon rang. “Have you had lunch?” he asked.

  “Not yet.”

  “Well, you are going to miss it. Meet me in the car pool.”

  His Cadillac was waiting, motor running, and I reached the vehicle just enough in advance to open the door for him. He grunted and signaled to me to get in first and slide over. While we rode, he did not speak, and the bad mood that came off the bulk of his presence was as palpable as body odor.

  Only when we were on the Rickenbacker Causeway to Miami Beach did he speak. “We are going to see a guy named Ralston. You know who he is?”

  “Yes.”

  “All right. When we get there, keep your mouth shut. I will do the talking. Is that clear?”

  “Yessir.”

  “You are not equipped for this job. As you probably know, you have been handed to me. In my opinion, it is a mistake.”

  “I’ll try to make you change your mind.”

  He belched. “Just pass me that jug of martinis, will you?”

  Along Collins Avenue in Miami Beach, he spoke again. “Not only will you keep your mouth shut, but you will not take your eyes off this greaseball, Johnny Ralston. Keep looking at him as if he’s a piece of shit and you will wipe him if he moves. Keep thinking that you are capable of splashing acid in his eyes. Don’t speak or he’ll know it’s nothing but cold piss.”

  “The picture is clear by now,” I said.

  “Nothing personal. I just don’t think you have the makings for this mode of procedure.”

  Roselli was living in a brand-new houseboat moored on Indian Creek, across Collins Avenue from the Fontainebleau. Lashed next to it was a spanking new thirty-foot power cruiser with a flying bridge. A slim, well-tanned, sharp-featured man about fifty with elegantly combed silver hair was sitting on the deck of the houseboat, and he stood up when he saw the Cadillac come to a stop. Dressed in a white shirt and white slacks, he was barefoot. “Welcome,” he said. I noticed that the houseboat was named Lazy Girl II, and the power cruiser moored to it, Streaks III.

  “Can we move out of the sun?” asked Harvey as he came on board.

  “Come inside, Mr. O’Brien.”

  The living room of the houseboat was more than thirty feet long and was decorated in flesh tones like a suite at the Fontainebleau. Puffed-up furniture full of curves undulated along a wall-to-wall carpet. Sitting at a white baby grand piano, with their backs to the keys, were two girls in pink and orange halters, yellow skirts, and white high-heeled shoes. They were blond and suntanned and had baby faces and full lips. Their near-white lipstick gave off a moon-glow as if to say that they were capable of kissing all of you and might not mind since this was exactly what they were good at.

  “Meet Terry and Jo-Ann,” said Roselli.

  “Girls,” said Harvey, speaking precisely between recognition and dismissal.

  As if by prior agreement, the girls did not look at me; I did not smile at them. I felt that I was going to be surprisingly good at not saying a word. I was still seething, after all, from my boss’s evaluation of me.

  Harvey gave a small inclination of his chin in the direction of Terry and Jo-Ann.

  “Girls,” said Roselli, “go up on deck and get some more tan for yourselves, will you?”

  The moment they were gone, Harvey lowered himself distrustfully to the edge of one of the large round armchairs, and from his attaché case withdrew a small black box. He switched it on and said, “Let me open our discussion by telling you that I am not here to fart around.”

  “Totally comprehended,” said Roselli.

  “If you are wired,” said Harvey, “you might as well take it off and get comfortable. If you are operating any installed recording equipment, you are wasting tape. This black box scrambles all reception.”

  As if in assent, a small unpleasant electronic hum came up from the equipment.

  “Now,” said Harvey, “I don’t care who you dealt with before on this matter, you will at present deal with me and no one else.”

  “Agreed.”

  “You agree too quickly. I have a number of questions. If you don’t answer them to my satisfaction, I will cut you off the project. If you make noise, I can throw you to the wolves.”

  “Listen, Mr. O’Brien, do not issue threats. What can you do, kill me? As far as I am concerned, I have visited that place already.” He nodded to certify these words and added, “Drinks?”

  “Not on duty,” said Harvey, “no, thank you. I will repeat: We know why you are in this. You entered the U.S. illegally when you were eight years old and your name was Filippo Sacco. Now you want a citizenship.”

  “I ought to have one,” said Roselli. “I love this country. There are millions of people with citizenship who despise this country, but I, who don’t have my passport, love it. I am a patriot.”

  “There is,” said Harvey, “no room to double-cross me, or the people I represent. If you try any tricks, I can have you deported.”

  “You do not need to talk like a hard-on.”

  “Would you rather,” asked Harvey, “have me say behind your back that I am holding you by the short hairs?”

  Roselli laughed. He was all by himself in this merriment but he kept it going for a while.

  “I guess, Mr. O’Brien,” he said, “you are one total example of a prick.”

  “Wait until I show you the warts and the welts.”

  “Have a drink,” said Roselli.

  “Martini. Scotch over the cubes, spill it out, then lay in the gin.”

  “And you, sir,” said Roselli to me, “what would you like?”

  I looked at him and did not reply. It was more difficult than I had expected not to offer small courtesies to people I did not know. Besides, I wanted a drink. Roselli shrugged, got up and went to the bar near the white baby grand piano. Harvey and I sat in silence.

  Roselli handed Harvey his martini. He had also mixed a bourbon on the rocks for himself and a Scotch for me which he made a point of setting down on an end table next to my chair, a deft move for Roselli, I decided, since a bit of my attention kept returning to the drink.

  “Let’s address the positive side of the question,” said Roselli. “What if I bring this off? What if the big guy—”

  “Rasputin.”

  “What if he gets hit?”

  “In that case,” said Harvey, “you get your citizenship approved.”

  “To success,” said Roselli, lifting his drink.

  “Now, answer my questions,” said Harvey.

  “Shoot.”

  “How did you get into this project in the first place?”

  “Classy Bob came to me.”

  “Why?”

  “We know each other.”

  “What did you do?”

  “I went to Sam.”

  “Why?”

  “Because I needed to get to the Saint.”

  “Why?”

  “You know.”

  “Don’t worry about what I know. Answer my questions.”

  “The Saint is the only man who knows enough Cubans to select the guy who is right for the job.”

&nb
sp; “What did Sam do?”

  “Besides fuck everything up?” asked Roselli.

  “Yes.”

  “He dabbled. He picked a few people. He didn’t break a sweat.”

  “He did, however, get Classy Bob in trouble with the Bureau.”

  “You are the one who said that.”

  “You are the one,” said Harvey, “who said Sammy fucked everything up.”

  “I don’t know what he did. But I thought we were set to go. Rasputin was supposed to be off the board before the election. Nixon for President. So I ask one question: Did Sam jam the gears?”

  “We are referring to October 31 of last year in Las Vegas.”

  “Yes.”

  “Sam did it, you say?”

  “I,” said Roselli, “would rather avoid what I cannot prove.”

  “Sam,” Harvey said, “is bragging that he has worked with some of my associates.”

  “For a guy with a closed mouth, Sam can open it,” said Roselli.

  “Why?”

  “Vanity.”

  “Explain that,” said Harvey.

  “When Sam started out, he was just one more ugly little guy with an ugly little wife. Now, he goes around saying, ‘We Italians are the greatest lovers in the world. We can out-do any nigger on his best day. Look at the evidence,’ says Sam.”

  “Who does he say this to?”

  “The dummies around him. But word gets out. He brags too much. Vanity. He says, ‘Look at the evidence. Two world leaders. Kennedy and Castro.’” Here Roselli stopped. “Forgive me. You mind if I use the names?”

  “It’s secure,” said Harvey, “use them.”

  “All right,” said Roselli, “two guineas like Sammy G. and Frank Fiorini are fucking Kennedy and Castro’s broads. Modene may screw Kennedy but she comes back to Sammy, says Sammy, for the real stuff. I would say he has an excessively exaggerated idea of himself. When I first knew Sam G. he used to wear white socks and black shoes, and the white socks was always falling down. That’s what a meatball he used to be.”

  “Thank you,” said Harvey, “you are giving me a clear picture.”

  “Sam is a big man in the States,” said Roselli, “Chicago, Miami, Vegas, L.A.—don’t mess with him. Cuba, no. He needs the Saint for Cuba.”