by James Ellroy
Littell was malleable for a zealot. The Big Question was this: Could his covert work be hidden from Mr. Hoover?
A dark speck bobbed on the water. Banister held up binoculars. “They don’t look wholesome. There’s a crap game going on at the back of the barge.”
Customs men hit the dock. They packed revolvers, billy clubs and shackle chains.
Stanton showed Kemper a photograph. “This is Paez. We’ll grab him right off, so Customs can’t requisition him.”
Paez looked like a skinny Xavier Cugat. Banister said, “I can see him now. He’s up front, and he’s cut and bruised.”
Stanton winced. “Castro hates United Fruit. Our propaganda section picked up a polemic he wrote on it nine months ago. It was an early indication that he might go Commie.”
Whitecaps pushed the barge in close. The men were kicking and clawing to be first off.
Kemper flicked the safety off his piece. “Where are we detaining them?”
Banister pointed north. “The Agency owns a motel in Boynton Beach. They concocted a cover story about fumigation and evicted all the tenants. We’ll pack these beaners in six to a room and see who we can use.”
The refugees yelled and waved little flags on sticks. Teo Paez was crouched to sprint.
The Customs boss yelled, “On ready!”
The barge tapped the dock. Paez jumped off. Kemper and Stanton grabbed him and bear-hugged him.
They picked him up and ran with him. Banister ran interference—“CIA custody! He’s ours!”
The riflemen fired warning shots. The refugees ducked and covered. Customs men grappled the barge in and cinched it to the pilings.
Kemper hustled Paez through the crowd. Stanton ran ahead and unlocked a debriefing hut.
Somebody yelled, “There’s a body on the boat!”
They got their man inside. Banister locked the door. Paez hit the floor and smothered it with kisses.
Cigars fell out of his pockets. Banister picked one up and sniffed the wrapper.
Stanton caught his breath. “Welcome to America, Mr. Paez. We’ve heard very good things about you, and we’re very glad you’re here.”
Kemper cracked a window. The dead man passed by on a gurney—blade-punctured from head to toe. Customs agents lined up the exiles—maybe fifty men total.
Banister set up his tape recorder on a table. Stanton said, “You had a death on the boat?”
Paez slumped into a chair. “No. It was a political execution. We surmised that the man had been deported to serve as an anti-American spy. Under interrogation he revealed that this was true. We acted accordingly.”
Kemper sat down. “You speak excellent English, Teo.”
“I speak the slow and exaggeratedly formal English of the laboriously self-taught. Native speakers tell me that I sometimes lapse into hilarious malapropisms and mutilations of their language.”
Stanton pulled a chair up. “Would you mind talking with us now? We’ve got a nice apartment ready for you, and Mr. Boyd will drive you there in a little while.”
Paez bowed. “I am at your disposable.”
“Excellent. I’m John Stanton, by the way. And these are my colleagues, Kemper Boyd and Guy Banister.”
Paez shook hands all around. Banister pocketed the rest of the cigars and turned on the tape machine.
“Can we get you anything before we start?”
“No. I would like my first American meal to be a sandwich at Wolfie’s Delicatessen in Miami Beach.”
Kemper smiled. Banister laughed outright. Stanton said, “Teo, is Fidel Castro a Communist?”
Paez nodded. “Yes. Indubitably so. He is a Communist in both thought and practice, and my old network of student informants have told me that airplanes carrying Russian diplomats have flown in to Havana late at night on several occasions recently. My friend Wilfredo Olmos Delsol, who was on the boat with me, has the flight numbers memorized.”
Banister lit a cigarette. “Che Guevara’s been Red since way back.”
“Yes. And Fidel’s brother Raúl is a Communisto pig himself. Moreover, he is a hypocriticize. My friend Tomás Obregón says that Raúl is selling confiscated heroin to rich drug addicts and hypocriticizingly spewing Communist rhetoric at the same time.”
Kemper checked his custody list. “Tomás Obregón was on the boat with you.”
“Yes.”
“How would he have information on the Cuban heroin trade?”
“Because, Mr. Boyd, he was involved in the heroin trade himself. You see, my fellow boat passengers are mostly criminal scum. Fidel wanted to be rid of them and foisted them on America in hopes that they would practice their trades on your shores. What he failed to realize was that Communism is a bigger crime than dope peddling or robbery or murder, and that even criminals might possess the patriotic desire to reclaim their homeland.”
Stanton rocked his chair back. “We’ve heard that Castro has taken over the Mafia-owned hotels and casinos.”
“It is true. Fidel calls it ‘nationalization.’ He has stolen the casinos and millions of dollars from the Mafia. Tomás Obregón told me that the illustrious American gangster Santo Trafficante Jr. is currently in custody at the Nacional Hotel.”
Banister sighed. “That cocksucker Castro has a death wish. He is fucking with both the United States of America and the Mafia.”
“There is no Mafia, Guy. At least Mr. Hoover has always said so.”
“Kemper, even God can make mistakes.”
Stanton said, “Enough of that. Teo, what’s the status of the American citizens remaining inside Cuba?”
Paez scratched and stretched. “Fidel wants to appear humane. He is coddling the influential Americans still in Cuba and allowing them to see only the alleged good his revolution has done. He is going to release them slowly, to return to America as duped tools to dispense communistic propaganda. And in the meantime, Fidel has burned many of the cane fields of my beloved United Fruit, and has tortured and killed many of my student informants under the indictment that they are spies for the ‘imperialisto y fascisto’ La United.”
Stanton checked his watch. “Guy, take Teo over for his medical. Teo, go with Mr. Banister. Mr. Boyd will drive you into Miami in a little while.”
Banister hustled Paez out. Kemper watched them walk to the X-ray shack.
Stanton shut the door. “Dump the dead man somewhere, Kemper. I’ll debrief all the personnel who’ve seen him. And don’t rattle Guy’s cage, he can be volatile.”
“I’ve heard. Rumor has it that he was assistant superintendent of the New Orleans Police for about ten minutes, until he got drunk and shot off his gun in a crowded restaurant.”
Stanton smiled. “And rumor has it that you’ve fenced a few hot Corvettes in your day.”
“Touché. And parenthetically, what did you think of Pete Bondurant’s gun donation?”
“I was impressed. We’re thinking of making Pete an offer, and I’ll be bringing it up the next time I talk to the deputy director.”
Kemper said, “Pete’s a good man. He’s good at keeping rowdies in line.”
“Yes, he is. Jimmy Hoffa uses him to good effect at that Tiger Kab place. Keep going, Kemper. I can tell that you’ve got your thinking cap on.”
Kemper turned off the tape recorder. “John, you’re going to find that a sizable percentage of those men out there are uncontrollably psychopathic. Your notion of indoctrinating them and training them as potential anti-Castro guerrillas may not work. If you house them with stable Cuban immigrant families and find them work, per your existing plan, you’ll find them reverting to their former criminal predilections as soon as the novelty of being in this country wears off.”
“You’re saying we should screen them more thoroughly.”
“No, I’m saying I should. I’m saying we should extend the detention period at the Agency’s motel, and I should be the one with final authority as to who we recruit.”
Stanton laughed. “May I ask what qualifies you
for this?”
Kemper ticked off points on his fingers. “I worked undercover for nine years. I know criminals, and I like them. I infiltrated car theft rings, arrested the members and worked with the U.S. Attorney’s Office in building their cases for prosecution. I understand the need certain criminals have to acquiesce to authority. John, I got so close to some of those car thieves that they insisted on deposing their confessions to me only—the agent who betrayed them and arrested them.”
Stanton whistled—out-of-character for him. “Are you suggesting that you expand your duties and remain with the men you select as their field officer? That seems unrealistic to me, given your other entanglements.”
Kemper slapped the table. “No. I’m strongly proposing Pete Bondurant for that job. What I’m saying is this: A hardcore criminal contingent, properly indoctrinated and supervised, could be very effective. Let’s assume that the Castro problem extends. I think that even at this early date, it’s safe to assume that the Agency will have a large pool of future deportees and legally emigrated Cubans to choose from. Let’s make this first cadre an elite one. It’s ours, John. Let’s make it the best.”
Stanton tapped his chin. “Mr. Dulles was ready to request green cards for all the men. He’d be pleased to know that we’re being so selective early on. He hates begging the INS for favors.”
Kemper put a hand up. “Don’t deport the men we reject. Banister knows some Cubans in New Orleans, doesn’t he?”
“Yes. There’s a large Batistaite community there.”
“Then let Guy have the men we reject. Let them find jobs or not find jobs, and have them file for visas on their own in Louisiana.”
“How many men do you think will meet your qualifications?”
“I have no idea.”
Stanton looked eager. “Mr. Dulles has approved the purchase of some cheap south Florida land for our initial training site. I think I could convince him to keep our permanent cadre there small and contained, if you think the men you select can also train future arrivals before we disperse them to the other camps that I’m certain will be springing up.”
Kemper nodded. “I’ll make training skills one of my criteria. Where is this land?”
“It’s on the coast, outside a small town named Blessington.”
“Is it accessible to Miami?”
“Yes. Why?”
“I was thinking of the Tiger Kab stand as a recruiting hub.”
Stanton looked almost hot and bothered. “Gangster connotations aside, I think the Tiger Kab place could be utilized. Chuck Rogers is working there already, so we’ve already got an in.”
Kemper said, “John”—very slowly.
Stanton looked dead ecstatic. “The answer to all your suggestions is yes, pending the deputy director’s approval. And bravo, Kemper. You’re more than fulfilling my expectations.”
Kemper stood up and bowed. “Thanks. And I think we’ll make Castro rue the day he sent that boat off.”
“From your mouth to God’s ears. And by the way, what do you think your friend Jack would say about our little freedom barge?”
Kemper laughed. “Jack would say, ‘Where’s the women?’ ”
Paez talked a blue streak. Kemper rolled down his window for relief.
They hit Miami at rush hour. Paez kept jabbering. Kemper drummed the dashboard and tried to replay his talk with Stanton.
“… and Mr. Thomas Gordean was my patrón at La United. He loved pussy until his fondness for I. W. Harper bonded bourbon inappropriated him. Most of the executives at La United got out after Castro took over, but Mr. Gordean has remained behind. Now, he is drinking even more heavily. He has several thousand shares of United Fruit stock with him, and refuses to leave. He has bought off militiamen to be his private bodyguards and is beginning to sprout the Communist line himself. My great fear is that Mr. Gordean will go Communisto like the Fidel I loved long ago. I fear that he will become a propaganda tool par eccentricity and …”
“Stock shares”—
“Thomas Gordean”—
A light bulb popped on and nearly blinded him. Kemper almost ran his car off the road.
DOCUMENT INSERT: 2/10/59. Hush-Hush stringer report: Lenny Sands to Pete Bondurant.
Pete,
Here’s a lead I’ve picked up. 1.—Mickey Cohen’s diving for crumbs. He’s got two goons (George Piscatelli 8c Sam Lo Cigno) set to maybe work a sex shakedown racket. I got this from Dick Contino, in Chicago for some accordion soiree. Mickey got the idea when he read Lana Turner’s love letters to Johnny Stompanato after Lana’s daughter shanked Johnny. Johnny used to screw rich widows and had some out-of-work cameraman film it. Mickey’s got some choice film clips. Tell Mr. Hughes he’ll sell them for 3 grand.
Cheers,
Lenny
DOCUMENT INSERT: 2/24/59. Hush-Hush stringer report: Lenny Sands to Pete Bondurant.
Pete,
I’ve been on the road with Sal D’Onofrio’s junket gig. Here’s some tidbits. 1.—All the midnight shift cocktail waitresses at the Dunes Hotel in Vegas are hookers. They serviced President Eisenhower’s Secret Service crew when Ike addressed the Nevada State Legislature. 2.—Rock Hudson’s banging the maitre d’ at the Cal-Neva restaurant. 3.—Lenny Bruce is hooked on dilaudid. There’s a whole squad of L.A. County Sheriff’s set to entrap him the next time he appears on the Strip. 4.—Freddy Otash got Jayne Mansfield an abortion. The daddy was a shvartze dishwasher with a 16″ schlong. Peter Lawford’s got pictures of the guy stroking it. I bought one off Freddy 0. I’ll send it to you to forward to Mr. Hughes. 5.—Bing Crosby’s drying out at a Catholic Church retreat for alcoholic priests and nuns outside 29 Palms. Cardinal Spellman visited him there. They went on a bender and drove to L.A. blotto. Spellman sideswiped a car filled with wetbacks and sent 3 of them to the hospital. Bing bought them off with autographed pictures and a few hundred dollars. Spellman flew back to New York with the DT’s. Bing stayed in L.A. long enough to beat up his wife and then went back to the dry-out farm.
Cheers,
Lenny
DOCUMENT INSERT: 3/4/59. Personal note: J. Edgar Hoover to Howard Hughes.
Dear Howard,
I thought I would drop you a line to tell you how much I think Hush-Hush has improved since Mr. Bondurant hired your new stringer. Now there’s a man who would make an excellent FBI agent! I so look forward to the verbatim reports that you send mel Should you wish to expedite their delivery, have Mr. Bondurant contact Special Agent Rice at the Los Angeles Office. Many thanks also for the Stompanato home movie and the snapshot of the prodigiously endowed negro. Forewarned is forearmed: you have to know your enemy before you can combat him.
All best,
Edgar
DOCUMENT INSERT: 3/19/69. Personal letter: Kemper Boyd to J. Edgar Hoover. Marked: EXTREMELY CONFIDENTIAL.
Sir:
Per our previous conversation, I’m passing on salient Kennedy family information gleaned from Laura (Swanson) Hughes.
I’ve gained a degree of Miss Hughes’ confidence in the course of establishing a casual friendship with her. My relationship with the Kennedys gives me credibility, and Miss Hughes was impressed with the fact that I determined the secret of her parentage without actually broaching the topic to Kennedy family members or her other knowledgeable friends.
Miss Hughes loves to talk about the family, but she only discusses John, Robert, Edward, Rose and the sisters in bland terms. She reserves considerable wrath for Joseph P. Kennedy Sr., cites his ties to Boston mobster Raymond L.S. Patriarca and a retired Chicago “bootlegger-financier” named Jules Schiffrin, and delights in telling stories of Mr. Kennedy’s business rivalry with Howard Hughes. (Miss Hughes adopted the name “Hughes” on her eighteenth birthday, replacing the Kennedy-Swanson proffered “Johnson” in an effort to somehow fluster her father, one of Howard Hughes’ most auspicious enemies.)
Miss Hughes contends that Joseph P. Kennedy’s gangster ties run considerably deeper than the “he was a boot
legger” tag foisted upon him by the press in reference to his highly successful scotch whisky import business pre-prohibition. She cannot cite specific gangster intimates or recall incidents that she has witnessed or heard of second-hand; nevertheless, her sense of Joseph P. Kennedy as “deeply gangster connected” remains inchoately strong.
I will continue my friendship with Miss Hughes and report all salient Kennedy family intelligence to you.
Respectfully,
Kemper Boyd
DOCUMENT INSERT: 4/21/59. Summary report: SA Ward J. Littell to Kemper Boyd. “For editing and forwarding to Robert F. Kennedy.”
Dear Kemper,
Things continue apace here in Chicago. I’m continuing to pursue domestic Communists per my regular Bureau assignment, although they impress me as more pathetic and less dangerous by the day. That said, I’ll move to our real concerns.
Sal D’Onofrio and Lenny Sands continue, unknown to each other, to serve as my informants. Sal, of course, paid back the $12,000 he owed Sam Giancana; Giancana let him off with a beating. Apparently, my theft of Butch Montrose’s $14,000 was never connected to Sal’s $12,000 windfall. I ordered Sal to repay Giancana in three increments and he followed that order. My initial violence directed at Sal proved to be far-sighted: I seem to have the man thoroughly cowed. In the course of casual conversation I told him that I had been a Jesuit seminarian. D’Onofrio, a self-described “Devout Catholic,” was impressed by this and now considers me something of a father-confessor. He has confessed to six torture-murders, and of course I now have those (gruesomely detailed) confessions to hold over him. Aside from the occasional nightmares the confessions have induced, Sal and I seem to be proceeding on an even keel. I told him I would appreciate it if he would refrain from killing and self-destructive gambling while under my stewardship, and so far he seems to be doing that. Sal has provided me with rather tame pieces of anti-Mob intelligence (not worth forwarding to you or Mr. Kennedy) but has not been of help in steering me toward a loan seeker to hoist up the Teamster Pension Fund ladder. This was the sole reason I suborned him as my informant, and he has failed me in that capacity. I suspect that proving the existence of “alternative” Pension Fund books will be a gruesomely attenuated process.
