by James Ellroy
He has dinner with John Stanton. They discuss his report at length.
John says, Heroin-pushing Commies are tough competition. Ike will kick loose more money later on, but now is now.
More banana boats are due. Anti-Castro zealots will swarm Florida. Hothead ideologues will join the Cause and demand action.
Rampant factionalism might reign. The Blessington campsite is still short of operational and their Elite Cadre is still untested. The dope clique might usurp their strategic edge and financial hegemony.
Kemper said, Heroin-pushing Commies are tough. You can’t compete with men who’ll go that far.
He made Stanton say it himself. He made Stanton say, Unless we exceed their limits.
Talk went ambiguous. Abstractions passed as facts. A euphemistic language asserted itself.
“Self-budgeted,” “autonomous” and “compartmentalized.” “Need-to-know basis” and “Ad hoc utilization of Agency resources.”
“Co-opting of Agency-aligned pharmacological sources on a cash-and-carry basis.”
“Without divulging the destination of the merchandise.”
They sealed the deal with elliptical rhetoric. He let Stanton think he devised most of the plan.
Kemper skimmed his newspaper. He noticed a page-four banner: “Grisly Causeway Discovery.”
An arsoned Chevy collapses a rickety wooden dock. Rolando Cruz and César Salcido are along for the dip.
“Authorities believe the killings of Cruz and Salcido may be connected to the slayings of four other Cubans in Coral Gables late last night.”
Kemper flipped back to page one. A single paragraph stood out.
“Although the dead men were rumored to be heroin traffickers, no narcotics were found on the premises.”
Be prompt, Pete. And be as smart and farsighted as I think you are.
Pete showed up early, carrying a large paper bag. He didn’t check out the women by the pool or walk up with his usual swagger.
Kemper slid a chair out. Pete saw the Herald on the table, folded to the page-one headline.
Kemper said, “You?”
Pete put the bag on the table. “Fulo and me.”
“Both jobs?”
“That’s right.”
“What’s in the bag?”
“Fourteen point six pounds of uncut heroin and a diamond ring.”
Kemper fished the ring out. The stones and gold setting were beautiful.
Pete poured a cup of coffee. “Keep it. To consecrate my marriage to the Agency.”
“Thanks. I may be popping a question with it soon.”
“I hope she says yes.”
“Did Hoffa?”
“Yeah, he did. He put a condition on the deal, which I fucking fulfilled, as I’m sure you already know.”
Kemper nudged the bag. “You could have unloaded it yourself. I wouldn’t have said anything.”
“I’m along for the ride. And for now, I’m enjoying it too much to fuck with your agenda.”
“Which is?”
“Compartmentalization.”
Kemper smiled. “That’s the biggest word I’ve ever heard you use.”
“I read books to teach myself English. I must have read the Webster’s Unabridged Dictionary at least ten times.”
“You’re an immigrant success story.”
“Go fuck yourself. But before you do it, tell me my official CIA duties.”
Kemper twirled the ring. Sunlight made the diamonds twinkle.
“You’ll be nominally running the Blessington campsite. There’s some additional buildings and a landing strip going up, and you’ll be supervising the construction. Your assignment is to train Cuban refugees for amphibious sabotage runs into Cuba, and to funnel them to other training sites, the cabstand and Miami for general gainful employment.”
Pete said, “It sounds too legal.”
Pool water splashed at their feet. His suite upstairs was almost Kennedy-sized.
“Boyd—”
“Eisenhower has given the Agency a tacit mandate to covertly undermine Castro. The Outfit wants their casinos back. Nobody wants a Communist dictatorship ninety miles off the Florida coast.”
“Tell me something I don’t know.”
“Ike’s budget allocation came in a little low.”
“Tell me something interesting.”
Kemper poked the bag. A tiny trace of white powder puffed out.
“I have a plan to refinance our part of the Cuban Cause. It’s implicitly Agency-vetted, and I think it will work.”
“I’m getting the picture, but I want to hear you say it.”
Kemper lowered his voice. “We link up with Santo Trafficante. We utilize his narcotics connections and my Cadre as pushers, and sell this dope, Santo’s dope and all the other dope we can get our hands on in Miami. The Agency has access to a poppy farm in Mexico, and we can buy some fresh-processed stuff there and have Chuck Rogers fly it in. We finance the Cause with the bulk of the money, give Trafficante a percentage as operating tribute and send a small percentage of the dope into Cuba with our Blessington men. They’ll distribute it to our on-island contacts, who will sell it and use the money to purchase weapons. Your specific job is to supervise my Cadre and make sure they sell only to Negroes. You make sure my men don’t use the dope themselves, and keep their profit skim at a minimum.”
Pete said, “What’s our percentage?” Pete’s response was utterly predictable.
“We don’t take one. If Trafficante approves my plan, we’ll get something much sweeter.”
“Which you’re not going to talk about now.”
“I’m meeting Trafficante in Tampa this afternoon. I’ll let you know what he says.”
“And in the meantime?”
“If Trafficante says yes, we’ll get going in a week or so. In the meantime, you drive down to Blessington and check things out, meet the Cadre and tell Mr. Hughes that you’ll be taking some prolonged Florida vacations.”
Pete smiled. “He’ll be pissed.”
“You know how to get around that.”
“If I’m working up in Miami, who’s going to run the campsite?”
Kemper got out his address book. “Go see Guy Banister in New Orleans. Tell him we need a tough white man to run the camp, a shitkicker type who can handle the crackers around Blessington. Guy knows every right-wing hardcase on the Gulf Coast. Tell him we need a man who’s not too insane and willing to move to South Florida.”
Pete wrote Banister’s number on a napkin. “You’re convinced all this is going to work?”
“I’m certain. Just pray that Castro doesn’t go pro-U.S.”
“That’s a nice sentiment from a Kennedy man.”
“Jack would appreciate the irony.”
Pete cracked his knuckles. “Jimmy thinks you should tell Jack to put a leash on Bobby.”
“Never. And I want to see Jack elected President, and I will not intercede with the Kennedys to help Hoffa. I keep—”
“—things compartmentalized, I know.”
Kemper held the ring up. “Stanton wants me to help influence Jack’s Cuban policy. We want the Cuban problem to extend, Pete. Hopefully into a Kennedy administration.”
Pete cracked his thumbs. “Jack’s got a nice head of hair, but I don’t see him as President of the United States.”
“Qualifications don’t count. All Ike did was invade Europe and look like your uncle.”
Pete stretched. His shirttail slid up over two revolvers.
“Whatever happens, I’m in. This is too fucking big to pass up.”
His rent-a-car came with a discreet dashboard Jesus. Kemper slipped the ring over its head.
The air conditioner died outside Miami. A radio concert kept his mind off the heat.
A virtuoso played Chopin. Kemper replayed the scene at Pavilion.
Jack played peacemaker and smoothed things out. Old Joe’s freeze thawed out nicely. They stayed for one awkward drink.
Bobby sulked. A
va Gardner was plain flummoxed. She had no idea what the scene meant.
Joe sent him a note the next day. It closed with, “Laura deserves a man with balls.”
Laura said “I love you” that night. He made up his mind to propose to her at Christmas.
He could afford Laura now. He had three paychecks and two full-time hotel suites. He had a low six-figure bank-account balance.
And if Trafficante says yes …
Trafficante understood abstract concepts.
“Self-budgeted,” “autonomous” and “compartmentalized” amused him.
“Agency-aligned pharmacological sources” made him laugh outright.
He wore a nubby-weave silk suit. His office was turned out in blond-wood Danish modern.
He loved Kemper’s plan. He grasped its political thrust immediately.
The meeting extended. A yes-man served anisette and pastry.
Their conversation veered in odd directions. Trafficante critiqued the Big Pete Bondurant myth. The paper bag by Kemper’s feet went unmentioned.
The yes-man served espresso and Courvoisier VSOP. Kemper marked the moment with a bow.
“Raúl Castro sent this in, Mr. Trafficante. Pete and I want you to have it, as a symbol of our good faith.”
Trafficante picked up the bag. He smiled at the weight and gave it a few little squeezes.
Kemper swirled his brandy. “If Castro is eliminated as a direct or indirect result of our efforts, Pete and I will insure that your contribution is recognized. More importantly, we’ll try to convince the new Cuban ruler to allow you, Mr. Giancana, Mr. Marcello and Mr. Rosselli to regain control of your casinos and build new ones.”
“And if he refuses?”
“We’ll kill him.”
“And what do you and Pete want for all your hard work?”
“If Cuba is liberated, we want to split 5% of the profits from the Capri and Nacional Hotel casinos in perpetuity.”
“Suppose Cuba stays Communist?”
“Then we get nothing.”
Trafficante bowed. “I’ll talk to the other boys, and of course, my vote is ‘Yes.’ ”
32
(Chicago, 9/4/59)
Littell picked up static interference. House-to-car bug feeds always ran rough.
The signal fed in from fifty yards out. Sid Kabikoff wore the microphone taped to his chest.
Mad Sal had arranged the meet. Sam G. insisted on his apartment—take it or leave it. Butch Montrose met Sid on the stoop and walked him up to the left-rear unit.
The car was broiling. Littell kept his windows up as a sound filter.
Kabikoff: “You’ve got a nice place, Sam. Really, what a choice pad-à-terre.”
Littell heard scratching noise—flush on the mike. He visualized the at-the-source cause.
Sid’s stretching the tape. He’s rubbing those bruises I inflicted down in Texas.
Giancana’s voice came in garbled. Littell thought he heard Mad Sal mentioned.
He tried to find Sal this morning. He cruised his collection turf and couldn’t locate him.
Montrose: “We know you knew Jules Schiffrin back in the old days. We know you know some of the boys, so it’s like you’re recommended from the gate.”
Kabikoff: “It’s like a loop. If you’re in the loop you’re in the loop.”
Cars boomed by. Windowpanes rattled close to the feed-in.
Kabikoff: “Everybody in the loop knows I’m the best smut man in the West. Everybody knows Sid the Yid’s got the best-looking cunt and the boys with the putzes down to their knees.”
Giancana: “Did Sal tell you to ask for a Pension Fund loan specific?”
Kabikoff: “Yeah, he did.”
Montrose: “Is Sal in some kind of money trouble, Sid?”
Traffic noise covered the signal. Littell timed it at six seconds even.
Montrose: “I know Sal’s in the loop, and I know the loop’s the loop, but I’m also saying my own little love shack got burglarized in January, and I got rammed for fourteen Gs out of my fucking golf bag.”
Giancana: “And in April some friends of ours got clouted for eighty grand they had stashed in a locker. You see, right after these hits Sal started spending new money. Butch and me just put it together, sort of circumstantially.”
Littell went lightheaded. His pulse went haywire.
Kabikoff: “No. Sal wouldn’t do something like that. No … he wouldn’t.…”
Montrose: “The loop’s the loop and the Fund’s the Fund, but the two ain’t necessarily the same thing. Jules Schiffrin’s with the Fund, but that don’t mean he’d roll over for a loan for you, just because you shared spit way back when.”
Giancana: “We sort of think somebody’s trying to get at Jimmy Hoffa and the Fund through a goddamn fake loan referral. We talked to Sal about it, but he didn’t have nothing to say.”
Littell hyperventilated. Spots blipped in front of his eyes.
Montrose: “So, did somebody approach you? Like the Feds or the Cook County Sheriff’s?”
Thumps hit the mike. It had to be Sid’s pulse racing. Fizzing noise overlapped the thumps—Sid’s sweat was clogging up the feeder ducts.
The feed sputtered and died. Littell hit his volume switch and got nothing but a static-fuzzed void.
He rolled down the windows and counted off forty-six seconds. Fresh air cleared his head.
He can’t rat me. I wore that ski mask both times that we talked.
Kabikoff stumbled out to the sidewalk. Wires dangled from the back of his shirt. He got his car and punched it straight through a red light.
Littell hit the ignition. The car wouldn’t start—his bug feed ran down the battery.
• • •
He knew what he’d find at Sal’s house. Four rye-and-beers prepared him to break in and see it.
They tortured Sal in his basement. They stripped him and tied him to a ceiling pipe. They hosed him and scorched him with jumper cables.
Sal didn’t talk. Giancana didn’t know the name Littell. Fat Sid didn’t know his name or what he looked like.
They might let Sid go back to Texas. They might or might not kill him somewhere down the line.
They left a cable clamped to Sal’s tongue. Voltage burned his face shiny black.
Littell called Fat Sid’s hotel. The desk clerk said Mr. Kabikoff was in—he had two visitors just an hour ago.
Littell said, “Don’t ring his room.” He stopped for two more rye-and-beers and drove over to see for himself.
They left the door unlocked. They left Sid in an overflowing bathtub. They tossed a plugged-in TV set on top of him.
The water was still bubbling. Electric shock had burned Kabikoff bald.
Littell tried to weep. The rye-and-beers left him too anesthetized.
Kemper Boyd always said DON’T LOOK BACK.
33
(New Orleans, 9/20/59)
Banister supplied files and pedigree notes. Pete narrowed his prospects down to three men.
His hotel room was file-inundated. He was deluged with rap sheets and FBI reports—the far-right South captured on paper.
He got the scoop on Ku Klux Klan klowns and neo-Nazis. He learned about the National States Rights Party. He marveled at the pointy-heads on the FBI payroll—half the Klans in Dixie were Fed-saturated.
Fed snitches were out castrating and lynching. Hoover’s only real concern was KKK mail-fraud minutiae.
A fan ruffled loose file papers. Pete stretched out on the bed and blew smoke rings.
Memo to Kemper Boyd:
The Agency should bankroll a Blessington KKK Klavern. Dirt-poor crackers surrounded the campsite—spic haters all. Klan hijinks would help keep them diverted.
Pete skimmed rap sheets. His instinct held—his prospects were the least rabid of the bunch.
Said prospects:
The Reverend Wilton Tompkins Evans, ex-con radio messiah. Pastor of the “Anti-Communist Crusade of the Air,” a weekly short-wave tira
de. Spanish-fluent; ex-paratrooper; three convictions for statutory rape. Banister’s assessment: “Capable and tough, but perhaps too anti-papist to work with Cubans. He’d be a great training officer and I’m sure he’d relocate, because he can broadcast his radio program from anywhere. Close friend of Chuck Rogers.”
Douglas Frank Lockhart, FBI informant/Klansman. Ex-Tank Corps sergeant; ex-Dallas cop; ex-gun runner to rightist dictator Rafael Trujillo. Banister’s assessment: “Probably the premier Klan informant in the South and a true Klan zealot in his own right. Tough and brave, but easily led and somewhat volatile. Seems to bear no grudge against Latins, especially if they are strongly anti-Communist.”
Henry Davis Hudspeth, the South’s #1 purveyor of hate propaganda. Spanish fluent; expert in Hapkido jujitsu. World War II fighter ace, with thirteen Pacific Theater kills. Banister’s assessment: “I like Hank, but he can be stubborn and untowardedly vitriolic. He’s currently working for me as liaison between my exile camp near Lake Pontchartrain and Dougie Frank Lockhart’s nearby Klan Klavern. (I own the property both are situated on.) Hank’s a good man, but maybe not suited for second banana status.”
All three men were close by. All three had party plans tonight—the Klan was torching a cross out by Guy’s camp.
Pete tried to notch a pre-cross-burn nap. He was running on a sleep deficit—his past three weeks were hectic and exhausting.
Boyd glommed some morphine from that CIA-friendly dope ranch. He flew it out to L.A. and gave it to Mr. Hughes.
Mr. Hughes appreciated the gift. Mr. Hughes said, Go back to Miami with my best wishes.
He didn’t tell him, I’m an anti-Red crusader now. With 5% of two casinos forever—if Cuba trades Red for Red, White and Blue.
Boyd sold the deal to Trafficante. Marcello, Giancana and Rosselli agreed to it. Boyd figured they’d make at least fifteen million dollars per year per man.
He told Lenny to swamp Hush-Hush with anti-Castro propaganda. He told him to shitcan the sex jive that Hughes and Hoover drooled for. He told him to make up some skank to keep them happy.
