by James Ellroy
A man said, “We got a nice cemetery outside. It’s just that none of us want to move in real soon.”
A woman said, “You can’t expect the law around here to jump on our side all of a sudden.”
Kemper smiled. Two tastes and a two-martini lunch made the church glow.
“As cemeteries go, that one you’ve got is just about the prettiest I’ve ever seen, but none of us want to visit it until some time around the year 2000, and as far as protection goes, I can only say that President Kennedy did a pretty good job of protecting those Freedom Riders last year, and if those aforementioned white-trash, peckerwood, redneck-cracker elements turn out in force to suppress your God-given civil rights, then the Federal government will meet that challenge with greater force, because your will to freedom will not be defeated, because it is good and just and true, and you have the strength of kindness, decency and unflinching rectitude on your side.”
The congregation rose and applauded.
“… So it’s what you call a sweetheart deal. I got my Royal Knights Klavern, which is basically an FBI franchise, and all I gotta do is keep my ear down and rat off the Exalted Knights and Imperial Knights for mail fraud, which is the only Klan stuff Mr. Hoover really cares about. I got my own informants subcontracted into both them groups, and I pay them out of my Bureau stipend, which helps to consolidate the power of my own group.”
The shack reeked of stale socks and stale reefer smoke. Dougie Frank wore a Klan sheet and Levi’s.
Kemper smashed a fly perching on his chair. “What about those shooters you mentioned?”
“They’re here. They’ve been bunking with me, ’cause the motels around here don’t differentiate between Cubans and niggers. ’Course, you’re trying to change all that.”
“Where are they now?”
“I got a shooting range down the road. They’re there with some of my Royals. You want a beer?”
“How about a dry martini?”
“Ain’t none of those in these parts. And any man asks for one’s gonna get tagged as a Federal agitator.”
Kemper smiled. “I’ve got a bartender at the Skyline Lounge on my side.”
“Must be a Jew or a homo.”
Kemper laid on some drawl. “Son, you are trying my patience.”
Lockhart flinched. “Well … shit, then, you should know that I heard Pete found his four boys. Guy Banister said you’re still two short, which don’t surprise me, given all the integration work you’ve been doing.”
“Tell me about the shooters. Limit your extraneous comments and get to the point.”
Lockhart wiggled his chair back. Kemper slid his chair closer to him.
“Well, uh, Banister, he sent them over to me. They stole a speedboat in Cuba and ran it aground off the Alabama coast. They robbed some gas stations and liquor stores and renewed an old acquaintance with that Frenchy guy Laurent Guéry, who told them to call Guy for some anti-Fidel work.”
“And?”
“And Guy considered them too goddamn crazy for his taste, which is too crazy for just about anybody’s. He sent them to me, but I got about as much use for them as a dog does for fleas.”
Kemper moved closer. Lockhart backed his chair into the wall.
“Man, you are crowding me more than I’m used to.”
“Tell me about the Cubans.”
“Jesus, I thought we were friends.”
“We are. Now, tell me about the Cubans.”
Lockhart slid his chair sideways. “Their names are Flash Elorde and Juan Canestel. ‘Flash’ ain’t Elorde’s real first name. He just took it ’cause there’s some famous spic boxer with the same last name as him who uses it as a nickname.”
“And?”
“And they’re both crack shots and big Fidel haters. Flash ran this prostitution slave trade in Havana, and Juan was this rape-o who got castrated by Castro’s secret police, ’cause he raped something like three hundred women between the years 1959 and 1961.”
“Are they willing to die for a free Cuba?”
“Shit, yes. Flash says that given the life he’s led, every day he wakes up alive is a miracle.”
Kemper smiled. “You should adopt that attitude, Dougie.”
“Which means?”
“Which means there’s a nice colored church outside Meridian. It’s called the First Pentecostal Baptist, and it’s got a beautiful moss-hung cemetery next door.”
Lockhart pinched one nostril and blew snot on the floor. “So fucking what? What are you, some nigger church conno-sewer?”
Kemper milked his drawl. “Tell your boys not to touch that church.”
“Shit, man, how do you expect a self-respecting white man to respond to something like that?”
“Say, ‘Yes, sir, Mr. Boyd.’ ”
Lockhart sputtered. Kemper hummed the “We Shall Overcome” song.
Lockhart said, “Yes, sir, Mr. Boyd.”
Flash sported a Mohawk haircut. Juan sported a big testicle bulge—handkerchiefs or wadded-up tissue filled the space where his nuts used to reside.
The range was a vacant lot adjoining a trailer park. Full-dress Klansmen shot tin cans and swigged beer and Jack Daniel’s.
They hit one can out of four at thirty yards. Flash and Juan notched all hits from twice that distance.
They shot old M-ls in late-afternoon light. Better rifles and telescopic sights would make them invincible.
Dougie Frank circulated. Kemper watched the Cubans shoot.
Flash and Juan stripped to the waist and used their shirts to swat off mosquitos. Both men were torture-scarred from the hips up.
Kemper whistled and signaled Lockhart: Send them over, now.
Dougie Frank rounded them up. Kemper leaned against an old Ford half-ton. The bed was jammed with liquor bottles and guns.
They walked over. Kemper came on courtly and genteel.
Smiles and bows went around. Handshakes went down. Flash and Juan pulled their shirts on—a sign of respect for the Big Bwana white man.
Kemper cut the niceties off. “My name is Boyd. I have a mission to offer you.”
Flash said, “Sí, trabajo. Quién el—”
Juan shushed him. “What kind of mission?”
Kemper tried Spanish. “Trabajo muy importante. Para matar el grande puto Fidel Castro.”
Flash jumped up and down. Juan grabbed him and restrained him.
“This is not a joke, Mr. Boyd?”
Kemper pulled out his money clip. “How much would it take to convince you?”
They crowded up to him. Kemper fanned out hundred-dollar bills.
“I hate Fidel Castro just as much as any Cuban patriot. Ask Mr. Banister or your friend Laurent Guéry about me. I’ll pay you out of my own pocket until our backers come through, and if we succeed and get Castro, I’ll guarantee you large bonuses.”
The cash hypnotized them. Kemper went in for the close.
He slipped a hundred to Flash and a hundred to Juan. One to Flash, one to Juan, one to Flash—
Canestel squeezed his hand shut. “We believe you.”
Kemper snagged a bottle out of the truck. Flash beat mambo time on the back fender.
A Klansman yelled, “Save some for us white men!”
Kemper took a drink. Flash took a drink. Juan chug-a-lugged half the bottle.
The cocktail hour segued into get-acquainted time.
Kemper bought Flash and Juan some clothes. They moved their gear out of Lockhart’s shack.
Kemper called his broker in New York. He said, Sell some stock and send me five thousand dollars.
The man said, Why? Kemper said, I’m hiring some underlings.
Flash and Juan needed lodging. Kemper braced his friendly desk clerk and asked him to revise his WHITES ONLY policy.
The man agreed. Flash and Juan moved into the Seminole Motel.
Kemper called Pete in New Orleans. He said, Let’s arrange a Whack Fidel audition.
They brainstormed.
Kempe
r set the budget at fifty grand per shooter and two hundred grand for general overhead. Pete suggested severance pay—ten Gs for each rejected shooter.
Kemper agreed. Pete said, Let’s do the gig at Blessington. Santo can put Sam G. and Johnny up at the Breakers Motel.
Kemper agreed. Pete said, We need a spic fall guy—non-CLA/non-Cadre-connected. Kemper said, We’ll find one.
Pete said, My boys are braver than your boys.
Kemper said, No, they’re not.
Flash and Juan felt like drinking. Kemper took them to the Skyline Lounge.
The bartender said, They ain’t white. Kemper slipped him twenty dollars. The bartender said, They are now.
Kemper drank martinis. Juan drank I.W. Harper. Flash drank Myers’s rum and Coke.
Flash spoke Spanish. Juan translated. Kemper learned the rudiments of slave prostitution.
Flash kidnapped the girls. Laurent Guéry got them hooked on Algerian horse. Juan broke the virgins in and tried to perv them into digging random sex.
Kemper listened. The ugly things drifted away, compartmentalized and non-applicable.
Juan said he missed his balls. He could still get hard and fuck, but he missed the total shoot-your-load experience.
Flash raged against Fidel. Kemper thought: I don’t hate the man at all.
The six wore starched fatigues and camouflage lampblack. It was Pete’s idea: Let’s turn our shooter candidates out scary.
Néstor built a range behind the Breakers parking lot. Kemper called it a jerry-rig masterpiece.
It featured pulley-mounted targets and chairs scrounged from a demolished cocktail hut. The audition weaponry was CIA-prime: M-1s, assorted pistols, and scope-fitted .30.06’s.
Teo Paez fashioned straw-stuffed Castro targets. They were life-size and realistic—replete with beards and cigars.
Laurent Guéry crashed the party. Teo said he blew France rápidamente. Néstor said he’d tried to clip Charles de Gaulle.
The judges sat under an awning. S. Trafficante, J. Rosselli and S. Giancana—curled up with highballs and binoculars.
Pete played armorer. Kemper played MC.
“We’ve got six men for you gentlemen to choose from. You’ll be funding this operation, and I know you’ll want last say as to who goes in. Pete and I are proposing three-man teams, with NSstor Chasco, who you already know, as the third man in all cases. Before we start, I want to stress that these men are loyal, fearless and fully comprehend the risks involved. If captured, they will commit suicide rather than reveal who set up this operation.”
Giancana tapped his watch. “I’m running late. Can we get this show on the road?”
Trafficante tapped his. “Move it, would you, Kemper? I’m due back in Tampa.”
Kemper nodded. Pete cranked Fidel #1 fifty feet out. The men loaded their revolvers and assumed the two-handed combat stance.
Pete said, “Fire.”
Chino Cromajor blew Castro’s hat off. Rafael Hernandez-Brown decigared him. César Ramos severed both his ears.
The reverberations faded. Kemper gauged reactions.
Santo looked bored. Sam looked restless. Johnny looked mildly nonplussed.
Juanita Chacón aimed crotch-high and fired. Fidel #1 lost his manhood.
Flash and Juan fired twice. Fidel lost his arms and his legs.
Laurent Guéry clapped. Giancana checked his watch.
Pete cranked Fidel #2 a hundred yards out. The shooters raised their obsolete M-1s.
The judges held up their binoculars. Pete said, “Fire.”
Cromajor shot Castro’s eyes out. Hernández-Brown lopped off his thumbs.
Ramos nailed his cigar. Juanita castrated him.
Flash blew his legs off at the knees. Juan slammed a cardiac bullseye.
Pete yelled, “Cease fire!” The shooters lowered their weapons and lined up at parade rest.
Giancana said, “It’s impressive, but we can’t go off half-cocked on something this big.”
Trafficante said, “I have to agree with Mo.”
Rosselli said, “You need to give us some time to think about it.”
Kemper felt queasy. His speedball rush turned ugly.
Pete was trembling.
74
(Washington, D.C., 1/24/62)
Littell locked the money in his desk safe. One month’s retainer—$6,000 cash.
Hoffa said, “You didn’t count it.”
“I trust you.”
“I could’ve made a mistake.”
Littell tilted his chair back and looked up at him. “That’s unlikely. Especially when you walked it over here yourself.”
“You’d’ve felt better walking over to my shop in this fucking cold?”
“I could have waited until the first.”
Hoffa perched on the edge of the desk. His overcoat was soaked with melting snow.
Littell moved some folders. Hoffa picked up his crystal paperweight.
“Did you come for a pep talk, Jimmy?”
“No. But if you got one, I’m all ears.”
“How’s this. You’re going to win and Bobby’s going to lose. It’s going to be a long and painful war, and you’re going to win by sheer attrition.”
Jimmy squeezed the paperweight. “I was thinking Kemper Boyd should leak a copy of my Justice Department file to you.”
Littell shook his head. “He won’t do it, and I won’t ask him to. He’s got the Kennedys and Cuba and God knows what else wrapped in tidy little packages that only he knows the logic of. There’s lines he won’t cross over, and you and Bobby Kennedy are one of them.”
Hoffa said, “Lines come and go. And as far as Cuba goes, I think Carlos is the only Outfit guy who still gives a shit. I think Santo, Mo and the others are pissed off and bored with the whole notion of that rinky-dink goddamn island.”
Littell straightened his necktie. “Good. Because I’m bored with everything except keeping you and Carlos one step ahead of Bobby Kennedy.”
Hoffa smiled. “You used to like Bobby. I heard you used to really admire him.”
“Lines come and go, Jimmy. You said so yourself.”
Hoffa dropped the paperweight. “This is true. It is also fucking true that I need an edge on Bobby. And you fucking pulled the plug on that Kennedy wire job that Pete Bondurant was working for me back in ’58.”
Littell forced a wince into a smile. “I didn’t know you knew that.”
“That is obvious. It should also be fucking obvious that I forgive you.”
“And obvious that you want to try it again.”
“This is true.”
“Call Pete, Jimmy. I don’t have much use for him, but he’s the best shakedown man alive.”
Hoffa leaned across the desk. His trouser legs slid up and showed off cheap white sweat socks.
“I want you in on it, too.”
75
(Los Angeles, 2/4/62)
Pete rubbed his neck. It was all kinked and knotted—he flew out in a coach seat made for midgets.
“I jump when you say ‘jump,’ Jimmy, but coast-to-coast for coffee and pastry is pushing it.”
“I think L.A.’s the place to set this up.”
“Set what up?”
Hoffa dabbed eclair cream off his necktie. “You’ll see soon enough.”
Pete heard noise in the kitchen. “Who’s that poking around?”
“It’s Ward Littell. Sit down, Pete. You’re making me nervous.”
Pete dropped his garment bag. The house stunk of cigars—Hoffa let visiting Teamsters use it for stag nights.
“Littell, shit. This is grief I don’t need.”
“Come on. Ancient history’s ancient history.”
Recent history: Your lawyer stole your Fund books—
Littell walked in. Hoffa put his hands up, peacemaker-style. “Be nice, you guys. I wouldn’t put the two of you in the same room unless it was good.”
Pete rubbed his eyes. “I’m a busy guy, and I flew overnight for thi
s little breakfast klatch. Give me one good reason why I should take on additional fucking work, or I’m heading back to the airport.”
Hoffa said, “Tell him, Ward.”
Littell warmed his hands on a coffee cup. “Bobby Kennedy’s coming down unacceptably hard on Jimmy. We want to work up a derogatory tape profile on Jack and use it as a wedge to get him to call off Bobby.
If I hadn’t interfered, the Shoftel operation might have worked. I think we should do it again, and I think we should recruit a woman that Jack would find interesting enough to sustain an affair with.”
Pete rolled his eyes. “You want to shake down the President of the United States?”
“Yes.”
“You, me and Jimmy?”
“You, me, Fred Turentine and the woman we bring in.”
“And you’re going at this like you think we can trust each other.”
Littell smiled. “We both hate Jack Kennedy. And I think we’ve got enough dirt on each other to buttress a non-aggression pact.”
Pete popped some prickly little goosebumps. “We can’t tell Kemper about this. He’d rat us in a second.”
“I agree. Kemper has to stay out of the loop on this one.”
Hoffa belched. “I’m watching you two humps stare at each other, and I’m starting to feel like I’m out of the fucking loop, even though I’m financing the fucking loop.”
Littell said, “Lenny Sands.”
Hoffa sprayed eclair crumbs. “What the fuck does Jewboy Lenny have to do with fucking anything?”
Pete looked at Littell. Littell looked at Pete. Their brainwaves meshed somewhere over the pastry tray.
Hoffa looked dead flummoxed. His eyes went out of focus somewhere near the planet Mars. Pete steered Littell to the kitchen and shut the door.
