by James Ellroy
Kemper hit downtown Blessington. He cruised by the Breakers, Al’s Dixie Diner and every exile hangout on both sides of the highway.
No Rapemobile.
He grid-searched side streets. He made systematic circuits—three blocks left, three blocks right. Seven-come-eleven—where’s that candy-apple-red T-Bird?
There—
The Rapemobile was parked outside the Larkhaven Motel. Kemper recognized the two cars parked beside it.
Guy Banister’s Buick. Carlos Marcello’s Lincoln.
The Breakers Motel faced the highway. Kemper’s window faced a just-rigged State Police checkpoint.
He saw cops divert cars down an off-ramp. He saw cops force male Latins out at gunpoint.
The cops ran ID checks and INS checks. The cops impounded vehicles and arrested male Latins wholesale.
Kemper watched for one straight hour. The Staties busted thirty-nine male Latins.
They herded the men into jail trucks. They dumped confiscated weapons into one big pile.
He searched Juan’s room an hour ago.
He found no sash cords. He found no perverted keepsakes. He saw absolutely nothing incriminating.
Somebody leaned on the doorbell. Kemper opened up quick to stop the noise.
Pete walked in. “Have you seen what’s going on out there?”
Kemper nodded. “They were trying to break in to the camp a few hours ago. The head training officer called the Staties.”
Pete checked the window. “Those are some pissed-off Cubans.”
Kemper pulled the drapes. “Where’s Ward?”
“He’s coming. And I hope you didn’t call us all the way down here to show us some fucking roadblocks.”
Kemper walked to the bar and poured Pete a short bourbon. “John Stanton called me. He said Jack Kennedy told Hoover to turn up the heat. The FBI has raided twenty-nine non-Agency campsites within the past forty-eight hours. Every non-Agency exile in captivity is out looking for Agency asylum.”
Pete downed his shot. Kemper poured him a refill.
“Stanton said Carlos put up a bail fund. Guy Banister tried to bail out some of his pet exiles, but the INS has put a deportation hold on every Cuban National in custody.”
Pete threw his glass at the wall. Kemper plugged the bottle.
“Stanton said the entire exile community is going crazy. He said there’s lots of talk about a Kennedy hit. He said there’s a good deal of specific talk about a motorcade hit in Miami.”
Pete punched the wall. His fist smashed through to the baseboard. Kemper stood back and talked slow and easy.
“Nobody on our team has broken cover, so the rumors couldn’t have originated from there. And Stanton said he didn’t inform the Secret Service, which implies that he wouldn’t mind seeing Jack dead.”
Pete gouged his knuckles bone-deep. He threw a left hook at the wall—plaster chunks flew.
Kemper stood way back. “Ward said Hoover sensed it was coming. He was right, because Hoover would have stalled the raids and sent out warnings to the old-boy network just to screw Bobby—unless he wanted to fuel the hatred against Jack.”
Pete grabbed the bottle. Pete doused his hands and wiped them on the drapes.
The fabric seeped beige to red. The wall was half-demolished.
“Pete, listen. There’s ways we can—”
Pete shoved him against the window. “No. This is the one we can’t get out of. We either kill him or we don’t, and they’ll probably kill us even if we get him.”
Kemper slid free. Pete slid the drapes back.
Exiles were jumping off the highway abutment. Cops were going at them with electric cattle prods.
“Look at that, Kemper. Look at that and tell me we can contain this fucking thing.”
Littell walked past the window. Pete opened the door and pulled him in bodily.
He didn’t react. He looked glazed and hurt.
Kemper shut the door. “Ward, what is it?”
Littell hugged his briefcase. He didn’t even blink at the room damage.
“I talked to Sam. He said the Miami hit is out, because his liaison to Castro told him that Castro would never speak to any Outfit man ever again, under any circumstances. They’ve given up the idea of a rapprochement.
I’ve always considered it far-fetched, and now apparently Sam and Santo agree.”
Pete said, “This is all crazy.” Kemper read Littell’s face: DON’T TAKE THIS AWAY FROM ME.
“Are we still on?”
Littell said, “I think so. And I spoke to Guy Banister and figured something out.”
Pete looked ready to blow. “So tell us, Ward. We know you’re the smartest and the strongest now, so just tell us what you think.”
Littell squared his necktie. “Banister saw a copy of a presidential memo. It passed from Jack to Bobby to Mr. Hoover, then through to the New Orleans SAC, who leaked it to Guy. The memo said that the President is sending a personal emissary to talk to Castro in November, and that further JM/Wave cutbacks will be forthcoming.”
Pete flicked blood off his hands. “I don’t get the Banister connection.”
Littell tossed his briefcase on the bed. “It was coincidental. Guy and Carlos are close, and Guy’s a frustrated lawyer himself. We talk from time to time, and he just happened to mention the memo. What it all ties in to is my feeling that Mr. Hoover senses there’s a hit plan In the works. Since none of us have broken cover, I’m thinking that—maybe—there’s a second hit in the planning stages. I’m thinking also that Banister might have knowledge of it—and that’s why Hoover leaked the memo in his direction.”
Kemper pointed to the window. “Did you see that checkpoint?”
Littell said, “Yes, of course.”
Kemper said, “That’s Hoover again. That’s him letting the raids happen to keep the hate against Jack peaking. John Stanton called me, Ward. There’s supposed to be a half-dozen or six dozen or two dozen more fucking plots in the works, like the fucking assassination metaphysic is just out there too undeniably—”
Pete slapped him.
Kemper pulled his piece.
Pete pulled his.
Littell said, “No,” VERY SOFTLY.
Pete dropped his gun on the bed.
Kemper dropped his.
Littell said, “Enough,” VERY SOFTLY.
The room crackled and buzzed. Littell unloaded the guns and locked them in his briefcase.
Pete spoke just shy of a whisper. “Banister bailed me out of jail last month. He said, ‘This Kennedy bullshit is about to end,’ like he had some kind of fucking foreknowledge.”
Kemper spoke the same way. “Juan Canestel’s been acting strange lately. I tailed him a few hours ago, and spotted his car parked next to Banister’s and Carlos Marcello’s. It was right down the road here, outside another motel.”
Littell said, “The Larkhaven?”
“That’s right.”
Pete sucked blood off his knuckles. “How’d you know that, Ward? And if Carlos is in on a second hit, are Santo and Mo calling ours off?”
Littell shook his head. “I think we’re still on.”
“What about this Banister stuff?”
“It’s new to me, but it fits. All I know for certain now is that I’m meeting Carlos at the Larkhaven Motel at five. He told me that Santo and Mo have handed the whole thing to him, with two new stipulations.”
Kemper rubbed his chin. The slap left his face bright red.
“Which are?”
“That we reschedule out of Miami and work up a left-wing patsy. There’s no chance at a truce with Castro, so they want to build the killer up as pro-Fidel.”
Pete kicked the wall. A landscape print hit the floor.
Kemper swallowed a loose tooth. Pete pointed to the highway.
The cops were putting on full riot gear. The cops were running strip searches in broad daylight.
Kemper said, “Look at that. That’s all Mr. Hoover’s chess game.”
Pete said,
“You’re crazy. He’s not that fucking good.”
Littell laughed in his face.
94
(Blessington, 10/21/63)
Carlos arranged a liquor tray. The setting was incongruous— Hennessy XO and paper-wrapped motel glasses.
Littell took the hard chair. Carlos took the soft one. The tray sat on a coffee table between them.
“Your crew is out, Ward. We’re using somebody else. He’s been planning his thing all summer, which makes it a better all-around deal.”
Littell said, “Guy Banister?”
“How’d you know? Did a little birdie tell you?”
“His car’s outside. And there’s some things that you just tend to know.”
“You’re taking it good.”
“I don’t have a choice.”
Carlos toyed with a humidor. “I just learned about it. The thing’s been in the works for a while, which to my way of thinking increases the chance of success.”
“Where?”
“Dallas, next month. Guy’s got some rich right-wingers backing it. He’s got a long-term fall guy, one pro shooter and one Cuban.”
“Juan Canestel?”
Carlos laughed. “You’re a very smart ‘tend to know’ guy.”
Littell crossed his legs. “Kemper figured it out. And in my opinion, you shouldn’t trust psychopaths who drive bright red sports cars.”
Carlos bit the tip off his cigar. “Guy’s a capable guy. He’s got a Commie-type patsy with a job on one of the motorcade routes, two real shooters and some cops to kill the patsy. Ward, you can’t fault a guy who came up with the same plan as you fucking independent of you.”
He felt calm. Carlos couldn’t break him. He still had the chance to maim Bobby.
“I wish it could have been you, Ward. I know you got a personal stake in seeing that man dead.”
He felt secure. He felt inimical to Pete and Kemper.
“I wasn’t pleased that Mo and Santo cozied up to Castro. Ward, you should have seen me when I found out.”
Littell took out his lighter. It was solid gold—a gift from Jimmy Hoffa.
“You’re building up to something, Carlos. You’re about to say, ‘Ward, you’re too valuable to risk,’ and offer me a drink, even though I haven’t touched liquor in over two years.”
Marcello leaned in. Littell lit his cigar.
“You’re not too valuable to risk, but you’re way too valuable to punish. Everybody agrees with me on that, and everybody also agrees that Boyd and Bondurant constitute another fucking matter.”
“I still don’t want that drink.”
“Why should you? You didn’t steal two hundred pounds of heroin and shit all over your partners. You took part in a shakedown that you should have told us about, but that’s no more than some fucking misdemeanor.”
Littell said, “I still don’t want that drink. And I’d appreciate it if you told me exactly what you want me to do between now and Dallas.”
Carlos brushed ash off his vest. “I want you, Pete and Kemper not to interfere with Guy’s plan or try to horn in on it. I want you to cut that Lockhart guy loose and send him back to Mississippi. I want Pete and Kemper to return what they stole.”
Littell squeezed his gold lighter. “What happens to them?”
“I don’t know. That’s not for me to fucking say.”
The cigar smelled foul. An air conditioner blew smoke in his face.
“It would have worked, Carlos. We would have made it happen.”
Marcello winked. “You always take business on its own terms. You don’t do some regret number when things don’t go your way.”
“I don’t get to kill him. That’s a regret.”
“You’ll live with it. And your plan helped Guy set up a diversion.”
“What diversion?”
Carlos perched an ashtray on his stomach. “Banister told some nut named Milteer about the Miami job, without naming no personnel. Guy knows Milteer’s a loudmouth who’s got a Miami PD snitch bird-dogging him. He’s hoping Milteer will blab to the snitch, who’ll blab to his handler, and somehow the Miami motorcade will get canceled and divert everybody’s attention away from Dallas.”
Littell smiled. “It’s far-fetched. It’s something out of ‘Terry and the Pirates.’ ”
Carlos smiled. “So’s your story about the Teamster books. So’s the whole idea of you thinking I didn’t know what really happened from the gate.”
A man stepped out of the bathroom. He was holding a cocked revolver.
Littell shut his eyes.
Carlos said, “Everybody but Jimmy knows. We had detectives tailing you from the fucking instant you walked me over the border. They know all about your code books and the research you did at the Library of Congress. I know you got plans for the books, and sonny boy, now you got partners.”
Littell opened his eyes. The man wrapped a pillow around his gun.
Carlos poured two drinks. “You’re going to set us up with Howard Hughes. We’re going to sell him Las Vegas and keester him for most of his profits. You’re going to help us turn the Fund books into more legitimate money than Jules Schiffrin ever dreamed of.”
He felt weightless. He tried to dredge up a Hail Mary and couldn’t remember the words.
Carlos raised his glass. “To Las Vegas and new understandings.”
Littell forced the drink down. The exquisite burn made him sob.
95
(Meridian, 11/4/63)
Heroin bricks weighed down the trunk and made the rear wheels drift. A simple traffic shake would net him thirty years in Parchman Prison.
He withdrew his bank-vault stash. Some powder leaked on the floor—enough to sedate rural Mississippi for weeks.
Santo wanted his dope back. Santo reneged on their deal. Santo let certain implications linger.
Santo might have you killed. Santo might let you live. Santo might tease you with some stay of execution.
Kemper pulled up to a stoplight. A colored man waved to him.
Kemper waved back. The man was a Pentecostal deacon—and very skeptical of John F. Kennedy.
The man always said, “I don’t trust that boy.”
The light changed. Kemper punched the gas.
Be patient, Mr. Deacon. That boy’s got eighteen days left to live.
His team was out. Banister’s was in. Juan Canestel and Chuck Rogers crossed over to Guy’s crew.
The hit was rescheduled for Dallas on November 22. Juan and a Corsican pro would shoot from separate locations. Chuck and two Dallas cops were set to kill the fall guy.
It was Littell’s basic plan embellished. It illustrated the ubiquitous Let’s Kill Jack metaphysic.
Littell disbanded the team. Lockhart returned to his Klan gig. Pete flew straight to Texas to be with his woman. The Swingin’ Twist Revue was scheduled to play Dallas on Hit Day.
Littell cut him loose. Some homing instinct drew him back to Meridian.
Quite a few locals remembered him. Some colored folks greeted him warmly. Some crackers gave him ugly looks and taunted him.
He took a motel room. He half-expected Mob killers to knock on his door. He ate three restaurant meals a day and drove around the countryside.
Dusk hit. Kemper crossed the Puckett town line. He saw a ridiculous sign framed by floodlights: Martin Luther King at a Communist training school.
The photo insert looked doctored. Someone drew devil’s horns on the Reverend.
Kemper swung east. He hit the switchback leading out to Dougie Lockhart’s old gun range.
Dirt roads took him right up to the edge. Shell casings snapped under his tires.
He killed his lights and got out. It was blessedly quiet—no gunshots and no rebel yells.
Kemper drew his piece. The sky was pitch dark—he couldn’t see the target silhouettes.
Shells crunched and skittered. Kemper heard footsteps.
“Who’s that? Who’s that trespassin’ on my property?”
Kem
per tapped his headlights. The beams caught Dougie Lockhart head-on.
“It’s Kemper Boyd, son.”
Lockhart stepped out of the light. “Kemper Boyd, whose accent gets more syrupy the further south he gets. You got a chameleon quality, Kemper. Has anybody ever told you that?”
Kemper hit his brights. The whole range lit up.
Dougie, wash your sheet—you look awful.
Lockhart whooped. “Boss, you got me under the hot lights now! Boss, I gotta confess—it was me that bombed that nigger church in Birmingham!”
He had bad teeth and pimples. His moonshine breath was wafting out a good ten yards.
Kemper said, “Did you really do that?”
“As sure as I’m standing here basking in your light, Boss. As sure as niggers—”
Kemper shot him in the mouth. A full clip took his head off.
96
(Washington, D.C., 11/19/63)
Bobby made him wait.
Littell sat outside his office. Bobby’s note stressed promptness and closed with a flair: “I’ll give any Hoffa lawyer ten minutes of my time.”
He was prompt. Bobby was busy. A door separated them.
Littell waited. He felt supremely calm.
Marcello didn’t break him. Bobby was a relative child. Marcello bowed when he only took one drink.
The outer office was wood-paneled and spacious. It was very close to Mr. Hoover’s office.
The receptionist ignored him. He counted down to the moment.
11/6/63: Kemper gives the dope back. Trafficante rebuffs his handshake.
11/6/63: Carlos Marcello calls. He says, “Santo has a job for you,” but will not elaborate further.
11/7/63: Sam Giancana calls. He says, “I think we can find work for Pete. Mr. Hughes hates spooks, and Pete’s a good narcotics man.”
11/7/63: He conveys this message to Pete. Pete understands that they’re letting him live.
If you work for us. If you move to Vegas. If you sell the local niggers heroin.
11/8/63: Jimmy Hoffa calls, elated. He doesn’t seem to care that he’s in very deep legal trouble.
Sam told him about the hit. Jimmy tells Heshie Ryskind. Heshie checks into the best hotel in Dallas—to enjoy the event close up.
