Hoffa dumped in cream and sugar. "I didn't think you flew in for that roast-beef sandwich."
Pete lit a cigarette. "The Agency wants to lease a half-interest in the cabstand. There's lots of Agency and Outfit guys that are starting to feel pretty strongly about Cuba, and the Agency thinks the stand would be a good place to recruit out of. And there'll be shitloads of Cuban exiles coming into Miami, which means big business if the stand goes anti-Castro in a big way."
Hoffa belched. "What do you mean, 'lease' ?"
"I mean you get a guaranteed $5,000 a month, in cash, plus half the gross profits, plus an Agency freeze with the IRS, just in case. My 5% comes off the top, you'll still have Chuck Rogers and Fulo running the stand, and I'll be coming by to check in regularly, once I start my contract job down in Blessington."
Jimmy's eyes flashed--$$$$$. "I like it. But Fulo said Kemper Boyd's tight with the Kennedys, which I do not like one iota."
Pete shrugged. "Fulo's right."
"Could Boyd get me off the hook with Bobby?"
"I'd say his loyalties are stretched too thin to try it. With Boyd, you take the bitter with the sweet."
Hoffa dabbed a stain off his necktie. "The bitter is those Cornmie humps who shot up my cabstand. The sweet is that if you took care of them, I'd be inclined to accept that offer."Pete huddled up a crew at the dispatch hut. Solid guys: Chuck, Fulo, Boyd's man Teo Paez.
They pulled chairs up in front of the air conditioner. Chuck passed a bottle around.
Fulo sharpened his machete on a rock. "I understand that all six of the traitors have vacated their apartments. I have been told that they have moved into a place called a 'safe house.' It is near here, and I believe it is Communisto-financed."
Chuck wiped spit off the bottle. "I saw Rolando Cruz checking out the stand yesterday, so I think it's safe to say we're under surveillance. A cop friend of mine got me their license numbers, so if you say we go trawling, that'll help."
Paez said, "Death to traitors."
Pete ripped the air conditioner off the wall. Steam billowed out.
Chuck said, "I get it You want to give them a target."Pete closed down the stand--in full public view. Fulo called an air-conditioner repairman. Chuck radioed his drivers and told them to return their cabs now now.
The repairman came and removed the wall unit. The drivers dropped off their taxis and went home. Fulo put a sign on the door: Tiger Kab Temporarily Closed.
Teo, Chuck and Fulo went trawling. They drove their radiorigged off-duty cars, devoid of tiger stripes and Tiger Kab regalia.
Pete snuck back to the hut. He kept the lights off and the windows locked. The dump was brutal hot.
A four-way link hooked in: the three cars to the Tiger Kab switchboard. Fulo prowled Coral Gables; Chuck and leo prowled Miami. Pete connected in to them via headset and hand microphone.
It was ass-scratching, sit-still duty. Chuck hogged the airwaves with a long rant on the Jew-Nigger Pantheon.
Three hours slogged by. The trawl cars kept a line of chatter up. They did not see hide-nor-fucking-hair of the pro-Castro guys.
Pete dozed with his headset on. The thick air had him wheezing. Crosstalk gibberish sparked these little two-second nightmares.
His standard standard nightmares: charging Jap infantry and Ruth Mildred Cressmeyer's face. nightmares: charging Jap infantry and Ruth Mildred Cressmeyer's face.
Pete dozed to radio fuzz and wah-wah feedback. He thought he heard Fulo's voice: "Two Car to base, urgent, over."
He jerked awake and snapped his mike on. "Yeah, Fulo."
Fulo clicked on. Traffic noise filtered in behind his voice.
"I have Rolando Cruz and Cesar Salcido in sight. They stopped at a Texaco station and filled up two Coca-Cola bottles with gasoline. They are driving toward the stand rapidly."
"Flagler or 46th?"
"46th Street. Pete, I think they--"
"They're going to torch the cabs. Fulo, you stay behind them, and when they turn into the lot, you box them in. And no shooting, do you understand?" And no shooting, do you understand?"
"Si, I comprende. Ten-four, over."
Pete dumped his headset. He saw Jimmy's nail-topped baseball bat on a shelf above the switchboard.
He grabbed it and ran out to the parking lot. The sky was pitch black and the air oooozed moisture.
Pete swung the bat and worked out some kinks. Headlights bounced down 46th--low, like your classic Cubano hot rod.
Pete crouched by a tiger-striped Merc.
The taco wagon swung into the lot.
Fulo's Chevy glided in sans lights and engine, right behind it.
Rolando Cruz got out. He was packing a Molotov cocktail and matches. He didn't notice Fulo's car-- Pete came up behind him. Fulo flashed his brights and bacidit Cruz plain as day.
Pete swung the bat full-force. It ripped into Cruz and snagged on his ribs.
Cruz screamed.
Fulo piled out of his car. His high beams strafed Cruz, spitting blood and bone chips. Cesar Salcido piled out of the spicmobile, wet-your-pants scared.
Pete yanked the bat free. The Molotov hit the pavement AND DID NOT SHATTER.
Fulo charged Salcido. The taco wagon idled at a high pitch-- good cover noise.
Pete pulled his piece and shot Cruz in the back. The high beams caught Fulo's part of the show.
He's duct-taping Salcido upside the face. He's got the tacowagon trunk wide open. There's dervish-quick Fulo, uncoiling the parking lot hose.
Pete dumped Cruz in the trunk. Fulo nozzle-sprayed his entrails down a sewer hole.
It was dark. Cars cruised up and down Flagler, oblivious to the whole fucking thing.
Pete grabbed the Molotov. Fulo parked his Chevy. He was lipsyncing numbers over and over--Salcido probably spilled the safe-house address.
The taco wagon was metal-flake purple and fur-upholstered--a cherry '58 Impala niggered up.
Fulo took the wheel. Pete got in back. Salcido tried to scream through his gag.
They hauled down Flagler. Fulo yelled an address: 1809 Northwest 53rd. Pete turned on the radio full-blast.
Bobby Darin sang "Dream Lover," earsplitting loud. Pete shot Salcido in the back of the head--exploding teeth ripped the tape off his mouth.
Fulo drove VERY VERY SLOW. Blood dripped off the dashboard and seats.
They gagged on muzzle smoke. They kept the windows up to seal the smell in.
Fulo made left turns and right turns. Fulo made nice directional signals. They drove their coffin wagon out to the Coral Gables Causeway--VERY VERY SLOW.
They found an abandoned mooring dock. It ran thirty yards out into the bay.
It was deserted. No winos, no lovebirds, no late-night fly casters.
They got out. Fulo put the car in neutral and pushed it up on the planks. Pete lit the Molotov and tossed it inside.
They ran.
Flames hit the tank. The Impala exploded. The planking ignited kindling-quick.
The dock whoooshed into one long fireball. Waves lapped up and fizzed against it.
Pete coughed his lungs out. He tasted gunsmoke and swallowed blood off the dead men.
The dock caved in. The Impala sunk down on some reef rocks. Steam hissed off the water for a solid minute.
Fulo caught his breath. "Chuck lives nearby. I have a key to his room, and I know he has equipment we can use."They found suppressor-rigged revolvers and bulletproof vests. They found Chuck's Tiger Kab parked at the curb.
They grabbed the guns and vested up. Pete hot-wired the cab.
Fulo drove a hair too fast. Pete thought of old Ruth Mildred all the way.The house looked decrepit. The door looked un-breakdownable. The place was bracketed by palm groves--the only crib on the block.
The front room lights were on. Gauze curtains covered the window. Shadows stood out well defmed.
They crouched beside the porch, just below the windowsill. Pete made out four shadow shapes and four voices. He pictured four men boozing on a couch FACING THE WINDOW.
Fulo seemed to pick up on his brainwaves. They checked their vests and their guns--four revolvers and twenty-four rounds total.
Pete counted off. They stood up and tired on "three"--straight through the window.
Glass exploded. Silencer thunks faded into screams.
The window went down. The curtains went down. They had real real targets now--Commie spics up against a blood-spattered wall. targets now--Commie spics up against a blood-spattered wall.
The spics were flailing for guns. The spics were wearing shoulder holsters and cross-draw hip rigs.
Pete vaulted the sill. Return fire hit his vest and spun him backward.
Fulo charged. The Commies fired wide; the Commies fired near-death erratic. They got off un-suppressored big-bore pistol shots--tremendously goddamn loud.
A vest deflection sent Fulo spinning. Pete stumbled up to the couch and emptied both his guns at ultraclose range. He notched head hits and neck hits and chest hits, and took in a big gasping breath of gray viscous something-- A diamond ring rolled across the floor. Fulo grabbed it and kissed it.
Pete wiped blood from his eyes. He saw a stack of plasticwrapped bricks by the TV set.
White powder was leaking out. He knew it was heroin.
31
(Miami, 8/30/59)
K Kemper read by the Eden Roc pool. A waiter freshened his coffee every few minutes.
The Herald Herald ran it in banner print: "Four Dead in Cuban Dope War." ran it in banner print: "Four Dead in Cuban Dope War."
The paper reported no witnesses and no leads. The assumed perpetrators were "Rival Cuban Gangs."
Kemper linked events.
John Stanton sends him a report three days ago. It states that President Eisenhower's Cuban-Ops budget has come in way below the requested amount It states that Raul Castro is funding a Miami propaganda drive through heroin sales. It states that a distribution shack/safe house has already been established. It states that the heroin gang includes two ex-Tiger Kab men: Cesar Salcido and Rolando Cruz.
He tells Pete to clear an Agency/cabstand lease deal. He assumes that Jimmy Hoffa will stipulate vengeance on the men who shot up the stand. He knows that Pete will wreak that vengeance with considerable flair.
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 are tough. You can't compete with men who'll go that far. 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."