The spics zipped out the red carpet. A little geek brushed it off with a whisk broom.
Two Border Patrol clowns deplaned. The pilot said, "Let him go. Where's he gonna run to?"
Carlos tumbled out of the plane. Carlos ran to the shack, knock-kneed in tight BVDs.
Luis idled the engine. Pete head the bathroom door slam.
Carlos yelled, "ROGERS, WHAT THE FUCK--?"
The window screen popped out. Carlos Marcello squeezed through--and snagged himself bare-assed in the process.The run to the Hilton took an hour. Marcello blasted Bobby Kennedy nonstop.
In English. In straight Italian. In Sicilian dialect. In New Orleans Cajun French patois--not bad for a wop.
Luis detoured by a men's shop. Chuck took down Marcello's sizes and bought him some threads.
Carlos dressed in the car. Little window-squeeze abrasions bloodied up his shirt.
The hotel manager met them at the freight entrance. They freight-lifted up to the penthouse on the QT The manager unlocked the door. One glance said Stanton delivered delivered.
The pad featured three bedrooms, three bathrooms and a rec room lined with slot machines. The living room was Kemper Boyd fantasy size.
The bar was fully stocked. A guinea cold-cut buffet was laid out. The envelope by the cheese tray contained twenty grand and a note.
Pete & Chuck,I'm betting you were able to get ahold of Mr. Marcello. Take good care of him. He's a valuable friend to the Cause.JS Marcello grabbed the money. The manager genuflected. Pete showed him the door and slipped him a C-note.
Marcello snarfed salami and breadsticks. Chuck built a tall Bloody Mary.
Pete paced off the suite. Forty-two yards lengthwise--whoa!
Chuck curled up with a hate mag. Marcello said, "I really had to piss. When you hold a piss that long it pisses you off."
Pete snagged a beer and some crackers. "Stanton's got you a lawyer in D.C. You're supposed to call him."
"I've talked to him already. I've got the best Jew lawyers money can buy, and now I've got him."
"You should call him now and get it over with."
"You call him. And stay on the line in case I need you to translate. Lawyers talk this language I don't always get the first time around."
Pete grabbed the coffee table extension. The hotel operator placed his call.
Marcello picked up the bar phone. The long-distance rings came through faint.
A man said, "Hello?"
Marcello said, "Who's this? Are you that guy I talked to at the Hay-Adams?"
"Yes, this is Ward Littell. Is this Mr. Marcello?"
Pete almost SHIT-- Carlos slumped into a chair. "This is him, calling from Guatemala City, Guatemala, where he does not want to be. Now, if you want to get my attention, say something bad about the man who put me here."
Pete clenched up wicked bad. He covered his mouthpiece so they wouldn't hear him hyperventilate.
Littell said, "I hate that man. He hurt me once, and there is very little that I wouldn't do to cause him discomfort."
Carlos tee-hee-heed--weird for a bass-baritone. "You got my attention. Now, stow that ass-kiss routine you dropped on me before, and say something to convince me you're good at what you do."
Littell cleared his throat. "I specialize in deportation writ work. I was an FBI agent for close to twenty yeas. I'm a good friend of Kemper Boyd, and although I distrust his admiration for the Kennedys, I'm convinced that his devotion to the Cuban Cause supersedes it. He wants to see you safely and legally reunited with your loved ones, and I'm here to see that it happens."
Pete felt queasy. BOYD, YOU FUCK-- Marcello snapped breadsticks. "Kemper said you were ten grand's worth of good. Now, if you deliver like you talk, ten grand's just the start of you and me."
Littell came on servile. "It's an honor to work for you. And Kemper apologizes for your inconvenience. He was tipped off on the raid at the last second, and he didn't think they could pull it off as fast as they did."
Marcello scratched his neck with a breadstick. "Kemper always gets the job done. I've got no complaints against him that can't wait until the next time I see that too-handsome face of his face-to-face. And the Kennedys keestered 49.8% of the American voters, including some good friends of mine, so I don't begrudge him that admiration if it don't fuck with my life and limb."
Littell said, "He'll be pleased to hear that. And you should know that I'm writing up a temporary reinstatement brief that will be reviewed by a three-judge Federal panel. I'll be calling your attorney in New York, and we'll begin devising a long-range legal strategy."
Marcello kicked off his shoes. "Do it. Call my wife and tell her I'm okay, and do whatever you need to do to get me the fuck out of here."
"I will. And I'll be bringing some paperwork down for you to sign. You can expect to see me within seventy-two hours."
Marcello said, "I want to go home."
Pete hung up. Steam hissed out of his ears like he was Donald Fucking Duck.They killed time. The jumbo pad let them kill it separately.
Chucky watched spic TV. King Carlos buzzed his serfs long-distance. Pete fantasized ninety-nine ways to murder Ward Littell.
John Stanton called in. Pete regaled him with the toilet-snatch story. Stanton said the Agency would cover their bribe tab.
Pete said, Boyd fixed Carlos up with a lawyer. Stanton said, I heard he's quite good. Pete almost said, Now I can't kill him.
BOYD, YOU FUCK.
Stanton said the fix was in. Ten grand would buy Carlos a temporary visa. The Guatemalan foreign minister was set to publicly state: Mr. Marcello was was born in Guatemala. His birth certificate is legitimate. Attorney General Kennedy is wrong. Mr. Marcello's origins are in no way ambiguous. born in Guatemala. His birth certificate is legitimate. Attorney General Kennedy is wrong. Mr. Marcello's origins are in no way ambiguous.
Mr. Marcello split to America--legally. Sadly, we have no records to corroborate this. The burden of proof now falls upon Mr. Kennedy.
Stanton said the minister hates Jack the K.
Stanton said Jack fucked his wife and both his daughters.
Pete said, Jack fucked my old girlfriend. Stanton said, Wow-- and you still still helped elect him! helped elect him!
Stanton said, Have Chuck grease the minister. And by the way, Jack's still clicking around on a go-date.
Pete hung up and looked out the window. Guatemala City by twilight--strictly the rat's ass.They all dozed off early. Pete woke up early--a nightmare had him balled up under his sheets, gasping for breath.
Chuck was out on his bribe run. Carlos was on his second cigar.
Pete opened the living-room curtains. He saw a big hubbub down at ground bevel.
He saw a string of trucks at the curb. He saw men with cameras. He saw cables stretching into the lobby.
He saw people gesturing up.
He saw a big movie camera pointing straight up at them.
Pete said, "We're blown."
Carlos dropped his cigar in his hash browns and ran to the window.
Pete said, "The Agency's got a camp an hour from here. If we can find Chuck and fly out, we'll make it.".
Carlos looked down. Carlos saw the ruckus. Carlos pushed his breakfast cart through the window and watched it bullseye down eighteen stories.
65
(Rural Guatemala, 4/8/61)
H Heat shimmied off the runway. Blast-oven heat--Kemper should have warned him to dress light.
Kemper warned him that Bondurant would be there. He hustled Marcello out of Guatemala City three days ago and arranged for the CIA to play innkeeper.
Kemper added a postscript: Pete knows you've got the Fund books.
Littell stepped away from the plane. He felt woozy. His connecting flight from Houston was a World War II transport.
Propeller thwack boosted the heat. The campsite was large and dusty--odd buildings plunked down in a red clay jungle clearing.
A jeep skidded up. The driver saluted.
"Mr. Littell?"
"Yes."
"I'll drive you over, sir. Your friends are waiting for you."
Littell got in. The rearview mirror caught his bold new face.
He had three shots back in Houston. Daytime Daytime shots to help him rise to this one-time occasion. shots to help him rise to this one-time occasion.
The driver peeled out. Troops marched by in strict formation; cadence counts overlapped.
They pulled into a barrack's quadrangle. The driver stopped in front of a small Quonset hut. Littell grabbed his suitcase and walked in ramrod-straight.
The room was air-conditioned. Bondurant and Carlos Marcello stood by a pool table.
Pete winked. Littell winked back. His whole face contorted.
Pete cracked his knuckles--his old intimidation trademark. Marcello said, "What are you, faggots, winking at each other?"
Littell put his suitcase down. The snaps creaked. His surprise had the damn thing bulging.
"How are you, Mr. Marcello?"
"I'm losing money. Every day Pete and my Agency friends treat me better, so every day I end up pledging more money to the Cause. I figure the nut on this hotel's running me twenty-five grand a day."
Pete chalked up a pool cue. Marcello jammed his hands in his pockets.
Kemper warned him: the man does not shake hands.
"I talked to your attorneys in New York a few hours ago. They want to know if you need anything."
Marcello smiled. "I need to kiss my wife on the cheek and fuck my girlfriend. I need to eat some duck Rochambeau at Galatoire's, and I cannot accomplish any of that here."
Bondurant racked up the table. Littell swung his suitcase up and blocked it off lengthwise.
Marcello chuckled. "I'm starting to detect old grief here."
Pete lit a cigarette. Littell caught the exhale full-on.
"I've got a good deal of paperwork for you to review, Mr. Marcello. We'll need to spend some time together and devise a story that details your immigration history, so that Mr. Wasserman can use it when he files his injunction to get your deportation order rescinded. Some very influential people want to see you repatriated, and I'll be working with them as well. I realize that all this unexpected travel must be exhausting, so Kemper Boyd and I are going to arrange for Chuck Rogers to fly you back to Louisiana in a few days and hide you out."
Marcello did a quick little shuffle. The man was deft and fast on his feet.
Pete said, "What happened to your face, Ward?"
Littell opened the suitcase. Pete picked up the 8-ball and cracked it in half barehanded.
Wood chunks snapped and popped. Marcello said, "I'm not sure I like where this is going."
Littell pulled out the Fund books. A quick prayer tamped down his nerves.
"I'm sure you both know that Jules Schiffrin's estate in Lake Geneva was burglarized last November. Some paintings were stolen, along with some ledgers rumored to contain Teamster Pension Fund notations. The thief was an informant for a Chicago-based Top Hoodlum Program agent named Court Meade, and he gave the books to Meade when he realized that the paintings were too well-known and recognizable to sell. Meade died of a heart attack in January, and he willed the books to me. He told me he never showed them to anyone else, and in my opinion he was waiting to sell them to somebody in the Giancana organization. There's a few pages that have been torn out, but aside from that I think they're intact. I brought them to you because I know how close you are to Mr. Hoffa and the Teamsters."
Marcello went slack-jawed. Pete snapped a pool cue in half.
He tore out fourteen pages back in Houston. He had all the Kennedy entries safely stashed.