American Tabloid - American Tabloid Part 61
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American Tabloid Part 61

Pete chained cigarettes. Dougie Frank and Chuck bummed a whole pack off of him.

A Klan guy was hosing off the Piper. Pete and Chuck shared a reeeeealllly long look.

Dougie Frank jammed their wavelength. "Can I go, too?"Diversionary dips got them close. They caught the Bay of Pigs in tight and ugly.

They saw a supply ship snagged on a reef. They saw dead men flopping out of a hole in the hull. They saw sharks bobbing at body parts twenty yards offshore.

Chuck swung around and made a second pass. Pete bumped the control panel. The extra passenger had them cramped in extra tight.

They saw beached landing craft. They saw live men climbing over dead men. They saw a hundred-yard stretch of bodies in bright-red shallow water.

The invaders kept coming. Flamethrowers nailed them the second they hit the wave break. They got flash-fried and boiled alive.

Fifty-odd rebels were shackled facedown in the sand. A Cornmie with a chainsaw was running across their backs.

Pete saw the blade drag. Pete saw the blood gout. Pete saw their heads roll into the water.

Flames jumped up at the plane--short by inches.

Chuck pulled off his headset. "I picked up an Ops call! Kennedy says, 'No second air strike,' and he says he won't send in any U.S. troops to help our guys!"

Pete aimed his Magnum out the window. A flame clap spun it out of his hand.

Sharks were churning up the water right below them. This fat Commie fuck waved a severed head.

68

(Rural Guatemala, 4/18/61)

T Their room adjoined the radio hut. Invasion updates seeped through the walls uninvited.

Marcello tried to sleep. Littell tried to study deportation law.

Kennedy refused to order a second air strike. Rebel soldiers were captured and slaughtered on the beach.

Reserve troops were chanting "PIGS! PIGS! PIGS! PIGS! PIGS!" That silly word roared through the barracks quadrangle.

Right-wing dementia: mildly distracting. Mildly gratifying: a detectable rise in contempt for John F Kennedy.

Littell watched Marcello toss and turn. He was bunking with a Mafia chieftain--mildly amazing.

His charade worked. Carlos scanned ledger columns and recognized his own Fund transactions. His indebtedness increased exponentially.

Carlos was accruing large legal debts. Carlos owed his safety to a reformed FBI crirnebuster.

Guy Banister called this morning. He said he picked up some straight dope: Bobby Kennedy knows that Carlos is really hiding out in Guatemala.

Bobby applied diplomatic pressure. The Guatemalan prime minister kowtowed. Carlos would be deported, "but not swiftly."

Banister used to call him a weak sister. His phone manner was near-deferential now.

Marcello started snoring. He was drooping off his army cot in monogrammed silk pajamas.

Littell heard shouts and banging noises next door. He formed a picture: men slapping desks and kicking odd inanimate objects.

"It's a washout"/"That vacillating chickenshit"/"He won't send in planes or ships to shell the beach,"

Littell walked outside. The troopers, worked up a new chant.

"KEN-NEDY, DON'T SAY NO! KEN-NEDY, LET US GO!"

They bounced around the quad. They swigged straight gin and vodka. They gobbled pills and kicked apothecary jars like soccer balls.

The case officers' lounge had been looted. The dispensary door had been trampled to pulp.

"KEN-NEDY, LET US GO! KEN-NEDY IS A PU-TO!"

Littell stepped inside and grabbed the wall phone. Twelve coded digits got him Tiger Kab direct.

A man said, "Si? cabstand."

"I'm looking for Kemper Boyd. Tell him it's Ward Littell."

"Si. One second."

Littell unbuttoned his shirt--the humidity was awful. Carlos mumbled through a bad dream.

Kemper picked up. "What is it, Ward?"

"What is it with you? You sound anxious."

"There's riots all over the Cuban section, and the invasion isn't going our way. Ward, what is--?"

"I got word that the Guatemalan government's looking for Carlos. Bobby Kennedy knows he's here, and I think I should move him again."

"Do it. Rent an apartment outside Guatemala City, and call me with the phone number. I'll have Chuck Rogers meet you there and fly you someplace more removed. Ward, I can't talk now. Call me when--"

The line went dead. Overtaxed circuits--mildly annoying. Mildly amusing: Kemper C. Boyd mildly flustered.

Littell walked outside. The chants were a good deal more than mildly pissed-off.

"KEN-NEDY IS A PU-TO! KEN-NEDY FEARS Fl-DEL CAS-TRO!"

69

(Miami, 4/18/61)

K Kemper mixed the dope. Nestor mixed the poison. They worked on two desks jammed together.

They had the dispatch hut to themselves. Fulo shut down Tiger Kab at 6:00 p.m. and gave the drivers strict orders: Visit riot scenes and maim Fidelistos.

Kemper and Nestor kept working. Their hotshot assembly line moved slowly.

They mixed strychnine and Drano into a heroin-like white powder. They packaged it in single-pop plastic bindles.

They played their short-wave set. Awful death tallies sputtered in.

Hush-Hush Hush-Hush went to press yesterday. Lenny called him for details. The piece described a resounding Bay of Pigs victory. went to press yesterday. Lenny called him for details. The piece described a resounding Bay of Pigs victory.

Jack could still still force a win. The ODs would defame Castro, WIN OR LOSE. force a win. The ODs would defame Castro, WIN OR LOSE.

They B&E'd the drop house two days ago--a little safety-first trial run. They found two hundred "H" bindles stashed behind a heating panel.

Don Juan Pimentel fed them straight information. His death eliminated witness testimony.

Nestor cooked up a shot. Kemper loaded a syringe and testfired it.

A milky liquid squirted out. Nestor said, "It looks believable. I think it will fool the negritos who buy it."

"Let's go by the house. We have to make the switch tonight."

"Yes. And we must pray that President Kennedy acts more boldly."A rainstorm pushed the riot action indoors. Prowl cars were double-parked outside half the nightclubs on and off Flagler.

They drove to a pay phone. Nestor dialed the drop pad and got an extended dial tone. The house was two blocks away.

They circled by it. The street was middle-class Cubano--small cribs with small front yards and toys on the lawn.

The drop pad was peach-stucco Spanish. It was late-night quiet and nonsecurity dark.

No lights. No cars in the driveway. No TV shadows bouncing out the front window.

Kemper packed at the curb. No doors opened; no window curtains opened or retracted.

Nestor checked their suitcase. "The back door?"

"I don't want to risk it again. The lock mechanism almost splintered last time."

"How do you expect to get in, then?"

Kemper pulled his gloves on. "There's a dog-access door built into the kitchen door. You scoot down, reach in, and pop the inside latch."

"Dog doors mean dogs."

"There was no dog last time."

"Last time does not mean this time."

"Fulo and Teo surveilled the place. They're sure there's no dog."

Nestor slipped gloves on. "Okay, then."

They walked up the driveway. Kemper checked their blind side every few seconds. Low-hanging storm clouds provided extra cover.

The door was perfect for large dogs and small men. Nestor scooted down and pulled himself into the house.

Kemper worked his gloves on extra-snug. Nestor opened the door from the inside.

They locked up. They took off their shoes. They walked through the kitchen to the heat panel. They took three steps straight ahead and four to the right--Kemper paced off exact measurements last time.

Nestor held the flashlight. Kemper removed the panel. The bindles were stashed in the identical position.

Nestor re-counted them. Kemper opened up the suitcase and got out the Polaroid.

Nestor said, "Two hundred exactly." Kemper shot a re-creation closeup.

They waited. The picture popped out of the camera.

Kemper taped it to the wall and held the flashlight on it. Nestor switched bindles. He duplicated the arrangement all the way down to tiny tucks and folds.

They sweated up the floor. Kemper swabbed it dry.

Nestor said, "Let's call Pete and see how things stand."

Kemper said, "It's out of our hands."

Please, Jack--They agreed on a through-to-dawn car stakeout. Local residents parked on the street--Nestor's Impala wouldn't look out of place.

They slid their seats back and watched the house. Kemper fantasized Jack Saves Face scenarios.