American tabloid

December 1961-September 1963
72

Agency guys called the place “Suntan U.” Girls in shorts and halter tops five days before Christmas-no shit.

Big Pete wants a woman. Extortion experience preferred, but not mandat-

Boyd said, “Are you listening to me?”

Pete said, “I’m listening, and I’m observing. It’s a nice tour, but the coeds are impressing me more than JM/Wave.”

They cut between buildings. The Ops station was cattycorner to the women’s gym.

“Pete, are you-?”

“You were saying Fulo and Nйstor could run the Cadre business by themselves. You were saying Lockhart went off contract status to start up his own Klan in Mississippi and snitch for the Feds. Chuck’s taking his place at Blessington, and my new gig is funneling guns to Guy Banister in New Orleans. Lockhart’s got some gun connections I can tap into, and Guy’s touting some guy named Joe Milteer, who’s hooked into some guys in the John Birch Society and the Minutemen. They’ve got beaucoup fucking gun money, and Milteer will be dropping some off at the cabstand.”

They hit a shady walkway and grabbed a bench out of the sun. Pete stretched his legs and eyeballed the gym.

“That’s good retention for a bored listener.”

Pete yawned. “JM/Wave and Mongoose are boring. Coastal harassment, gun running and monitoring exile groups is one big snore.”

Boyd straddled the bench. College kids and Cuban hard-ons fraternized two benches over.

“Describe your ideal course of action.”

Pete lit a cigarette. “We should clip Fidel. I’m for it, you’re for it, and the only guys that aren’t for it are your pals Jack and Bobby.”

Boyd smiled. “I’m starting to think we should do it anyway. If we could develop a patsy to take the fall, the hit would probably never be traced back to the Agency or to us.”

“Jack and Bobby would just figure they got lucky.”

Boyd nodded. “I should run it by Santo.”

“I already did.”

“Did he like the idea?”

“Yeah, he did. And he ran it by Johnny Rosselli and Sam G., and they both said they wanted to be in on it.”

Boyd rubbed his collarbone. “You got a quorum just like that?”

“Not exactly. They all like the idea, but it sounds like they’ll need some more convincing.”

“Maybe we should hire Ward Littell to whip up a few briefs. He’s certainly the chief convincer of the moment.”

“You mean you appreciate the way he snowed Carlos and Jimmy.”

“Don’t you?”

Pete blew smoke rings. “I appreciate a good comeback as much as the next man, but I draw the line at Littell. And you’re smiling because your sissy kid brother fmally started acting half-ass competent.”

College girls walked by. Big Pete wants a-

Boyd said, “He’s on our side now, remember?”

“I remember. And I remember that your friend Jack used to be.”

“He still is. And he listens to Bobby like he listens to no one else, and Bobby’s becoming more pro-Cause by the day.”

Pete blew nice concentric rings. “That’s good to know. Maybe it means we’ll tap into our casino money about the time fucking Bobby himself gets elected President.”

Boyd looked distracted. It could be shootout side effects- trauma fucked you up long-range sometimes.

“Kemper, are you listening to-?”

Boyd cut him off. “You were evincing general anti-Kennedy sentiment. You were about to start in on the President, even though he remains our best wedge to get at the casino money, and even though general CIA unpreparedness and not Kennedy cowardice was the major contributing cause of the Bay of Pigs disaster.”

Pete whooped and slapped the bench. “I should have known better than to rag your boys.”

“It’s ‘boy,’ singular.”

“I fucking apologize, although I still don’t see what’s so fucking thrilling about sucking up to the President of the United States.”

Boyd grinned. “It’s the places he lets you go.”

“Like protecting niggers in Meridian, Mississippi?”

“I’ve got Negro blood now. That transfusion I got at Saint Augustine’s came from a colored man.”

Pete laughed. “What you’ve got is a Big White Bwana complex. You’ve got your spooks and your spics, and you’ve got this crazy notion that you’re their southern aristocrat savior.”

Boyd said, “Are you finished?”

Pete clicked his eyes off a tall brunette. “Yeah, I’m finished.”

“Do you feel like rationally discussing a Fidel hit?”

Pete flicked his cigarette at a tree. “My one rational comment is ‘Let Nйstor do it.’”

“I was thinking of Nйstor and two expendable backup shooters.”

“Where do we find them?”

“We look around. You recruit two two-man teams, I recruit one. Nйstor goes with the finalists no matter what.”

Pete said, “Let’s do it.”

o o o

Dougie Frank Lockhart had the far-right South wired. Gun seekers knew the man to call: carrot-topped Dougie in Puckett, Mississippi.

Santo and Carlos kicked in fifty Gs apiece. Pete took the coin and went gun shopping.

Dougie Frank brokered the deals for a 5% commission. He procured A-1 hand-me-downs hot off the race hate circuit.

Lockhart knew his job. Lockhart knew the Dixie Right was reassessing its weaponry needs.

The Commie Threat had mandated major ordnance. Tommy guns, mortars and grenades fit the bill. Feisty niggers now eclipsed the Red Menace-and small arms handled them best.

The Deep South was one big loony yard sale.

Pete traded junk pistols for brand-new bazookas. Pete bought operational Thompsons for fifty scoots a pop. Pete supplied six campsites with half a million rounds of ammunition.

The Minutemen, the National States Rights Party, the National Renaissance Party, the Exalted Knights of the Ku Klux Klan, the Royal Knights of the Ku Klux Klan, the Imperial Knights of the Ku Klux Klan and the Klarion Klan Koalition for the New Konfederacy supplied him. He supplied six exile camps, full of expendable backup killers.

Pete spent three weeks gun shopping. He made five Miami- New Orleans circuits.

The fifty grand evaporated. Heshie Ryskind kicked in an additional twenty. Heshie was scared-his doctors diagnosed him with lung cancer.

Heshie whipped up a camp R amp;R tour to take his mind off his bum health. He brought in Jack Ruby and his strippers, Dick Contino and his accordion.

The strippers stripped and cavorted with exile trainees. Heshie bought entire campsites blow jobs. Dick Contino played “Lady of Spain” six thousand times.

Jimmy Hoffa showed up at the Lake Pontchartrain soiree. Jimmy ranted, railed and raved against the Kennedys nonstop.

Joe Milteer joined the party outside Mobile. He dropped ten grand on the gun fund, unsolicited.

Guy Banister called Old Joe “harmless.” Lockhart said the old boy loved to torch nigger churches.

Pete auditioned backup triggers for the Fidel hit. He laid down his criteria with two simple questions.

Are you an expert marksman?

Would you die to set up Nйstor Chasco’s killshot?

He schmoozed up at least a hundred Cubans. Four men made the cut.

CHINO CROMAJOR:

Bay of Pigs survivor. Willing to detonate Castro with a strip-search-proof enema bomb.

RAFAEL HERNANDEZ-BROWN:

Cigar maker/gunman. Willing to slip the Beard a poison panatella and go up in smoke with the man who raped his tobacco fields.

CESAR RAMOS:

Former Cuban Army cook. Willing to whip up an exploding suckling pig and die at Castro’s Last Supper.

WALTER “JUANITA” CHACON:

Sadistic drag queen. Willing to butt-fuck Fidel and go out orgasmic in exile crossfire.

Memo to Kemper Boyd:

Top my shooters-if you can.