American tabloid

31

Kemper read by the Eden Roc pool. A waiter freshened his coffee every few minutes.

The Herald 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: Cйsar 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 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.”

“Without divulging the destination of the merchandise.”

They sealed the deal with elliptical rhetoric. He let Stanton think he devised most of the plan.

Kemper skimmed his newspaper. He noticed a page-four banner: “Grisly Causeway Discovery.”

An arsoned Chevy collapses a rickety wooden dock. Rolando Cruz and Cйsar Salcido are along for the dip.

“Authorities believe the killings of Cruz and Salcido may be connected to the slayings of four other Cubans in Coral Gables late last night.”

Kemper flipped back to page one. A single paragraph stood out.

“Although the dead men were rumored to be heroin traffickers, no narcotics were found on the premises.”

Be prompt, Pete. And be as smart and farsighted as I think you are.

o o o

Pete showed up early, carrying a large paper bag. He didn’t check out the women by the pool or walk up with his usual swagger.

Kemper slid a chair out. Pete saw the Herald on the table, folded to the page-one headline.

Kemper said, “You?”

Pete put the bag on the table. “Fulo and me.”

“Both jobs?”

“That’s right.”

“What’s in the bag?”

“Fourteen point six pounds of uncut heroin and a diamond ring.”

Kemper fished the ring out. The stones and gold setting were beautiful.

Pete poured a cup of coffee. “Keep it. To consecrate my marriage to the Agency.”

“Thanks. I may be popping a question with it soon.”

“I hope she says yes.”

“Did Hoffa?”

“Yeah, he did. He put a condition on the deal, which I fucking fulfilled, as I’m sure you already know.”

Kemper nudged the bag. “You could have unloaded it yourself. I wouldn’t have said anything.”

“I’m along for the ride. And for now, I’m enjoying it too much to fuck with your agenda.”

“Which is?”

“Compartmentalization.”

Kemper smiled. “That’s the biggest word I’ve ever heard you use.”

“I read books to teach myself English. I must have read the Webster’s Unabridged Dictionary at least ten times.”

“You’re an immigrant success story.”

“Go fuck yourself. But before you do it, tell me my official CIA duties.”

Kemper twirled the ring. Sunlight made the diamonds twinkle.

“You’ll be nominally running the Blessington campsite. There’s some additional buildings and a landing strip going up, and you’ll be supervising the construction. Your assignment is to train Cuban refugees for amphibious sabotage runs into Cuba, and to funnel them to other training sites, the cabstand and Miami for general gainful employment.”

Pete said, “It sounds too legal.”

Pool water splashed at their feet. His suite upstairs was almost Kennedy-sized.

“Boyd-”

“Eisenhower has given the Agency a tacit mandate to covertly undermine Castro. The Outfit wants their casinos back. Nobody wants a Communist dictatorship ninety miles off the Florida coast.”

“Tell me something I don’t know.”

“Ike’s budget allocation came in a little low.”

“Tell me something interesting.”

Kemper poked the bag. A tiny trace of white powder puffed out

“I have a plan to refmance our part of the Cuban Cause. It’s implicitly Agency-vetted, and I think it will work.”

“I’m getting the picture, but I want to hear you say it.”

Kemper lowered his voice. “We link up with Santo Trafficante. We utilize his narcotics connections and my Cadre as pushers, and sell this dope, Santo’s dope and all the other dope we can get our hands on in Miami. The Agency has access to a poppy farm in Mexico, and we can buy some fresh-processed stuff there and have Chuck Rogers fly it in. We finance the Cause with the bulk of the money, give Trafficante a percentage as operating tribute and send a small percentage of the dope into Cuba with our Blessington men. They’ll distribute it to our on-island contacts, who will sell it and use the money to purchase weapons. Your specific job is to supervise my Cadre and make sure they sell only to Negroes. You make sure my men don’t use the dope themselves, and keep their profit skim at a minimum.”

Pete said, “What’s our percentage?” Pete’s response was utterly predictable.

“We don’t take one. If Trafficante approves my plan, we’ll get something much sweeter.”

“Which you’re not going to talk about now.”

“I’m meeting Trafficante in Tampa this afternoon. I’ll let you know what he says.”

“And in the meantime?”

“If Trafficante says yes, we’ll get going in a week or so. In the meantime, you drive down to Blessington and check things out, meet the Cadre and tell Mr. Hughes that you’ll be taking some prolonged Florida vacations.”

Pete smiled. “He’ll be pissed.”

“You know how to get around that.”

“If I’m working up in Miami, who’s going to run the campsite?”

Kemper got out his address book. “Go see Guy Banister in New Orleans. Tell him we need a tough white man to run the camp, a shitkicker type who can handle the crackers around Blessington. Guy knows every right-wing hardcase on the Gulf Coast. Tell him we need a man who’s not too insane and willing to move to South Florida.”

Pete wrote Banister’s number on a napkin. “You’re convinced all this is going to work?”

“I’m certain. Just pray that Castro doesn’t go pro-U.S.”

“That’s a nice sentiment from a Kennedy man.”

“Jack would appreciate the irony.”

Pete cracked his knuckles. “Jimmy thinks you should tell Jack to put a leash on Bobby.”

“Never. And I want to see Jack elected President, and I will not intercede with the Kennedys to help Hoffa. I keep-”

“-things compartmentalized, I know.”

Kemper held the ring up. “Stanton wants me to help influence Jack’s Cuban policy. We want the Cuban problem to extend, Pete. Hopefully into a Kennedy administration.”

Pete cracked his thumbs. “Jack’s got a nice head of hair, but I don’t see him as President of the United States.”

“Qualifications don’t count All Ike did was invade Europe and look like your uncle.”

Pete stretched. His shirttail slid up over two revolvers.

“Whatever happens, I’m in. This is too fucking big to pass up.”

o o o

His rent-a-car came with a discreet dashboard Jesus. Kemper slipped the ring over its head.

The air conditioner died outside Miami. A radio concert kept his mind off the heat.

A virtuoso played Chopin. Kemper replayed the scene at Pavillon.

Jack played peacemaker and smoothed things out. Old Joe’s freeze thawed out nicely. They stayed for one awkward drink.

Bobby sulked. Ava Gardner was plain flummoxed. She had no idea what the scene meant.

Joe sent him a note the next day. It closed with, “Laura deserves a man with balls.”

Laura said “I love you” that night. He made up his mind to propose to her at Christmas.

He could afford Laura now. He had three paychecks and two full-time hotel suites. He had a low six-figure bank-account balance.

And if Trafficante says yes…

o o o

Trafficante understood abstract concepts.

“Self-budgeted,” “autonomous” and “compartmentalized” amused him.

“Agency-aligned pharmacological sources” made him laugh outright.

He wore a nubby-weave silk suit. His office was turned out in blond-wood Danish modern.

He loved Kemper’s plan. He grasped its political thrust immediately.

The meeting extended. A yes-man served anisette and pastry.

Their conversation veered in odd directions. Trafficante critiqued the Big Pete Bondurant myth. The paper bag by Kemper’s feet went unmentioned.

The yes-man served espresso and Courvoisier VSOP. Kemper marked the moment with a bow.

“Raul Castro sent this in, Mr. Trafficante. Pete and I want you to have it, as a symbol of our good faith.”

Trafficante picked up the bag. He smiled at the weight and gave it a few little squeezes.

Kemper swirled his brandy. “If Castro is eliminated as a direct or indirect result of our efforts, Pete and I will insure that your contribution is recognized. More importantly, we’ll try to convince the new Cuban ruler to allow you, Mr. Giancana, Mr. Marcello and Mr. Rosselli to regain control of your casinos and build new ones.”

“And if he refuses?”

“We’ll kill him.”

“And what do you and Pete want for all your hard work?”

“If Cuba is liberated, we want to split 5% of the profits from the Capri and Nacional Hotel casinos in perpetuity.”

“Suppose Cuba stays Communist?”

“Then we get nothing.”

Trafficante bowed. “I’ll talk to the other boys, and of course, my vote is ‘Yes.’”