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Bissell stabbed the air Kennedy-style. “Your morale is high, and that’s damn good. There’s also some pretty damn high morale inside Cuba, and I would have to say that right now that morale is running about three or four brigade’s worth. I’m referring to onisland Cubans just waiting for you to establish a beachhead and show them the way to Fidel Castro’s parlor.”

“You men, and many other men, are going to invade and recapture your homeland. You are going to link with anti-Castro forces living on-island and depose Fidel Castro. We have close to sixteen hundred troops now stationed in Guatemala, Nicaragua and along the Gulf Coast, ready to be launched from coastal installations. You are among those troops. You are a crack unit which will see action. You will be backed by surplus B-26s and escorted to your homeland by a task force of U.S. Navy supply boats. You will succeed. You will spend Christmas with your loved ones in a liberated Cuba.”

Pete gave the signal. A forty-four-gun salute shocked Bissell speechless.

o o o

Stanton threw a lunch at the Breakers Motel. The guest list was White Men Only: Pete, Bissell, Boyd, Chuck Rogers.

Santo Junior owned the place. Blessington men dined and drank on the cuff. The coffee shop served starchy wop food- strictly shitsville.

They hogged a choice window table. Bissell hogged the conversation-nobody could squeeze a word in. Pete sat down next to Boyd and picked at a plate of linguine.

Chuck handed out beers. Boyd passed Pete a note.

I like Chasco. He’s got that “Don’t underestimate me because I’m puny” look that I associate with W.J. Littell. Can we send him in to shoot Fidel?

Pete scribbled up his napkin.

Let’s have him shoot Fidel amp; WJL. Jimmy’s scared amp; pissed because his Fund books got clouted amp; we’re the only ones who know who did it. Can’t we do something about it?

Boyd wrote NO on his menu. Pete laughed out loud.

Bissell took offense. “Did I say something funny, Mr. Bondurant?”

“No, sir. You didn’t.”

“I didn’t think so. I was saying that President Kennedy has been briefed several times, but he still won’t commit to an invasion date, which I don’t find amusing at all.”

Pete poured himself a beer. Stanton said, “Mr. Dulles describes the President as ‘enthusiastic, but cautious.’”

Bissell smiled. “Our secret weapon is Mr. Boyd here. He’s our Kennedy confidante, and I imagine that if push came to shove, he could reveal his covert Agency standing, and then overtly advocate our invasion plan.”

Pete froze the moment: Boyd about to lose it six ways from Sunday.

Stanton stepped in. “Mr. Bissell’s joking, Kemper.”

“I know that. And I know that he understands how complex our alliances have become.”

Bissell fingered his napkin. “I do, Mr. Boyd. And I know how generous Mr. Hoffa, Mr. Marcello and a few other Italian gentlemen have been to the Cause, and I know that you possess a certain amount of influence in the Kennedy camp. And as the President’s chief Cuban-issue liaison, I also know that Fidel Castro and Communism are a good deal worse than the Mafia, although I wouldn’t dream of asking you to intercede on our friends’ behalf, because it might cost you credibility with your sacred Kennedys.”

Stanton dropped his soup spoon. Pete let a big breath out eeeasy.

Boyd put out a big shit-eating grin. “I’m glad you feel that way, Mr. Bissell. Because if you did ask me, I’d have to tell you to go fuck yourself.”