American tabloid

13

Pete pulled up to the cabstand. A mango splattered on his windshield.

The street was void of tiger cars and tiger riffraff. Placard wavers prowled the sidewalk, armed with bags full of too-ripe fruit.

Jimmy called him in L.A. yesterday. He said, “Earn your five fucking percent. The Kennedy bug went down, but you still owe me. My Cubans have been batshit since Castro took over. You go to Miami and restore fucking order and you can keep your five fucking-”

Somebody yelled, “Viva Fidel!” Somebody yelled, “Castro, el grande puto communisto! “ A garbage war erupted two doors down: kids tossing fat red pomegranates.

Pete locked his car and ran into the hut. A redneck type was working the switchboard, solo.

Pete said, “here’s Fulo?”

The geek yuk-yuk-yukked. “The trouble with this operation is half the guys are pro-Batista and half the guys are pro-Castro. You just can’t get guys like that to show up for work when there’s a nifty riot in progress, so here I am all by myself.”

“I said, ‘Where’s Fulo?’

“Working this switchboard is an education. I’ve been getting these calls asking me where the action is and ‘What should I bring?’ I like Cubans, but I think they’re prone to untoward displays of violence.”

The geek was cadaver thin. He had a bad Texas drawl and the world’s worst set of teeth.

Pete cracked his knucldes. “Why don’t you tell me where Fulo is.”

“Fulo went looking for action, and my guess is he brought his machete. And you’re Pete Bondurant, and I’m Chuck Rogers. I’m a good friend of Jimmy and some boys in the Outfit, and I am a dedicated opponent of the worldwide Communist conspiracy.”

A garbage bomb wobbled the front window. Two lines of placard wavers squared off outside.

The phone rang. Rogers plugged the call in. Pete wiped pomegranate seeds off his shirt.

Rogers unhooked his headset. “That was Fulo. He said if ‘el jefe Big Pete’ got in, he should go by his place and give him a hand with something. I think it’s 917 Northwest 49th. That’s three blocks to the left, two to the right.”

Pete dropped his suitcase. Rogers said, “So who do you like, the Beard or Batista?”

o o o

The address was a peach stucco shack. A Tiger Kab with four slashed tires blocked the porch.

Pete climbed over it and knocked. Fulo cracked the door and slid a chain off.

Pete shoved his way in. He saw the damage straight off: two spics wearing party hats, muerto on the living-room floor.

Fulo locked up. “We were celebrating, Pedro. They called my beloved Fidel a true Marxist, and I took offense at this slander.”

He shot them in the back at point-blank range. Small-bore exit wounds-the cleanup wouldn’t be that big a deal.

Pete said, “Let’s get going on this.”

o o o

Fulo smashed their teeth to powder. Pete burned their fingerprints off on a hot plate.

Fulo dug the spent rounds out of the wall and flushed them down the toilet. Pete quick-scorched the floor stains-spectograph tests would read negative.

Fulo pulled down the living-room drapes and wrapped them around the bodies. The exit wounds had congealed-no blood seeped through.

Chuck Rogers showed up. Fulo said he was competent and trustworthy. They dumped the stiffs into the trunk of his car.

Pete said, “Who are you?”

Chuck said, “I’m a petroleum geologist. I’m also a licensed pilot and a professional anti-Communist.”

“So who foots the bill?”

Chuck said, “The United States of America.”

o o o

Chuck felt like cruising. Pete co-signed the notion-Miami grabbed his gonads like L.A. used to.

They cruised. Fulo tossed the bodies off a deserted stretch of the Bal Harbor Causeway. Pete chain-smoked and dug the scenery.

He liked the big white houses and the big white sky-Miami was one big shiny bleach job. He liked the breathing room between swank districts and slums. He liked the shitkicker cops out prowling-they looked like they’d be hell on rambunctious niggers.

Chuck said, “Castro’s ideological beliefs are up in the air. He’s made statements that can be construed as very pro-U.S. and very pro-Red. My friends in the intelligence community are working on plans to cornhole him if he goes Commie.”

They drove back to Flagler. Armed men were guarding the cabstand-off-duty fuzz with that fat-and-sassy look.

Chuck waved to them. “Jimmy takes good care of the police contingent around here. He’s got this phantom union set up, and half the cops working this sector have got nice no-show jobs and nice paychecks.”

A kid slammed a leaflet on their windshield. Fulo translated odd slogans-Commie-type platitudes all.

Rocks hit the car. Pete said, “This is too crazy. Let’s go stash Fulo someplace.”

o o o

Rogers leased a room in an all-spic boardinghouse. Radio gear and hate leaflets covered every spare inch of floor space.

Fulo and Chuck relaxed with beers. Pete skimmed pamphlet tities and got a good laugh mojo going.

“Kikes Kontrol Kremlin!” “Fluoridation: Vatican Plot?” “Red Stormclouds Brewing-One Patriot’s Response.” “Why NonCaucasians Overbreed: A Scientist Explains.” “Pro-American Checldist: Do You Score RED or Red, White and Blue?”

Fulo said, “Chuck, it is rather crowded in here.”

Rogers futzed with a short-wave receiver. A hate tirade kicked in: Jew bankers, blah blah.

Pete hit a few switches. The rant sputtered out cold.

Chuck smiled. “Politics is something you come around to slow. You can’t expect to understand the world situation immediately.”

“I should introduce you to Howard Hughes. He’s as crazy as you are.”

“You think anticommunism is crazy?”

“I think it’s good for business, and anything that’s good for business is okay with me.”

“I don’t think that’s a very enlightened attitude.”

“Think what you like.”

“I will. And I know you’re thinking, ‘Holy Hannah, who is this guy that’s my fellow murder-one accessory, because we sure have shared some unusual experiences in our short acquaintance.’”

Pete leaned against the window. He caught a little blip of a prowl car half a block down.

“My guess is you’re a CIA contract hand. You’re supposed to get next to the Cubans at the stand while everybody waits to see how Castro jumps.”

Fulo came on indignant. “Fidel will jump toward the United States of America.”

Chuck laughed. “Immigrants make the best Americans. You should know, huh, Pete? Aren’t you some kind of frog?”

Pete popped his thumbs. Rogers flinched.

“You just make like I’m a 100% American who knows what’s good for business.”

“Whoa now. I never doubted your patriotism.”

Pete heard whispers outside the door. Looks circulated-Chuck and Fulo caught the gist quick. Pete heard shotgun announcement noise: three loud and clear breach-to-barrel pumps.

He dropped his piece behind some pamphlets. Fulo and Chuck put their hands up.

Plainclothesmen kicked the door down. They ran in with shotgun butts at high port arms.

Pete went down behind a powder-puff shot. Fulo and Chuck played it rugged and got beaten skull-cracking senseless.

A cop said, “The big guy’s faking.” A cop said, “We can fix that.”

Rubber-padded gun butts slammed him. Pete curled up his tongue so he wouldn’t bite it off.

o o o

He came to cuffed and shackled. Chair slats gouged his back; percussion bopped him upside his brain.

Light hit his eyes. One eye only-tissue flaps cut his sight in half. He made out three cops sitting around a bolted-down table.

Snare drums popped behind his ears. A-bombs ignited up and down his spine.

Pete flexed his arms and snapped his handcuff chain.

Two cops whistled. One cop applauded.

They’d double-manacled his ankles-he couldn’t give them an encore.

The senior cop crossed his legs. “We got an anonymous tip, Mr. Bondurant. One of Mr. Machado’s neighbors saw Mr. Adolfo Herendon and Mr. Armando Cruz-MartIn enter Mr. Machado’s house, and he heard what might have been shots several hours later. Now, a few hours after that, you and Mr. Rogers arrive separately. The two of you and Mr. Machado leave carrying two large bundles wrapped in window curtains, and the neighbor gets Mr. Rogers’ license number. We checked Mr. Rogers’ car, and we noticed some debris that looks like skin fragments, and we certainly would like to hear your comments on all of this.”

Pete stuck his eyebrow back in place. “Charge me or release me. You know who I am and who I know.”

“We know you know Jimmy Hoffa. We know you’re pals with Mr. Rogers, Mr. Machado and some other Tiger Kab drivers.”

Pete said, “Charge me or release me.” The cop tossed cigarettes and matches on his lap.

Cop #2 leaned in close. “You probably think Jimmy Hoffa’s bought off every policeman in this town, but son, I’m here to tell you that simply ain’t the case.”

“Charge me or release me.”

“Son, you are trying my patience.”

“I’m not your son, you cracker faggot.”

“Boy, that kind of talk will get your face slapped.”

“If you slap me, I’ll go for your eyes. Don’t make me prove it.”

Cop #3 came on soft. “Whoa, now, whoa. Mr. Bondurant, you know we can hold you for seventy-two hours without charging you. You know you’ve probably got a concussion and could use some medical attention. Now, why don’t you-”

“Give me my phone call, then charge me or release me.”

The senior cop laced his hands behind his head. “We let your friend Rogers make a call. He fed the jailer some cock-and-bull story about having government connections and called a Mr. Stanton. Now, who are you gonna call-Jimmy Hoffa? You think Uncle Jimmy’s gonna go your bail on a double-homicide charge and maybe engender all kinds of bad publicity that he doesn’t need?”

An A-bomb blast hit his neck. Pete almost blacked out.

Cop #2 sighed. “This boy’s too woozy to cooperate. Let’s let him rest up a bit.”

o o o

He passed out, woke up, passed out. His headache subsided from A-bomb to nitroglycerine.

He read wall scratchings. He swiveled his neck to stay limber. He broke the world’s record for holding a piss.

He broke down the situation.

Fulo cracks or Fulo doesn’t crack. Chuck cracks or Chuck doesn’t. Jimmy buys them bail or lets them swing. Maybe the DA gets smart: spic-on-spic homicides rate bubkes.

He could call Mr. Hughes. Mr. Hughes could nudge Mr. Hoover-which meant case fucking closed.

He told Hughes he’d be gone three days. Hughes agreed to the trip, no questions asked. Hughes agreed because the Kennedy shakedown backfired. Joe and Bobby shrunk his balls down to peanut size.

And Ward J. Littell slapped him.

Which decreed the cocksucker’s death sentence.

Gail was gone. The Jack K. gig went pffftt. Hoffa’s Kennedy hate sizzled-hot, hot, hot. Hughes was still gossip/smear crazed and hot to find a new Hush-Hush stringer.

Pete read wall musings. The Academy Award winner: “Miami PD Sucks Rhino Dick.”

Two men walked in and pulled chairs up. A jailer unshackled his legs and walked out fast.

Pete stood up and stretched. The interrogation room dipped and swayed.

The younger man said, “I’m John Stanton, and this is Guy Banister. Mr. Banister is retired FBI, and he was assistant superintendent of the New Orleans Police for a spell.”

Stanton was slight and sandy-haired. Banister was big and booze-flushed.

Pete lit a cigarette. Inhaling torqued his headache. “I’m listening.”

Banister grinned. “I remember that civil rights trouble of yours. Kemper Boyd and Ward Littell arrested you, didn’t they?”

“You know they did.”

“I used to be the Chicago SAC, and I always thought Littell was a weak sister.”

Stanton straddled his chair. “But Kemper Boyd’s another matter. You know, Pete, he went by the Tiger stand and showed your mug shot around. One of the men pulled a knife, and Boyd disarmed him in a rather spectacular fashion.”

Pete said, “Boyd’s a stylish guy. And this is starting to play like some kind of audition, so I’ll tell you that I’d recommend him for just about any kind of law-enforcement work.”

Stanton smiled. “You’re not a bad audition prospect yourself.”

Banister smiled. “You’re a licensed private investigator. You’re a former deputy sheriff. You’re Howard Hughes’ man, and you know Jimmy Hoffa, Fulo Machado and Chuck Rogers. Those are stylish credentials.”

Pete stubbed his cigarette out on the wall. “The CIA’s not so bad, as credentials go. That’s who you are, right?”

Stanton stood up. “You’re free to go. No charges will be filed on you, Rogers or Machado.”

“But you’ll be keeping in touch?”

“Not exactly. But I may ask a favor of you one day. And of course, you’ll be well paid for it.”