American tabloid

24

The plane taxied in. Pete got out his passport and a fat roll of ten-spots.

The passport was Canadian, and CIA-forged.

Militiamen hit the runway. The Cuban fuzz tapped all the Key West flights for handouts.

Boyd called him two days ago. He said John Stanton and Guy Banister dug that old Big Pete panache. Boyd had just signed on with the Agency. He said he had a tailor-made Big Pete job, which might prove to be a CIA audition run.

He said, “You fly from Key West to Havana under a Canadian passport. You speak French-accented English. You find out where Santo Trafficante is and take delivery of a note from him. The note should be addressed to Carlos Marcello, Johnny Rosselli and Sam Giancana, et al. It should state that Trafficante advises no Mob retaliation against Castro for nationalizing the casinos. You’re also to locate a very frightened United Fruit executive named Thomas Gordean and bring him back with you for debriefing. This has to be accomplished very soon-Castro and Ike are set to permanently cancel all commercial flights running from the U.S. to Cuba.”

Pete said, “Why me?”

Boyd said, “Because you can handle yourself. Because the cabstand gave you a crash course in Cubans. Because you’re not a known Mob man that Castro’s secret police might have a file on.”

Pete said, “What’s the pay?”

Boyd said, “Five thousand dollars. And if you’re detained, the same diplomatic courier who’s trying to get Trafficante and some other Americans out will arrange for your release. It’s just a matter of time before Castro releases all foreign nationals.”

Pete wavered. Boyd said, “You’ll also receive my personal promise that Ward Littell-a very disturbed and dangerous man- will never touch you. In fact, I set you up with Lenny Sands to buffer the two of you.”

Pete laughed.

Boyd said, “If the Cuban cops roust you, tell the truth.”

The doors opened. Pete stuck a ten-dollar bill inside his passport. Militiamen climbed into the plane.

They wore mismatched gun belts and carried odd pistols. Their shirt-front regalia was straight out of some Kellogg’s Corn Flakes box.

Pete squeezed up toward the cockpit. Arc lights strafed the doorways and windows. He walked down the ramp ducking blinding goddamn glare.

A guard snatched his passport. The ten-spot disappeared. The guard bowed and handed him a beer.

The other passengers filed out. Militia geeks checked their passports for tips and came up empty.

The boss guard shook his head. His minions confiscated purses and wallets. A man protested and tried to hold on to his billfold.

The spics laid him out prone on the runway. They cut his trousers off with razor blades and picked his pockets clean.

The other passengers quit squawking. The boss guard rifled through their stuff.

Pete sipped beer. Some guards walked up with their hands out.

He greased them, one ten-spot per hand. He goofed on their uniforms: lots of frayed khaki and epaulets like the ushers at Grauman’s Chinese.

A little spic waved a camera. “You play futbol, hombre? Hey, big man, you play futbol?”

Somebody lobbed a football. Pete caught it one-handed. A flashbulb popped right upside his face.

Get the picture? They want you to pose.

He crouched low and waved the ball like Johnny Unitas. He went deep for a pass, blocked an invisible lineman and bounced the ball off his head like a nigger soccer ace he saw on TV once.

The spics clapped. The spics cheered. Flashbulbs pop-pop-popped.

Somebody yelled, “Hey, eees Robert Mitchum!”

Peasant types ran out on the runway, waving autograph books. Pete ran for a taxi stand by the gate.

Little kids urged him on. Cab doors opened, presto chango.

Pete dodged an oxcart and piled into an old Chevy. The driver said, “Joo are not Robert Mitchum.”

o o o

They cruised Havana. Animals and street riffraff clogged traffic. They never got above ten miles an hour.

It was 92 degrees at 10:00 p.m. Half the geeks out on the stroll wore fatigues and full Jesus Christ beards.

Dig those whitewashed Spanish-style buildings. Dig the posters on every facade: Fidel Castro smiling, Fidel Castro shouting, Fidel Castro waving a cigar.

Pete flashed the snapshot Boyd gave him. “Do you know this man?”

The driver said, “Sн It is Mr. Santo Junior. He is in custody at the Nacional Hotel.”

“Why don’t you take me there.”

Pancho hung a U-turn. Pete saw hotel row up ahead-a line of half-assed skyscrapers facing the beach.

Lights sparkled down on the water. A big stretch of glow lit the waves up turquoise blue.

The cab pulled up to the Nacional. Bellboys swooped down- clowns in threadbare tuxedos. Pete whipped a ten-spot on the driver-the fuck almost wept.

The bellboys stuck their hands out. Pete lubed them at the rate of ten scoots per. A cordon pushed him into the casino.

The joint was packed. Commies dug capitalisto-style gambling.

The croupiers wore shoulder holsters. Militia geeks ran the blackjack table. The clientele was 100% beaner.

Goats roamed free. Dogs splashed in a crap table filled with water. Dig the floorshow back by the slot machines: an Airedale and a Chihuahua fucking.

Pete grabbed a bellboy and yelled in his ear. “Santo Trafficante. You know him?”

Three hands appeared. Three tens went out. Somebody pushed him into an elevator.

Fidel Castro’s Cuba should be renamed Nigger Heaven.

The elevator zoomed up. A militiaman opened the door gun first.

Dollar bills dripped out of his pockets. Pete added a ten-spot. The gun disappeared, rбpidamente.

“Did you wish to enter custody, seсor? The fee is fifty dollars a day.”

“What does that include?”

“It includes a room with a television, gounnet food, gambling and women. You see, American passport holders are being temporarily detained here in Cuba, and Havana itself is momentarily unsafe. Why not enjoy your detention in luxury?”

Pete flashed his passport. “I’m Canadian.”

“Yes. And of French distraction, I can tell.”

Steam trays lined the hallway. Bellboys pushed cocktail carts by. A goat was taking a shit on the carpet two doors down.

Pete laughed. “Your guy Castro’s some innkeeper.”

“Yes. Even Mr. Santo Trafficante Jr. concedes that there are no four-star jails in America.”

“I’d like to see Mr. Trafficante.”

“Please follow me, then.”

Pete fell in step. Boozed-out gringo fat cats careened down the hallway. The guard pointed out custody high spots.

Suite 2314 featured stag films screened on a bedsheet. Suite 2319 featured roulette, craps and baccarat. Suite 2329 featured naked hookers on call. Suite 2333 featured a live lesbian peep show. Suite 2341 featured suckling pigs broiled on a spit. Suites 2350 through 2390 comprised a full-size golf driving range.

A spic caddy squeezed by them schlepping clubs. The guard clicked his heels outside 2394.

“Mr. Santo, you have a visitor!”

Santo Trafficante Jr. opened the door.

He was fortyish and pudgy. He wore nubby-silk Bermuda shorts and glasses.

The guard scooted off. Trafficante said, “The two things I hate most are Communists and chaos.”

“Mr. Trafficante, I’m-”

“I’ve got eyes. Four, in fact. You’re Pete Bondurant, who clips guys for Jimmy. Some six-foot-six gorilla knocks on my door and acts servile, I put two and two together.”

Pete walked into the room. Trafficante smiled.

“Did you come to bring me back?”

“No.”

“Jimmy sent you, right?”

“No.”

“Mo? Carlos? I’m so fucking bored I’m playing guessing games with a six-foot-six gorilla. Hey, what’s the difference between a gorilla and a nigger?”

Pete said, “Nothing?”

Trafficante sighed. “You heard it already, you hump. My father killed a guy once who spoiled one of his punch lines. Maybe you’ve heard of my father?”

“Santo Trafficante Senior?”

“Salud, Frenchman. Jesus, I’m so fucking bored I’m playing one-up with a gorilla.”

Pig grease spattered out a cooling vent The pad was furnished modern-ugly-lots of fucked-up color combos.

Trafficante scratched his balls. “So who sent you?”

“A CIA man named Boyd.”

“The only CIA guy I know is a redneck named Chuck Rogers.”

“I know Rogers.”

Trafficante shut the door. “I know you know him. I know the whole story of you and the cabstand, and you and Fulo and Rogers, and I know stories about you that I bet you wished I didn’t know. You know how I know? I know because everybody in this life of ours likes to talk. And the only fucking saving grace is that none of us talks to people outside the life.”

Pete looked out the window. The ocean glowed turquoise blue way past the buoy line.

“Boyd wants you to write a note to Carlos Marcello, Sam Giancana and Johnny Rosselli. The note’s supposed to say that you recommend no reprisals against Castro for nationalizing the casinos. I think the Agency’s afraid the Outfit will go off half-cocked and screw up their own Cuban plans.”

Trafficante grabbed a scratch pad and pen off the TV. He wrote fast and enunciated clearly.

“Dear Premier Castro, you Commie dog turd. Your revolution is a crock of Commie shit. We paid you good money to let us keep our casinos running if you took over, but you took our money and fucked us up the brown trail until we bled. You are a bigger piece of shit than that faggot Bobby Kennedy and his faggot McClellan Committee. May you personally get syphilis of the brain and the dick, you Commie cocksucker, for fucking up our beautiful Nacional Hotel.”

Golf balls ricocheted down the hallway. Trafficante flinched and held the note up.

Pete read it. Santo Junior delivered-nice, neat, grammatical.

Pete tucked the note in his pockets “Thanks, Mr. Trafficante.”

“You’re fucking welcome, and I can tell you’re surprised that I can write and say two different things at the same time. Now, you tell your Mr. Boyd that that promise is good for one year and no more. Tell him we’re all swimming in the same stream as far as Cuba goes, so it’s in our best interest not to piss in his face.”

“He’ll appreciate it.”

“Appreciate, shit. If you appreciated, you’d take me back with you.”

Pete checked his watch. “I’ve only got two Canadian passports, and I’m supposed to bring back a United Fruit man.”

Trafficante picked up a golf club. “Then I can’t complain. Money’s money, and United Fruit’s tapped more out of Cuba than the Outfit ever did.”

“You’ll get out soon. Some courier’s working on getting all the Americans out.”

Trafficante lined up a make-believe putt. “Good. And I’ll set you up with a guide. He’ll drive you around and take you and the UP man to the airport. He’ll rob you before he drops you off, but that’s as good as the help gets with these fucking Reds in power.”

o o o

A croupier supplied directions to the house-Tom Gordean threw a torch party there just last week. Jesъs the guide said Mr. Tom burned a mean cane field-he was hot to revamp his fascisto image.

Jesъs wore jungle fatigues and a baseball cap. He drove a Volkswagen with a hood-mounted machine gun.

They took dirt roads out of Havana. Jesъs steered with one hand and blasted palm trees simultaneous. Sizzling cane fields lit the sky up orange-pink-torch parties were a big deal in postBatista Cuba.

Phone poles blipped by. Fidel Castro’s face adorned every one.

Pete saw house lights in the distance-two hundred yards or so up. Jesъs pulled into a clearing dotted with palm stumps.

He eased in like he knew where he was going. He didn’t gesture or say one fucking word.

It felt wrong. It felt prearranged.

Jesъs braked and doused his headlights. A torch whooshed the second they snapped off.

Light spread out over the clearing. Pete saw a Cadillac ragtop, six spics, and a white man reeling drunk.

Jesъs said, “That is Seсor Tom.”

The spics had sawed-off shotguns. The Caddy was stuffed with luggage and mink coats.

Jesъs jumped out and jabbered spic to the spics. The spics waved to the gringo in the Volkswagen.

The minks were piled above the door line. U.S. currency was bulging out of a suitcase.

Pete caught on, dead solid perfect.

Thomas Gordean was weaving. He was waving a bottle of Demerara rum. He was putting out a line of pro-Commie jive talk.

He was slurring his words. He was dead drunk working on dead.

Pete saw torches ready to light Pete saw a gas can sitting on a tree stump.

Gordean kept spritzing. He got up a fucking A-#l Commie clichй head of steam.

Jesъs huddled with the spics. They waved at the gringo again. Gordean puked on the hood of the Caddy.

Pete slid next to the machine gun. The spics turned away and went for their waistbands.

Pete fired. One tight swivel at their backs cut them down. The ack-ack sent a flock of birds up squawking.

Gordean hit the ground and curled himself up fetal-tight. The bullet spread missed him by inches.

The spics died screaming. Pete strafed their bodies into pulp. Cordite and muzzle-scorched entrails formed one putrid smell combination.

Pete poured gas on the stiffs and the Volkswagen and torched them. A box of.50-caliber ammo exploded.

Seсor Tom Gordean was passed out cold.

Pete tossed him in the backseat of the Caddy. The mink coats made a cozy little bed.

He checked the luggage. He saw a shitload of money and stock certificates.

Their flight left at dawn. Pete found a road map in the glove compartment and marked a route back to Havana.

He got in the Caddy and punched it. French-fried palm trees provided a glow to drive by.

o o o

He made the airport before first light. Friendly militiamen swamped El Seсor Mitchum.

Tom Gordean woke up with the shakes. Pete fed him rum-and-Cokes to keep him docile. The spics nationalized the money and furs-no big surprise.

Pete signed Robert Mitchum autographs. Some Comnue commissar escorted them to the plane.

The pilot said, “You’re not Robert Mitchum.”

Pete said, “No shit, Sherlock.”

Gordean dozed off. The other passengers eyeballed them-they reeked of gasoline and liquor.

The plane landed at 7:00 a.m. Kemper Boyd met them. He handed Pete an envelope containing five thousand dollars.

Boyd was juuuuust a tad nervous. Boyd was more than just a tad dismissive.

He said, “Thanks, Pete. Take that jitney into town with the other people, all right? I’ll call you in L.A. in a few days.”

He got five grand. Boyd got Gordean and a suitcase full of stock shares. Gordean looked bewildered. Boyd looked quintessentially un-Boyd.

Pete hopped on the jitney. He saw Boyd steer Gordean to a storage hut.

Here’s this deserted hick-town airfield. Here’s this CIA man and this drunk, alone.

His feelers started twitching in high fucking gear.