American tabloid

64

He was too late-by seconds.

Four men grappled Carlos Marcello into a Fed sled. Right outside his house-with Mrs. Carlos on the porch, throwing a fit.

Pete pulled up across the street and watched it happen. His rescue mission clocked in half a minute tardy.

Marcello was dressed in BVDs and beach flip-flops. Marcello looked like this low-rent Il Duce on the rag.

Boyd fucked up.

He said, Bobby wants Carlos deported. He said, You and Chuck get to New Orleans and snatch him first. He said, Don’t call and warn him-just get there.

Boyd said bureaucratic jive would give them time. Boyd mis-fucking calculated.

The Feds took off. Frau Carlos stood on the porch, wringing her hands grieving-wife-style.

Pete tailed the Fed car. Early am. traffic got between them. He eyeballed the Fed’s antenna and rode a purple Lincoln’s back bumper.

Chuck was back at Moisant Airport, gassing up the Piper. The Feds were heading that way

They’d fly Carlos out commercial or dump him on the Border Patrol. He’d be Guatemala-bound-and Guatemala loved the CIA.

The Fed car took surface streets east. Pete saw a bridge up ahead-toll booths and two eastbound lanes across the river.

Both lanes were hemmed in by guardrails. Narrow pedestrian walkways ran flush along the edge of the bridge.

Cars were stacked up in front of the booths-at least twenty per lane.

Pete hopped lanes and swerved in front of the Fed car. He spotted a squeeze space between the left-hand booth and the guardrail.

He accelerated in. A rail housing snapped off his outside mirror.

Horns blared. His left-side hubcaps went spinning. A toll taker looked over and doused an old lady with coffee.

Pete SQUEEZED past the booths and hit the bridge going forty. The Fed sled was stalled, way way back.

o o o

He made it to Moisant fast. His rent-a-car was dinged, chipped and paint-stripped.

He ditched it in an underground lot. He greased a skycap for airport information.

Commercial flights to Guatemala? No, sir, none today. The Border Patrol office? Next to the Trans-Texas counter.

Pete cruised by and loitered behind a newspaper. The office door opened and closed.

Men carried shackles in. Men carried flight logs out. Men stood outside the door and kibitzed.

A guy said, “I heard they popped him in his skivvies.”

A guy said, “The pilot really hates wops.”

A guy said, “They’re flying out at 8:30.”

Pete ran to the private-plane hangar. Chucky was perched on the snout of his Piper, reading a hate mag.

Pete caught his breath. “They’ve got Carlos. We’ve got to get down to Guatemala City ahead of them and see what we can work out.”

Chuck said, “That’s a goddamned foreign country. We’re only supposed to bring the man back to Blessington. We’ve barely got the gas to-”

“Let’s go. We’ll patch some calls in and work something out.”

o o o

Chuck got clearance to take off and land. Pete called Guy Banister and explained the situation.

Guy said he’d call John Stanton and try to rig a plan. He had short-wave gear out at Lake Pontchartrain and could radio in to Chuck’s frequency.

They took off at 8:16. Chuck put on his headphones and cribbed flight calls.

The Border Patrol plane departed late. Their Guatemala City ETA was forty-six minutes behind them.

Chuck flew medium-low and kept his headset on. Pete skimmed hate pamphlets out of sheer boredom.

The titles were a howl. The ultimate: “KKK: Kommunist Krucifixion Krusade!”

He found a skin mag/hate mag combo under his seat. Dig that zaftig blonde with the swastika earrings.

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

Dashboard lights flashed. Chuck bootjacked a plane-to-base message and transcribed it in his log.

The Border Patrol guys are goofing on Carlos. They radio’d their HQ that they’ve got no lavatory on board amp; Carlos refuses to piss in a tin can. (They think he’s got a little one.)

Pete laughed. Pete pissed in a cup and doused the Gulf from 6,000 feet.

Time dragged. Stomach flutters came and went. Pete chased a Dramamine with warm beer.

Lights flashed. Chuck rogered a Pontchartrain patch-in and transcribed the message.

Guy got through to JS. JS pulled strings amp; got thru to Guat. contacts. We’re cleared to land with no passport check amp; if we can get ahold of CM its set up to register him at G.C. Hilton under name Jose Garcia. JS says KB says to have CM call lawyer in Washington D.C. at 0L6-4809 tonight.

Pete pocketed the message. The Dramamine kicked in to his system: good night, sweet prince.

o o o

Leg cramps woke him up. Jungle terrain and a big black runway hovered.

Chuck eased the plane down and cut the engines. Some spics rolled out a literal red carpet.

It was a bit frayed, but nice.

The beaners looked like right-wing toady types. The Agency saved Guatemala’s ass once-some staged coup expunged a shitload of Reds.

Pete hopped out and stamped his legs awake. Chuck and the spics talked rapid-fire Spanish.

They were back in Guatemala-too fucking soon.

The talk escalated. Pete felt his ears pop-pop-pop. They had forty-six minutes to rig something.

Pete walked over to the Customs shack. He got this little Technicolor brain blip: Carlos Marcello needs to urinate.

The bathroom adjoined the passport counter. Pete checked it out.

It ran about 8 feet by 8 feet square. A flimsy screen covered the back window. The view featured more runways and a line of rattletrap bi-planes.

Carlos was stocky. Chuck was rail thin. He was all-around-huge himself.

Chuck walked in and unzipped by the urinal. “We got a big foul-up. I don’t know if it’s good news or bad.”

“What are you saying?”

“I’m saying the Border Patrol’s set to land in seventeen minutes. They’ve got to refuel here and fly to another airport sixty miles away. That’s where Customs is set to pick up Carlos. That ETA I got is for the other goddamned air-”

“How much money have we got in the plane?”

“Sixteen thousand. Santo said to drop it off with Banister.”

Pete shook his head. “We grease the Customs guys with it. We fucking inundate them, so they’ll take the risk. All we need is a car and a driver outside that window, and you to push Carlos through.”

Chuck said, “I get it.”

Pete said, “If he doesn’t have to piss, we’re fucked.”

o o o

The spics dug the plan. Chuck greased them at the rate of two grand per man. They said they’d keep the Border Patrol guys busy while Carlos Marcello took the world’s longest whiz.

Pete loosened the window screen. Chuck stashed the Piper two hangars over.

The spics supplied a ‘49 Merc getaway car. The spics supplied a driver-a musclebound fag named Luis.

Pete backed the Merc up to the window. Chuck crouched on the toilet seat with last week’s Hush-Hush.

The Border Patrol plane landed. A crew hustled out refueling pumps. Pete crouched behind the Customs shack and watched.

The spics zipped out the red carpet. A little geek brushed it off with a whisk broom.

Two Border Patrol clowns deplaned. The pilot said, “Let him go. Where’s he gonna run to?”

Carlos tumbled out of the plane. Carlos ran to the shack, knock-kneed in tight BVDs.

Luis idled the engine. Pete head the bathroom door slam.

Carlos yelled, “ROGERS, WHAT THE FUCK-?”

The window screen popped out. Carlos Marcello squeezed through-and snagged himself bare-assed in the process.

o o o

The run to the Hilton took an hour. Marcello blasted Bobby Kennedy nonstop.

In English. In straight Italian. In Sicilian dialect. In New Orleans Cajun French patois-not bad for a wop.

Luis detoured by a men’s shop. Chuck took down Marcello’s sizes and bought him some threads.

Carlos dressed in the car. Little window-squeeze abrasions bloodied up his shirt.

The hotel manager met them at the freight entrance. They freight-lifted up to the penthouse on the QT

The manager unlocked the door. One glance said Stanton delivered.

The pad featured three bedrooms, three bathrooms and a rec room lined with slot machines. The living room was Kemper Boyd fantasy size.

The bar was fully stocked. A guinea cold-cut buffet was laid out. The envelope by the cheese tray contained twenty grand and a note.

Pete amp; Chuck,

I’m betting you were able to get ahold of Mr. Marcello. Take good care of him. He’s a valuable friend to the Cause.