American tabloid

JS

Marcello grabbed the money. The manager genuflected. Pete showed him the door and slipped him a C-note.

Marcello snarfed salami and breadsticks. Chuck built a tall Bloody Mary.

Pete paced off the suite. Forty-two yards lengthwise-whoa!

Chuck curled up with a hate mag. Marcello said, “I really had to piss. When you hold a piss that long it pisses you off.”

Pete snagged a beer and some crackers. “Stanton’s got you a lawyer in D.C. You’re supposed to call him.”

“I’ve talked to him already. I’ve got the best Jew lawyers money can buy, and now I’ve got him.”

“You should call him now and get it over with.”

“You call him. And stay on the line in case I need you to translate. Lawyers talk this language I don’t always get the first time around.”

Pete grabbed the coffee table extension. The hotel operator placed his call.

Marcello picked up the bar phone. The long-distance rings came through faint.

A man said, “Hello?”

Marcello said, “Who’s this? Are you that guy I talked to at the Hay-Adams?”

“Yes, this is Ward Littell. Is this Mr. Marcello?”

Pete almost SHIT-

Carlos slumped into a chair. “This is him, calling from Guatemala City, Guatemala, where he does not want to be. Now, if you want to get my attention, say something bad about the man who put me here.”

Pete clenched up wicked bad. He covered his mouthpiece so they wouldn’t hear him hyperventilate.

Littell said, “I hate that man. He hurt me once, and there is very little that I wouldn’t do to cause him discomfort.”

Carlos tee-hee-heed-weird for a bass-baritone. “You got my attention. Now, stow that ass-kiss routine you dropped on me before, and say something to convince me you’re good at what you do.”

Littell cleared his throat. “I specialize in deportation writ work. I was an FBI agent for close to twenty yeas. I’m a good friend of Kemper Boyd, and although I distrust his admiration for the Kennedys, I’m convinced that his devotion to the Cuban Cause supersedes it. He wants to see you safely and legally reunited with your loved ones, and I’m here to see that it happens.”

Pete felt queasy. BOYD, YOU FUCK-

Marcello snapped breadsticks. “Kemper said you were ten grand’s worth of good. Now, if you deliver like you talk, ten grand’s just the start of you and me.”

Littell came on servile. “It’s an honor to work for you. And Kemper apologizes for your inconvenience. He was tipped off on the raid at the last second, and he didn’t think they could pull it off as fast as they did.”

Marcello scratched his neck with a breadstick. “Kemper always gets the job done. I’ve got no complaints against him that can’t wait until the next time I see that too-handsome face of his face-to-face. And the Kennedys keestered 49.8% of the American voters, including some good friends of mine, so I don’t begrudge him that admiration if it don’t fuck with my life and limb.”

Littell said, “He’ll be pleased to hear that. And you should know that I’m writing up a temporary reinstatement brief that will be reviewed by a three-judge Federal panel. I’ll be calling your attorney in New York, and we’ll begin devising a long-range legal strategy.”

Marcello kicked off his shoes. “Do it. Call my wife and tell her I’m okay, and do whatever you need to do to get me the fuck out of here.”

“I will. And I’ll be bringing some paperwork down for you to sign. You can expect to see me within seventy-two hours.”

Marcello said, “I want to go home.”

Pete hung up. Steam hissed out of his ears like he was Donald Fucking Duck.

o o o

They killed time. The jumbo pad let them kill it separately.

Chucky watched spic TV. King Carlos buzzed his serfs long-distance. Pete fantasized ninety-nine ways to murder Ward Littell.

John Stanton called in. Pete regaled him with the toilet-snatch story. Stanton said the Agency would cover their bribe tab.

Pete said, Boyd fixed Carlos up with a lawyer. Stanton said, I heard he’s quite good. Pete almost said, Now I can’t kill him.