American tabloid

66

Voting rolls and poll tax reports. Literacy test results and witness statements.

Four corkboad-mounted walls dripping with paper-systematic suppression in typescript black-on-white.

His room was small and drab. The Wigwam Motel was not quite the St. Regis.

Kemper worked up a voting rights obstruction brief. One literacy test and one witness deposition formed his evidentiary basis.

Debmar Herbert Bowen was a male Negro, born 6/14/19 in Anniston, Alabama. He was literate, and a self-described “big reader.”

On 6/15/40, Mr. Bowen tried to register to vote. The registrar said, Boy, can you read and write?

Mr. Bowen proved that he could. The registrar asked exclusionary questions, pertaining to advanced calculus.

Mr. Bowen failed to answer them. Mr. Bowen was denied the right to vote.

He subpoenaed Mr. Bowen’s literacy test. He determined that the Anniston registrar fabricated the resubts.

The man said that Mr. Bowen could not spell “dog” and “cat.” Mr. Bowen did not know that coitus precipitates childbirth.

Kemper clipped pages. The work bored him. The Kennedy civil rights mandate was not bold enough for his taste.

His mandate was gunboat diplomacy.

He grabbed a sandwich at a bunch counter yesterday. In the colored section-for the pure hell of it.

A cracker called him a “nigger lover.” He judo-chopped him into a bowl of grits.

Shots zinged his door last night. A colored man told him the Klan torched a cross down the block.

Kemper finished the Bowen brief. He did it catch-up fast-he had to meet John Stanton in Miami in three hours.

Phone calls blitzed his morning and put him off-schedule. Bobby called for a deposition update; Littell called to drop his latest A-bomb.

Ward delivered the Fund books to Carlos Marcello. Pete Bondurant observed the transaction. Marcello seemed to buy Ward’s convoluted cover story.

Ward said, “I made copies, Kemper. And the depositions on your incursion and Joe Kennedy’s malfeasance remain fail-safed. And I’d appreciate it if you advised Le Grand Pierre not to kill me.”

He called Pete immediately. He said, “Don’t kill Littell or tell Carlos his story is bullshit.” Pete said, “Credit me with some brains. I’ve been playing this game as long as you.”

Littell finessed them. It was no severe boss-the books were always a moneymaking longshot.

Kemper oiled his.45. Bobby knew he carried it-and baughed it off as pretentious.

He wore it to the Inaugural. He found Bobby on the parade route and told him he cut Laura off clean.

He found Jack at a White House reception. He called him “Mr. President” for the first time. Jack’s first presidential decree: “Find me some girls for later tonight.”

Kemper rustled up two Georgetown coeds. President Jack told him to stash the girls away for late quickies.

Kemper stashed them in White House guest rooms. Jack caught him yawning and splashing water on his face.

It was 3:00 a.m., with Inaugural galas set to run past dawn.

Jack suggested a pick-me-up. They walked into the Oval Office and saw a doctor preparing vials and hypodermics.

The President rolled up one sleeve. The doctor injected him. John F. Kennedy booked positively orgasmic. Kemper robbed up one sleeve. The doctor injected him. A rocket payload hit his system.

The ride lasted twenty-four hours. The time and place cohered around it.

Jack’s ascent became his. That simple truth felt spelbbindingby articulate. The time and place were beholden to one Kemper Cathcart Boyd. In that sense, he and Jack were indistinguishable.

He picked up one of Jack’s obd flames and made love to her at the Willard. He described the Moment to senators and cab drivers. Judy Garland showed him how to dance the Twist.

The ride sputtered out and left him wanting more. He knew that more would only vulgarize the Moment.

The phone rang. Kemper cinched his overnight bag and picked up.

“This is Boyd.”

“It’s Bob, Kemper. I’ve got the President here with me.”

“Does he want me to repeat that update I gave you?”

“No. We need you to help us sort out a communications glitch.”

“Pertaining to?”

“Cuba. I realize that you’re only informally acquainted with some recent developments, but I still think you’re the best man for this.”

“For what? What are we talking about?”

Bobby came off exasperated. “The projected exile invasion, which you may or may not have heard about. Richard Bissell just dropped by my office and said the CIA’s chomping at the bit, and their Cubans are just a bit beyond restless. They’ve got the key landing site picked out. It’s some place called Playa Giron, or the Bay of Pigs.”

It was NEW news. Stanton never told him that Langley picked a site.

Kemper faked bewilderment. “I don’t see how I can help you. You know I don’t know anybody in the CIA.”

Jack came on the line. “Bobby didn’t know the thing was this far advanced, Kemper. Allen Dulles briefed us on it before I took office, but we haven’t discussed it since then. My advisors are split down the middle on the damn thing.”

Kemper slipped on his holster. Bobby said, “What we need is an independent assessment of the exiles’ readiness.”

Kemper laughed. “Because if the invasion fails and it becomes known that you backed the so-called ‘rebels,’ you’ll be fucked in the court of world opinion.”

Bobby said, “Vividly put.”

Jack said, “And to the point. And I should have taken Bobby into my confidence on this a few weeks ago, but he’s been so goddamned busy chasing gangsters. Kemper…”

“Yes, Mr. President.”

“I’ve been waffling on a date, and Bissell’s been pressing me. I know you’ve been doing that anti-Castro work for Mr. Hoover, so I know you’re at beast somewhat…”

“I am somewhat conversant on Cuba, at least from a proCastro-group standpoint.”

Bobby cracked the whip. “Cuba’s always been a bit of a fixation for you, so go to Florida and make something positive out of it. Visit the CIA training camps, and take a swing through Miami. Call back and tell us if you think the operation has a chance to succeed, and do it damn fast.”

Kemper said, “I’ll leave now. I’ll report back inside forty-eight hours.”

o o o

John almost died laughing. Kemper almost called a cardiologist.

They sat on Stanton’s private terrace. Langley let him upgrade to the Fontainebleau-hotel-suite living was contagious.

A breeze blew up Collins Avenue. Kemper’s throat hurt-he repeated the phone talk replete with Jack’s Boston bray.

“John…”

Stanton caught his breath. “I’m sorry, but I never thought presidential indecisiveness could be so goddamn funny.”

“What do you think I should tell him?”

“How about, ‘The invasion will guarantee your re-election.’”

Kemper laughed. “I’ve got some time to kill in Miami. Any suggestions?”

“Yes, two.”

“Tell me, then. And tell me why you wanted to see me when you knew I was swamped in Alabama.”

Stanton poured a short scotch-and-water. “That civil rights work must be vexing.”

“Not really.”

“I think the Negro vote is a mixed blessing. Aren’t they easily led?”

“I’d call them slightly less malleable than our Cubans. And considerably less criminally inclined.”

Stanton smiled. “Stop it. Don’t make me start laughing again.”

Kemper put his feet up on the railing. “I think you could use a few laughs. Langley’s running you ragged, and you’re drinking at 1:00 p.m.”

Stanton nodded. “This is true. Everybody from Mr. Dulles on down would like the invasion to go off some time in the next five minutes, and I’m no exception. And to answer your initial question, I want you to spend the next forty-eight hours devising realistic-sounding intelligence on troop readiness to submit to the President, and I want you to pre-patrol our Cadre territory with Fulo and Nйstor Chasco. Miami’s our best source of street-level intelligence, and I want you to assess just how far and how accurately rumors pertaining to the invasion have spread within the Cuban community.”

Kemper mixed a gin and tonic. “I’ll get on it right away. Was there anything else?”

“Yes. The Agency wants to set up a Cuban ‘government in exile,’ to be housed at Blessington during the actual invasion. It’s mostly cosmetic, but we’ve got to have at least a facsimile of a consensus-chosen leadership ready to install if we get Castro out within, say, three or four days of our go date.”

“And you want my opinion as to who gets the nod?”

“Right. I know you’re not too well versed on exile politics, but I thought you might have picked up some opinions from the Cadre.”

Kemper faked deep thought. Steady now, make him wait-

Stanton threw his hands up. “Come on, I didn’t tell you to go into a goddamn trance about-”

Kemper snapped out of it-bright-eyed and forceful. “We want far-right-wingers susceptible to working with Santo and our other friends in the Ouffit. We want a figurehead leader who can maintain order, and the best way to re-stabilize the Cuban economy is to get the casinos operating on a full profit margin. If Cuba stays volatile or the Reds take over again, we’ve got to be able to draw on the Outfit for financial assistance.”

Stanton laced his hands around one knee. “I was expecting something a bit more enlightened from Kemper Boyd the civil rights reformer. And I’m sure you know that the donations of our Italian friends only account for a tiny percentage of our legitimately funded government budget.”

Kemper shrugged. “Cuba’s solvency depends on American tourism. The Outfit can help insure that. United Fruit is out of Cuba now, and only a bribable far-right-winger will be willing to de-nationalize their holdings.”

Stanton said, “Keep going. You’re close to persuading me.”

Kemper stood up. “Carlos is down at the Guatemala camp with my lawyer friend. Chuck’s going to fly him to Louisiana in a few days and hide him out, and I’ve heard that he’s getting more pro-exile by the day. I’m betting that the invasion will succeed, but that chaos will reign inside Cuba for some time. Whoever we install will fall under intense public scrutiny, which means public accountability, and we both know that the Agency will be subjected to intense scrutiny that will limit our deniabibity in all matters pertaining to covert action. We’ll need the Cadre then, and we’ll probably need a half-dozen more groups as ruthless and autonomous as the Cadre, and we’ll need them to be privately funded. Our new leader will need a secret police, and the Outfit will provide him with one, and if he falters in his pro-U.S. stance, the Outfit will assassinate him.”

Stanton stood up. He looked bright-eyed verging on feverish.

“I don’t have the final say, but you sold me. Your pitch wasn’t as flowery as your boy’s Inaugural address, but it was a good deal more politically astute.”