WJL: You did, too, Sir.

JEH: I will not comment on the attendant irony.

WJL: Yes, Sir.

JEH: I know that in time you’ll ask favors of me. I know that you’ll keep me abreast of the transcriptions and ask your favors judiciously.

WJL: I will, Sir.

JEH: I misjudged you and underestimated you, and I’m glad we’re colleagues again.

WJL: So am I, Sir.

JEH: Good day, Mr. Littell.

WJL: Good day, Sir.

76

Shots woke him up. Rebel yells made him dive for his gun.

Kemper rolled off the bed. He heard brake squeals down on the highway-non-Lockhart Klansmen or plain old rednecks popping rounds and running.

Word is out.

There’s a Fed nigger lover in town. The Seminole Motel is packed with his spic/frog minions.

The shots were scary. The nightmare they cut off was worse.

Jack and Bobby had him under the hot lights. They said, J’accuse-we know you’re Mob-CIA linked all the way back to ‘59.

The nightmare was literal and direct. The origin was Pete’s phone call last week.

Pete talked up the Whack Fidel auditions. He said he developed a theory to explain why the Outfit nixed the hit.

Pete said Sam G. might be set to tell Bobby a secret. Hey, Mr. AG-the Outfit’s been your Cuban Cause ally for three years now.

Pete picked up a lead that strongly suggested it. Pete thinks Sam might have someone spill the secret soon. Pete thinks Sam wants to embarrass Bobby into a Mob War cease-fire.

Pete said, I’ll look into it.

Kemper got up and dry-swallowed three Dexedrine. Pete’s theory speedballed and went personal.

Bobby wants me to show him JM/Wave some time soon. He thinks my CIA ties date from 5/61 on. JM/Wave is packed with my pre-Pigs colleagues-and Cuban exiles well acquainted with organized crime figures.

Kemper shaved and dressed. The Dexedrine kicked in fast He heard thumps next door-Laurent Guйry pounding early morning push-ups.

John Stanton pulled strings. Laurent, Flash and Juan were granted INS green cards. Nйstor Chasco moved to Meridian and joined the group. The Seminole Motel was now “Adjunct” Cadre HQ.

He cashed in twenty thousand dollars’ worth of stock. Guy Banister donated matching funds. The Clip Castro Squad was now self-contained and totally autonomous.

He took voting rights reports by day. He staged assassination drills by night.

He won over quite a few local Negroes. First Pentecostal Baptist was now 84% depositioned.

Some crackers roughed up the pastor. He found them and broke their legs with a two-by-four.

Dougie Frank parceled off half his gun range. The Adjunct Cadre practiced seven nights a week.

They shot at standing and moving targets. They took recon tramps through the woods. Cuban infiltration runs would begin soon.

Juan and Flash had him close to Spanish-fluent. He could dye his hair and stain his face and go to Cuba as a covert Latin.

He could get close. He could shoot.

They all loved to talk. They drank post-practice moonshine and gabbed through half the night.

They worked up a three-language patois. They told gory campfire tales and passed around bottles.

Juan described his castration. Chasco talked up his Batista-ordered clip jobs.

Flash saw Playa Girуn up close. Laurent saw the hushed-up Paris slaughter-gendarmes beat two hundred Algerians to death and dumped them in the Seine last October.

He could get close. He could shoot. The fair-skinned Anglo-Saxon could be Cuban.

The Dexedrine hit full-bore. Cold coffee provided a nice booster.

The date jumped off his Rolex. Happy Birthday-you’re forty-six years old and don’t look it.

DOCUMENT INSERT: 2/21/62. Partial microphone to mobile listening post transcript. Transcribed by: Fred Turentine. Tape/written copies to: P. Bondurant, W. Littell.

9:14 p.m., February 19, 1962. L. Sands amp; B. Jahelka enter house (target amp; entourage arrived at 8:03). Traffic noise on Pacific Coast Highway accounts for scrambled signal and large continuity gaps. B. Jahelka’s visit clock synchronized amp; live monitored.

Initial code:

BJ-Barb Jahelka. LS-Lenny Sands. PL- Peter Lawford. MU1-Male Unknown #1. MU2-Male Unknown #2. FU 1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6, 7-Female Unknowns #1-#7. JFK-John F. Kennedy. RFK-Robert F. Kennedy. (Note: I think MU #1 and #2 are Secret Service agents.)

9:14-9:22: garbled.

9:23-9:26: overlapping voices. BJ’s voice comes through, mostly casual greetings. (I think she was being introduced to FU #1-#7. Note high-pitched laughter on tape copies.)

9:27-9:39: BJ amp; PL.

PL (conversation in progress): You stand out in this crowd, Barb.

BJ: My beauty or my height?

PL: Both.

BJ: You’re so full of shit.

FU3: Hi, Peter.

PL: Hi, doll.

FU6: Peter, I just love the President’s hair.

PL: Give it a tug. He won’t bite you.

FU3, FU6: laughter.

BJ: Are they showgirls or hookers?

PL: The bleached blonde’s a barmaid at the Sip n’ Surf in Malibu. The others work the show line at the Dunes. You see the brunette with the lungs?

BJ: I see her.

PL: She plays skin flute in Frank Sinatra’s all-girl band.

BJ: Very funny.

PL: Not funny, because Bobby made Jack drop Frank. Frank put in a heliport at his place in Palm Springs so Jack could visit him, but that judgmental little shit Bobby made Jack give him the brush-off, just because he knows a few gangsters. Look at him. Isn’t he a wicked looking little shit?

BJ: He has buck teeth.

PL: That never touch women.

BJ: Are you saying he’s a fag?

PL: I have It on good authority that he only fucks his wife, doesn’t go down, and only gives it to Ethel for purposes of procreation. Isn’t he a wicked looking little shit?

FU2: Peter! I just met the President out on the beach!

PL: That’s nice. Did you suck his cock?

FU2: You’re a pig.

PL: Oink! Oink!

BJ: I think I need a drink.

PL: I think you need a lobotomy. Really, Barb. I just wanted you to sleep with Frank once.

BJ: He’s not my type.

PL: He could have helped you. He would have kicked that wicked little shit Joey out of your life.

BJ: Joey and I have a history. I’ll cut him loose when the time’s right.

PL: You cut me loose too soon. Frank was deeply smitten with you, doll. He sensed that you were hiding things, and I have it on good authority that he hired a private eye to find out what those things were.

BJ: Did he tell you what he found out?

FL: Mum’s the word, doll. Mum’s the goddamn-

FU1: Oh God, Peter, I just met President Kennedy!

PL: That’s nice. Did you suck his cock?

BJ, FU1, FU7: garbled.

PL: Oink! Oink! Oink! I’m a Presidential piglet!

9:40-10:22: garbled. Static quality indicates that Secret Service men installed and were calling out on private phone lines.

10:23-10:35: garbled. BJ (standing near hi-fi set) talking to: FU1, 3, 7. (She should have been told to avoid noisy appliances amp; record players.)

10:36-10:41: BJ in bathroom (indicated by sink amp; toilet sounds).

10:42-10:49: garbled.

BJ (conversation in progress): It’s just a craze, and you have to catch these things before they crest, and then bail out before they fizzle so you won’t look like a loser.

RFK: Then I guess you could say the Twist is like politics.

BJ: You could. Opportunism’s certainly the common denominator.