77

The cop was late. Pete killed time doodling up dispatch sheets.

He drew little hearts and arrows. He wrote out words Lenny and Barb said and underlined them for emphasis.

The words were strong. Cabstand bustle washed over him like total fucking silence.

Lenny’s words spawned a theory. The Outfit wants Bobby K. to know they’ve been helping out with Cuba. Bobby hasn’t been told yet. If he knew, he would have fungooed Kemper Boyd. If he knew, he would have snipped all known Mob-CIA ties.

The Outfit knows that Bobby doesn’t want a Fidel hit. They refused to fund the shooter team for just that reason.

His theory simmered for weeks. He ran guns to exile camps and Kemper worked his two gigs in Mississippi. Kemper was out to depilatory the Beard-his lack of Mob sanction did not seem to bother him one bit.

Barb was out to trim Jack the Haircut.

The cop was late. Pete drifted into Barb Overdrive.

Her words were accumulating-on tape and in print. He had the best words memorized.

Fred Turentine was running the Carlyle bug post-an apartment off 76th and Madison. A Barb Fucks Jack tape/print library was now in the works. Littell’s Hoover ploy succeeded. Feds wired the Presidential Suites at the El Encanto and Ambassador-East.

Mr. Hoover was their extortion colleague. Feds checked the Carlyle suite once a week-let’s keep those bedroom mikes tucked out of sight.

Jack K. was a six-minute bed jockey. Jack K. was a big fucking loudmouth.

Jack called Cuban exiles “lowlifes.” Jack called Kemper Boyd a pathetic social climber.

The cop was late. Pete drew more hearts and arrows.

He had a new theory. Dig it: Barb’s talking to Jack and to ME.

Barb says she won’t leave Joey Jahelka-”because he arranged to have some men who hurt my sister taken care of.” Barb won’t tell Jack the whole story.

Barb hints that big intrigue went down in May ‘48.

Barb knows he’ll play the tapes and read the transcripts. Barb wants him to fill in the blanks. Jack won’t press too hard for answers-she’s just one of his three million steady fucks.

Barb knows he’s an ex-cop. Barb knows he can find out.

He called the Wisconsin State Police. He had Guy Banister initiate Fed queries. The whole thing took forty-eight hours.

5/11/48:

Margaret Lynn Lindscott is gang-raped in Tunnel City, Wisconsin. She IDs her attackers: William Kreuger, Thomas McCandless, Fritz Schott, and John Coates. No charges are filed. All four boys have unshakable alibis.

1/14/52:

William Kreuger is shot and killed in Milwaukee. The “mugging-homicide” remains unsolved.

7/4/52:

Thomas McCandless is shot and killed in Chicago. The “assumed professional hit” remains unsolved.

1/23/54:

Fritz Schott disappears. A decomposed body is found near Des Moines-maybe or maybe not his. Three shell casings are discovered nearby. The “assumed gunshot homicide” remains unsolved.

John Coates is alive and well. He’s a cop in Norman, Oklahoma.

Pete unlocked his desk and pulled out the magazine. There’s Barb at twenty-five-a pulchritudinous Miss Nugget.

Barb seduced Mob-allied Joey Jahelka. Barb got him to finagle hits on the men who raped her sister.

John Coates was still alive. The Mob did not clip cops without big provocation.

Grateful Barb married Joey. Grateful Barb carried the debt.

The cop was late. Pete studied the foldout for the ten millionth time.

They airbrushed her breasts. They powdered her freckles. The picture didn’t nail her smarts and je ne sais quoi.

Pete put the magazine away. Pete doodled up another dispatch sheet.

He called Barb once a week. He tossed out little love checks- You don’t really dig Jack, do you?

She didn’t. She dug the allure-but Jack was just a six-minute erection and some chuckles.

The shakedown was proceeding. Turentine flew out to L.A. and checked up on Lenny Sands. Freddy said Lenny was solid. Freddy said Lenny would never rat off the operation.

He played the Barb tapes over and over. He reran Lenny’s blurt almost as much.

Three major Mob contributors abandoned the Cuban Cause. Littell said Carlos Marcello was the only Outfit big who still cared.

Why?

His guess was MONEY.

Pete kept his nose down for two months straight. His theory percolated.

He kept playing theoretical match-ups. He kept linking Cuban Cause and Outfit personnel. Last week he made a big theoretical jump.

November 1960.

Wilfredo Olmos Delsol is seen talking to pro-Castro agents. Wilfredo Olmos Delsol was recently seen:

Driving a new car. Wearing new threads. Showing off new women.

He hired a Miami cop to spot-tail Delsol. The man reported back.

Delsol met with hinky Cubans six nights running. Their license plates were fake number/fake tag counterfeits.

The cop tailed the men to their pads. The pads were rented under obvious fake names. The Cubans were pro-Castro agents with no visible means of support.

The cop glommed a phone-company snitch. He paid him five hundred dollars and told him to steal Delsol’s recent phone bills.

The cop said his snitch succeeded. The cop was late with the goods.

Pete doodled. He drew little hearts and arrows, ad fucking infinitum.

o o o

Sergeant Carl Lennertz showed up a full hour late. Pete waltzed him out to the parking lot.

They exchanged envelopes. The transaction went down in two seconds flat.

Lennertz took off. Pete opened his envelope and pulled out two sheets of paper.

The Florida Bell man delivered. Delsol made four months’ worth of suspicious phone calls.

He called Santo and Sam G. at their unlisted numbers. He called six pro-Castro front groups a total of twenty-nine times.

Pete felt his pulse go snap/crackle/pop.

o o o

He drove to Delsol’s house. The puto’s new-money Impala was parked on the front lawn.

He boxed it in with his car. He slashed the tires with his pocket knife. He wedged a porch chair under the front doorknob. He ripped a cord off an outside air cooler and balled it around his right fist.

He heard running water and music inside the house.

Pete walked around to the back. The kitchen door stood ajar.

Delsol was washing dishes. The geek was snapping his dishrag to a mambo beat.

Pete waved. Delsol waved soapy hands-Come on in.

A little radio was perched on the sink ledge. Perez Prado was cranking out “Cherry Pink and Apple Blossom White.”

Pete walked in. Delsol said, “Hola, Pedro.”

Pete sucker-punched him. Delsol jackknifed. Pete dropped the radio in the sink.

Water fizzed. Pete kicked Delsol in the ass and shot him into sink water up to his elbows.

He screamed. He pulled his arms out and cut loose with this godawful shriek.

Steam whooshed through the kitchen-dig that baby mushroom cloud.

Pete shoved the dishrag in his mouth. Delsol’s arms were scorched bright red and hairless.

“You’ve been calling Trafficante, Giancana and some proCastro guys. You’ve been seen with some left-wing Cubans, and you’ve been spending money.”

Delsol flipped him off. Dig that firecracker-red “Fuck You” finger.

“I think most of the Outfit’s quits on the Cause, and I want to know why. You put all this together or your face goes into the water.”

Delsol spat the rag out. Pete lashed his hands with the aircooler cord and rabbit-punched him back into the suds.

He spun in sideways. Juiced-up water splashed all over him.

He screamed and pulled his arms out. Pete dragged him to the fridge and buried his hands in ice cubes.