Pete off-loaded the dope.

Nйstor tossed the sleeping bags and his three dead men on board.

Boyd scalped them. Nйstor said, “This is for Playa Girуn.”

Pete rope-tied the wheel to the helm bracings and turned the boat around. The compass read south-southeast. The boat would stay on course-barring gale winds and tidal waves.

Boyd hit the motors. Both blades caught on his first pull. They jumped off the sides and watched the boat skid off.

It would explode twenty miles out to sea.

Pete shivered. Boyd tucked the scalps into his pack. Orange Beach looked absolutely pristine.

o o o

Santo Junior would call. He’d say, Delsol fucked me on a deal. He’d say, Pete, you find that cocksucker.

Santo would omit details. He wouldn’t say the deal was Commie-linked and a direct betrayal of the Cadre.

Pete waited for the call at Tiger Kab. He took over the switchboard-Delsol never showed up for work.

Cab calls were backlogged. Drivers kept saying, Where’s Wilfredo?

He’s at a hideout pad. Nйstor’s guarding him. There’s a pound of Big “H” in plain sight.

Boyd drove the rest of the dope to Mississippi. Boyd was stretched a wee bit thin, like he crossed some line with killing.

Pete felt the real line. DON’T YOU KNOW WHO WE FUCKED?

They’d watchdogged Delsol for two weeks running. He didn’t betray them. The dope rendezvous would have been canceled if he did.

He’s at his fake hideout. He’s an instant junkie-Nйstor shot tracks up his arms. He’s zorched on horse-waiting for this goddamn phone call.

It was 4:30 p.m. They split Orange Beach nine and a half hours ago.

Cab calls came in. The phones rang every few seconds. They had pickups backlogged and twelve cabs out-Pete felt like screaming or putting a gun to his head.

Teo Paez cupped his desk phone. “Line two, Pete. It’s Mr. Santo.”

Pete picked up casual slow. “Hi, Boss.”

Santo said the words. Santo came through right on cue.

“Wilfredo Delsol fucked me. He’s hiding out, and I want you to find him.”

“What did he do?”

“Don’t ask questions. Just find him and do it right now.”

o o o

Nйstor let him in. He’d turned the living room into an instant junkie pigsty.

Dig the syringe in plain view. Dig the candy bars mashed into the carpet. Dig that white powder residue on every flat cutting surface.

Dig Wilfredo Olmos Delsol: dope-swacked on a plush-velour couch.

Pete shot him in the head. Nйstor chopped off three of his fingers and dropped them in an ashtray.

It was 5:20. Santo wouldn’t buy a one-hour search-and-find. They had time to reinforce the lie.

Nйstor split-Boyd had work for him back in Mississippi. Pete tamped down his nerves with deep breaths and a dozen cigarettes.

He visualized it. He got the details straight in his head. He put his gloves on and did it.

He dumped the icebox.

He slashed the couch down to the springs.

He ripped the living-room walls out in a mock dope-search frenzy.

He burned cooking spoons.

He formed heroin into snort lines on a glass-topped coffee table.

He found a discarded lipstick and smeared it on some filter-tip butts.

He slashed Delsol with a kitchen knife. He scorched his balls with a wood-burning tool he found in the bedroom.

He dipped his hands in Delsol’s blood and wrote “Traitor” on the living-room wall.

It was 8:40 p.m.

Pete ran down to a pay phone. Real live fear juked his performance.

Delsol’s dead-tortured-I got a tip on his hideout-he was strung-out--dope everywhere-somebody trashed the place-I think he was on a toot with some whores-Santo, tell me, what the fuck is this all about?

80

Littell made business calls. Mr. Hoover gave him a tap scrambler to insure that his calls stayed private.

He called Jimmy Hoffa at a pay phone. Jimmy was profoundly tap-phobic.

They discussed the Test Fleet taxi fraud case. Jimmy said, Let’s bribe some jurors.

Littell said he’d send him a jury list. He told Hoffa to have front men make the bribe offers.

Jimmy said, What’s shaking with the shakedown?

Littell reported, ALL SYSTEMS GO. Baby Jimmy said, Let’s squeeze Jack now!!!

Littell said, Be patient. We’ll squeeze him at the optimum time.

Jimmy threw a goodbye fit. Littell called Carlos Marcello in New Orleans.

They discussed his deportation case. Littell stressed the need for tactical delays.

“You beat the Federal government by frustrating them. You exhaust them and make them rotate attorneys on and off your case. You try their patience and resources, and stall the hell out of them.”

Carlos got the point. Carlos asked a truly silly goodbye question.

“Can I get a tax deduction on my Cuban bag donations?”

Littell said, “Regretfully, no.”

Carlos signed off. Littell called Pete in Miami.

He picked up on the first ring. “This is Bondurant.”

“It’s me, Pete.”

“Yeah, Ward. I’m listening.”

“Is something wrong? You sound agitated.”

“Nothing’s wrong. Is something wrong with our deal?”

“Nothing’s wrong. I’ve been thinking of Lenny, though, and I keep thinking he’s too close to Sam for my liking.”

“You think he’d spill to Sam?”

“Not exactly. What I’m thinking is-”

Pete cut him off. “Don’t tell me what you’re thinking. You’re running this show, so just tell me what you want.”

Littell said, “Call Turentine. Have him fly out to L.A. and tap Lenny’s phone as an added precaution. Barb’s out there, too. She’s appearing at a place in Hollywood called the Rabbit’s Foot Club. Have Freddy check on her and see how she’s holding up.”

Pete said, “This sounds good to me. Besides, there’s other things I don’t want Sam to make Lenny do.”

“What are you talking about?”

“Cuban stuff. You wouldn’t be interested.”

Littell checked his calendar. He saw writ-submission dates running straight into June.

“Call Freddy, Pete. Let’s not sit on this.”

“Maybe I’ll meet him in L.A. I could use a change of scenery.”

“Do it. And let me know when the tap’s in.”

“I will. See you, Ward.”

Littell hung up. The scrambler blinked and broke off his line of thought.

Hoover accepted him now. Their courtly moments were over. Hoover reverted to his standard curt behavior.

Hoover expected him to beg.

Please reinstate Helen Agee in law school. Please let my leftist friend out of prison.

He’d never beg.

Pete was nervous. He had a hunch that Kemper Boyd forced Pete into things he couldn’t control.

Boyd collected acolytes. Boyd felt at one with Cuban killers and poor Negroes. Kemper’s gloss seduced Pete. The Cuban mess pushed them far beyond their ken.

Carlos said they cut a deal with Santo Trafficante. Their potential profit made Carlos laugh. He said Santo would never pay them that much money.

Carlos embraced the Cuban mess. Carlos said Sam and Santo wanted to cut their losses.

Net loss. Net gain. Profit potential.

He had the Fund books. He needed to clear a stretch of time and develop a strategy to exploit them.

Littell turned his chair around and looked out the window. Cherry blossoms brushed the glass-close enough to touch.

The phone rang. Littell tapped the speaker switch. “Yes?”

A man said, “This is Howard Hughes.”

Littell almost giggled. Pete told these hilarious Dracula tales-

“This is Ward Littell, Mr. Hughes. And I’m very pleased to talk to you.”

Hughes said, “You should be pleased. Mr. Hoover has shared your impeccable credentials with me, and I intend to offer you $200,000 a year for the privilege of entering my employ. I will not require you to move to Los Angeles, and we will communicate solely by letter and telephone. Your specific duties will be to handle the writ work in my painfully protracted TWA divestment suit, and to help me purchase Las Vegas hotel-casinos with the profits I expect to accrue when I finally divest TWA. Your Italian connections will prove invaluable in this regard, and I will expect you to ingratiate yourself with the Nevada State Legislature and help me devise a policy to insure that my hotels remain Negroand germ-free-”