A storm browned out their phone setup two days ago. Pete couldn’t call Sun Valley.
Kemper drove to a pay phone off the Interstate last night. He called Pete’s apartment six times and got no answer.
Nйstor Chasco’s death never made the news. Pete would have dumped the body in a newsworthy locale.
Pete would put a pro-Castro spin on the murder. Pete would make sure Trafficante got the word.
His morning Dexedrine surge hit. It took ten pills to kick-start the day-he’d built up a large tolerance.
Juan and Pete were missing. Juan was hanging out with Guy Banister lately-little Lake Weir drinking excursions every other day or so.
The Pete thing felt wrong. The Juan thing felt mildly hinky.
His amphetamine surge said, Do something.
o o o
Juan drove a candy-apple-red T-Bird. Flash called it the Rapemobile.
Kemper cruised Lake Weir. The town was small and laid out in a grid pattern-the Rapemobile would be easy to spot.
He checked side streets and the bars near the highway. He checked Karl’s Kustom Kar Shop and every parking lot on the main drag.
He didn’t spot Juan. He didn’t spot Juan’s customized T-Bird.
Juan could wait. The Pete thing was more pressing.
Kemper drove to Miami. The pills started to hit counterproductive-he kept yawning and fading out at the wheel.
He stopped at 46th and Coffins. That pink garage apartment was right where the tipster said it would be.
A traffic cop walked over. Kemper noticed a No Parking sign on the corner.
He rolled down his window. The cop jammed a smelly rag in his face.
o o o
It felt like chemical warfare inside him.
The smell fought his wake-up pills. The smell might be chloroform or embalming fluid. The smell meant he might be dead.
His pulse said, NO-you’re alive.
His lips burned. His nose burned. He tasted chloroformed blood.
He tried to spit. His lips wouldn’t part. He gagged the blood out through his nose.
He stretched his mouth. Something tugged at his cheeks. It felt like tape coming loose.
He sucked in air. He tried to move his arms and legs.
He tried to stand up. Heavy ballast held him down.
He wiggled. Chair legs scraped wood flooring. He thrashed his arms and got rope burns.
Kemper opened his eyes.
A man laughed. A hand held up Polaroid snapshots glued to cardboard.
He saw Teo Paez, gutted and quartered. He saw Fulo Machado, shivved through the eyes. He saw Ramdn Gutierrez, powderscorched from big-bore shots to the head.
The photos disappeared. The hand swiveled his neck. Kemper caught a slow 180 view.
He saw a shabby room and two fat men in a doorway. He saw Nйstor Chasco-nailed to the far wall with icepicks through his palms and ankles.
Kemper shut his eyes. A hand slapped him. A big heavy ring cut his lips.
Kemper opened his eyes. Hands slid his chair around 360.
They had Pete chained down. They had him double-cuffed and shackled to a chair. They had the chair bolted directly into the floor.
A rag hit his face. Kemper sucked the fumes in voluntarily.
o o o
He heard stories filtered through a long echo chamber. He picked out three storytelling voices.
Nйstor got close to Castro twice. You got to hand it to him.
A kid that tough-what a shame to put his lights out.
Nйstor said he bought off some Castro aide. The aide said Castro was considering a Kennedy hit. The aide said, What’s with this Kennedy? First he invades us, then he pulls back-he’s like a cunt who can’t make up her mind.
Fidel’s the cunt. The aide told Chasco he’d never work with the Outfit again. He thinks Santo screwed him on the heroin deal. He didn’t know it was Nйstor and our boys here.
Bondurant pissed his pants. Look, you can see the stain.
Santo and Mo were not gentle. And I got to say Nйstor went out brave.
I’m bored with this. I got to say this waiting around is stretching me thin.
I got to say they’ll be back soon. I got to say they’ll want to put some hurt on these two.
Kemper felt his bladder go. He took a deep breath and forced himself unconscious.
o o o
He dreamed he was moving. He dreamed somebody cleaned him up and changed his clothes. He dreamed he heard fierce Pete Bondurant sobbing.
He dreamed he could breathe. He dreamed he could talk He kept cursing Jack and Claire for disowning him.
He woke up on a bed. He recognized his old Fontainebleau suite or an exact replica of it.
He was wearing clean clothes. Somebody pulled off his soiled boxer shorts.
He felt rope burns on his wrists. He felt tape fragments stuck to his face.
He heard voices one room over-Pete and Ward Littell.
He tried to stand up. His legs wouldn’t function. He sat on the bed and coughed his lungs out.
Littell walked in. He looked commanding-that gabardine suit gave him some bulk.
Kemper said, “There’s a price.”
Littell nodded. “That’s right. It’s something I worked out with Carlos and Sam.”
“Ward-”
“Santo agreed, too. And you and Pete get to keep what you stole.”
Kemper stood up. Ward held him steady.
“What do we have to do?”
Littell said, “Kill John Kennedy.”
88
1933 to 1963. Thirty years and parallel situations.
Miami, ‘33. Giuseppe Zangara tries to shoot President-elect Franklin D. Roosevelt. He misses-and kills Chicago Mayor Anton Cermak.
Miami, ‘63. A Kennedy motorcade is scheduled for November 18.
Littell slow-cruised Biscayne Boulevard. Every inch of ground told him something.
Carlos told him the Zangara story last week.
“Giuseppe was a fucking nut. Some Chicago boys paid him to pop Cermak and take the bounce. He had a fucking death wish, and he got his fucking wish fulfilled. Frank Nitti took care of his family after he got executed.”
He met with Carlos, Sam and Santo. He bartered for Pete and Kemper. They discussed the fall-guy issue at length.
Carlos wanted a leftist. He thought a left-wing assassin would galvanize anti-Castro feeling. Trafficante and Giancana overruled him.
They matched Howard Hughes’ contribution. They added one stipulation: we want a right-wing patsy.
They still wanted to suck up to Fidel. They wanted to replenish Raul Castro’s dope stash and effect a late-breaking rapprochement. They wanted to say, We financed the hit-now, will you please give us back our casinos?
Their take was too convoluted. Their take was politically naive.
His take was minimalistically downscaled.
The hit can be accomplished. The planners and shooters can walk. Bobby’s Mob crusade can be nullified.
Any results beyond that are unforeseeable, and will most likely resolve themselves in a powerfully ambiguous fashion.
Littell drove through downtown Miami. He noted potential motorcade routes-wide streets with high visibility.
He saw tall buildings and rear parking lots. He saw Office for Rent signs.
He saw blighted residential blocks. He saw House for Rent signs and a gun shop.
He could see the motorcade pass. He could see the man’s head explode.
o o o
They met at the Fontainebleau. Pete ran a wall-to-wall bug sweep before they said one word.
Kemper mixed drinks. They sat around a table by the wet bar.
Littell laid the plan out.
“We bring the fall guy to Miami some time between now and the first of October. We get him to rent a cheap house on the outskirts of downtown, close to the announced or assumedto-be-announced motorcade route-and an office directly on the route-once that route is determined. I cruised every major airport-to-downtown artery this morning. My educated guess is that we’ll have plenty of houses and offices to choose from.”