“You’re a loan shark, Sal. What I’m asking for won’t be too far out of line.”
“S-s-so?”
“So I want to get at the Teamsters’ Pension Fund. I want you to help me push somebody up the ladder. I’ll find a man with a pedigree looking for a loan, and you help me set him up with Sam and the Fund. It’s that simple. And I’m not asking you to snitch anybody.”
Sal ogled the money.
Sal popped sweat.
Littell dropped three thousand dollars on the pile.
Sal said, “Okay.”
Littell said, “Take it to Giancana. Don’t gamble with it.”
Sal gave him the bah-fungoo sign. “Stow the lecture. And remember I fucked your mother, which makes me your daddy.”
Littell stood up and roundhoused his revolver. Mad Sal caught the barrel square in the teeth.
Kemper Boyd always said COW YOUR INFORMANTS.
Sal coughed up blood and gold fillings. Some kids at the bar watched the whole thing, bug-eyed.
Littell stared them down.
22
The boat was late.
U.S. Customs agents crowded the dock. The U.S. Health Service had a tent pitched in the parking lot behind it.
The refugees would be X-rayed and blood-tested. The contagious ones would be shipped to a state hospital outside Pensacola.
Stanton checked his passenger manifest. “One of our on-island contacts leaked us a list. All the deportees are male.”
Waves hit the pilings. Guy Banister flicked a cigarette butt at them.
“Which implies that they’re criminals. Castro’s getting rid of plain old ‘undesirables’ under the ‘politically undesirable’ blanket.”
Debriefing huts flanked the dock. U.S. Border Patrol marksmen crouched behind them. They had first-hint-of-trouble/shoot-to-kill orders.
Kemper stood above the front pilings. Waves smashed up and sprayed his trouser legs.
His specific job was to interview Teofilio Paez, the ex-security boss for the United Fruit Company. A CIA briefing pouch defined UF: “America’s largest, most long-established and profitable inCuba corporation and the largest on-island employer of unskilled and semi-skilled Cuban National workers. A long-standing bastion of Cuban anti-Communism. Cuban National security aides, working for the company, have long been effective in recruiting antiCommunist youth eager to infiltrate left-wing worker’s groups and Cuban educational institutions.”
Banister and Stanton watched the skyline. Kemper stepped into a breeze and let it ruffle his hair.
He had ten days in as a contract agent-two briefings at Langley and this. He had ten days in with Laura Hughes-the La Guardia shuttle made trysting easy.
Laura felt legitimate. Laura went crazy when he touched her. Laura said brilliant things and played Chopin con brio.
Laura was a Kennedy. Laura spun Kennedy tales with great verve.
He hid those stories from Mr. Hoover.
It felt like near-loyalty. It felt near-poignant-and Hoovercompromised.
He needed Mr. Hoover. He continued to feed him phone reports, but limited them to McClellan Committee intelligence.
He rented a suite at the St. Regis Hotel, not far from Laura’s apartment The monthly rate was brutal.
Manhattan got in your blood. His three paychecks totaled fiftynine thousand a year-nowhere near enough to sustain the life he wanted.
Bobby kept him busy with boring Committee paperwork. Jack had dropped hints that the family might have post-Committee work for him. His most likely position would be campaign security boss.
Jack enjoyed having him around. Bobby continued to vaguely distrust him.
Bobby wasn’t up for grabs-and Ward Littell knew it.
He talked to Ward twice a week. Ward was ballyhooing his new snitch-a bookie/loan shark named Sal D’Onofrio.
Cautious Ward said he had Mad Sal cowed. Angry Ward said Lenny Sands was now working for Pete Bondurant.
Angry Ward knew that he set it up.
Ward sent him intelligence reports. He edited out the illegalities and forwarded them to Bobby Kennedy. Bobby knew Littell solely as “The Phantom.” Bobby prayed for him and marveled at his courage.
Hopefully, that courage was tinged with circumspection. Hopefully, that boy on the morgue slab taught Ward a few things.
Ward was adaptable and willing to listen. Ward was another orphan-raised in Jesuit foster homes.
Ward had good instincts. Ward believed that “alternative” Pension Fund books existed.
Lenny Sands thought the books were administered by a Mob elder statesman. He’d heard that cash was paid for loan referrals that resulted in large profits.
Littell might be stalking big money. It was potential knowledge to hide from Bobby.
He did hide it. He cut every Fund reference from the Phantom’s reports.
Littell was malleable for a zealot The Big Question was this: Could his covert work be hidden from Mr. Hoover?
A dark speck bobbed on the water. Banister held up binoculars. “They don’t look wholesome. There’s a crap game going on at the back of the barge.”
Customs men hit the dock. They packed revolvers, billy clubs and shackle chains. -
Stanton showed Kemper a photograph. “This is Paez. We’ll grab him right off, so Customs can’t requisition him.”
Paez looked like a skinny Xavier Cugat. Banister said, “I can see him now. He’s up front, and he’s cut and bruised.”
Stanton winced. “Castro hates United Fruit. Our propaganda section picked up a polemic he wrote on it nine months ago. It was an early indication that he might go Commie.”
Whitecaps pushed the barge in close. The men were kicking and clawing to be first off.
Kemper flicked the safety off his piece. “Where are we detaining them?”
Banister pointed north. “The Agency owns a motel in Boynton Beach. They concocted a cover story about fumigation and evicted all the tenants. We’ll pack these beaners in six to a room and see who we can use.”
The refugees yelled and waved little flags on sticks. Teo Paez was crouched to sprint
The Customs boss yelled, “On ready!”
The barge tapped the dock. Paez jumped off. Kemper and Stanton grabbed him and bear-hugged him.
They picked him up and ran with him. Banister ran interference-”CIA custody! He’s ours!”
The riflemen fired warning shots. The refugees ducked and covered. Customs men grappled the barge in and cinched it to the pilings.
Kemper hustled Paez through the crowd. Stanton ran ahead and unlocked a debriefing hut.
Somebody yelled, “There’s a body on the boat!”
They got their man inside. Banister locked the door. Paez hit the floor and smothered it with kisses.
Cigars fell out of his pockets. Banister picked one up and sniffed the wrapper.
Stanton caught his breath. ‘Welcome to America, Mr. Paez. We’ve heard very good things about you, and we’re very glad you’re here.”
Kemper cracked a window. The dead man passed by on a gurney-blade-punctured from head to toe. Customs agents lined up the exiles-maybe fifty men total.
Banister set up his tape recorder on a table. Stanton said, “You had a death on the boat?”
Paez slumped into a chair. “No. It was a political execution. We surmised that the man had been deported to serve as an antiAmerican spy. Under interrogation he revealed that this was true. We acted accordingly.”
Kemper sat down. “You speak excellent English, Teo.”
“I speak the slow and exaggeratedly formal English of the laboriously self-taught. Native speakers tell me that I sometimes lapse into hilarious malapropisms and mutilations of their language.”
Stanton pulled a chair up. “Would you mind talking with us now? We’ve got a nice apartment ready for you, and Mr. Boyd will drive you there in a little while.”
Paez bowed. “I am at your disposable.”