“What did you do to him?”

“The maricуn had a shack on a pork farm outside of Havana, where he brought little Cuban boys to corrupt them. I found him there with another maricуn and murdered them with my machete. I stole all the pigs’ food from their troughs and left the door of the shack open. You see, I had read in the National Geographic that starving pigs found decomposing human flesh irresistible.”

Pete said, “Fulo, I like you.”

“Please reserve judgment. I can be volatile where the enemies of Jesus Christ and Fidel Castro are concerned.”

Pete stified a yuk. “Did one of Jimmy’s guys leave an envelope for me?’

Fulo forked it over. Pete ripped it open, itchy to roll.

Nice-a simple note and a photo.

“Anton Gretzler, 114 Hibiscus, Lake Weir, Fla. (near Sun Valley). 014-8812.” The pic showed a tall guy almost too fat to live.

Pete said, “Jimmy must trust you.”

“He does. He sponsored my green card, so he knows that I will remain loyal.”

“What’s this Sun Valley place?”

“It is what I think is called a ‘sub-division.’ Jimmy is selling lots to Teamster members.”

Pete said, “So who do you think’s got more juice these days- Jesus or Castro?”

“I would say it is currently a toss-up.”

o o o

Pete checked in at the Eden Roc and buzzed Anton Gretzler from a pay phone. The fat man agreed to a meet: 3:00, outside Sun Valley.

Pete took a snooze and drove out early. Sun Valley was the shits: three dirt roads gouged from swampland forty yards off the Interstate.

It was “sub-divided”-into matchbook-size lots piled with junk siding. Marshland formed the perimeter-Pete saw gators out sunning.

It was hot and humid. A wicked sun cooked greenery dry brown.

Pete leaned against the car and stretched some kinks out. A truck crawled down the highway belching steam; the man in the passenger seat waved for help. Pete turned his back and let the geeks pass by.

A breeze kicked dust clouds up. The access road hazed over. A big sedan turned off the Interstate and barreled in blind.

Pete stood aside. The car brodied to a stop. Fat Anton Gretzler got out.

Pete walked over to him. Gretzler said, “Mr. Peterson?”

“That’s me. Mr. Gretzler?”

Fats stuck his hand out. Pete ignored it

“Is something wrong? You said you wanted to see a lot.”

Pete steered Fat Boy down to a marsh glade. Gretzler caught on quick: Don’t resist. Gator eyes poked out of the water.

Pete said, “Look at my car. Do I look like some union schmuck in the market for a do-it-yourself house?”

“Well… no.”

“Then don’t you think you’re doing Jimmy raw by showing me these piece-of-shit pads?”

“Well…”

“Jimmy told me he’s got a nice block of houses around here just about ready to go. You’re supposed to wait and show them to the Teamsters.”

“Well… I thought I-”

“Jimmy says you’re an impetuous guy. He says he shouldn’t have made you a partner in this thing. He says you’ve told people he borrowed money from the Teamsters’ Pension Fund and skimmed some off the top. He’s says you’ve been talking up the Fund like you’re a made guy.”

Gretzler squirmed. Pete grabbed his wrist and snapped it- bones sheared and poked out through his skin. Gretzler tried to scream and choked up mute.

“Has the McClellan Committee subpoenaed you?”

Gretzler made “yes” nods, frantic.

“Have you talked to Robert Kennedy or his investigators?”

Gretzler made “no” nods, shit-your-pants scared.

Pete checked the highway. No cars in view, no witnesses-

Gretzler said, “PLEASE.”

Pete blew his brains out halfway through a rosary.

2

(Philadelphia, 11/27/58)

The car: a Jaguar XK-140, British racing green/tan leather. The garage: subterranean and dead quiet The job: steal the Jag for the FBI and entrap the fool who paid you to do it

The man pried the driver’s-side door open and hot-wired the ignition. The upholstery smelled rich: full leather boosted the “resale” price into the stratosphere.

He eased the car up to the street and waited for traffic to pass. Cold air fogged the windshield.

His buyer was standing at the corner. He was a Walter Mitty crime-voyeur type who had to get close.

The man pulled out. A squad car cut him off. His buyer saw what was happening-and ran.

Philly cops packing shotguns swooped down. They shouted standard auto-theft commands: “Get out of the car with your hands up!”/”Out-now!”/”Down on the ground!”

He obeyed them. The cops threw on full armor: cuffs, manacles and drag chains.

They frisked him and jerked him to his feet. His head hit a prowl car cherry light-

o o o

The cell looked familiar. He swung his legs off the bunk and got his identity straight.

I’m Special Agent Kemper C. Boyd, FBI, interstate car theft infiltrator.

I’m not Bob Aiken, freelance car thief.

I’m forty-two years old. I’m a Yale Law School grad. I’m a seventeen-year Bureau veteran, divorced, with a daughter in college-and a long-time FBI-sanctioned car booster.

He placed his cell: tier B at the Philly Fed Building.

His head throbbed. His wrists and ankles ached. He tamped down his identity a last notch.

I’ve rigged auto-job evidence and skimmed money off of it for years. IS THIS AN INTERNAL BUREAU ROUST?

He saw empty cells down both sides of the catwalk. He spotted some papers on his sink: newspaper mock-ups topped by banner headlines:

“Car Thief Suffers Heart Attack in Federal Custody”/”Car Thief Expires in Federal Building Cell.”

The text was typed out below.

This afternoon, Philadelphia Police enacted a daring arrest in the shadow of picturesque Rittenhouse Square.

Acting on information supplied by an unnamed informant, Sergeant Gerald P. Griffen and four other officers captured Robert Henry Aiken, 42, in the act of stealing an expensive Jaguar automobile. Aiken meekly let the officers restrain him and-

Someone coughed and said, “Sir?’

Kemper looked up. A clerk type unlocked the cell and held the door open for him.

“You can go out the back way, sir. There’s a car waiting for you.”

Kemper brushed off his clothes and combed his hair. He walked out the freight exit and saw a government limo blocking the alley.

His limo.

Kemper got in the back. J. Edgar Hoover said, “Hello, Mr. Boyd.”

“Good afternoon, Sir.”

A partition slid up and closed the backseat off. The driver pulled out.

Hoover coughed. “Your infiltration assignment was terminated rather precipitously. The Philadelphia Police were somewhat rough, but they have a reputation for that, and anything less would have lacked verisimilitude.”

“I’ve learned to stay in character in situations like that. I’m sure the arrest was believable.”

“Did you affect an East Coast accent for your role?”

“No, a midwestern drawl. I learned the accent and speech patterns when I worked the St Louis office, and I thought they’d complement my physical appearance more effectively.”

“You’re correct, of course. And personally, I would not want to second-guess you on anything pertaining to criminal role-playing. That sports jacket you’re wearing, for instance. I would not appreciate it as standard Bureau attire, but it’s quite appropriate for a Philadelphia car thief.”

Get to it, you officious little-

“In fact, you’ve always dressed distinctly. Perhaps ‘expensively’ is more apt. To be blunt, there have been times when I wondered how your salary could sustain your wardrobe.”