The lockers were steel-plated. The waiting rooms were guarded 24 hours.
Littell spent two full days thinking it through. It came down to this:
He could tail them. But when they picked up the money, he’d be helpless.
He could only tail them one at a time. It came down to this: pre-existing bad odds doubled against him.
He decided to try anyway. He decided to pad his Red Squad reports and tail the men on alternate days for one week.
Day one: He tails Rocco Malvaso from 8:00 a.m. to midnight. Rocco drives to his numbers dens, his union shops and his girlfriend’s place in Glencoe.
Rocco goes nowhere near a train station.
Day two: He tails Dewey the Duck from 8:00 a.m. to midnight. Dewey drives to numerous prostitution collections.
Dewey goes nowhere near a train station.
Day three: He tails Rocco Malvaso from 8:00 a.m. to midnight. Rocco drives to Milwaukee and pistol-whips recalcitrant pimps.
Rocco goes nowhere near a train station.
Day four: He tails Dewey the Duck from 8:00 a.m. to midnight Dewey entertains at Dewey Junior’s outdoor birthday party, dressed up as Donald Duck.
Dewey goes nowhere near a train station.
Day five: He tails Rocco Malvaso from 8:00 a.m. to midnight. Rocco spends said time with a call girl at the Blackhawk Hotel in Chicago.
Rocco goes nowhere near a train station.
Day six, 8:00 a.m.: He picks up his tail on Dewey the Duck. 9:40 a.m.: Dewey’s car won’t start. Mrs. Duck drives Dewey to the Evanston train station.
Dewey loiters in the waiting room.
Dewey eyes the lockers.
Locker #19 is affixed with a Donald Duck decal.
Littell almost swoons.
Nights six, seven and eight: He stakes out the station. He learns that the watchman leaves for his coffee break at 3:10 a.m.
The man walks down the street to an all-night diner. The waiting room is left unguarded for at least eighteen minutes.
Night nine: He hits the station. He’s armed with a crowbar, tin snips, a mallet and a chisel. He snaps the door off locker 19 and steals the four grocery bags full of money inside.
It totals $81,492.
He now has an informant fund. The bills are old and well circulated.
He gives Mad Sal ten thousand dollars for starters.
He finds the Jack Ruby look-alike wino and gives him five hundred.
The Cook County Morgue supplies him with a name. Icepick Tony Iannone’s lover was one Bruce William Sifakis. He sends the boy’s parents ten thousand dollars anonymously.
He drops five thousand in the poor box at Saint Anatole’s and stays to pray.
He asks forgiveness for his hubris. He tells God that he has gained his selffiood at great cost to other people. He tells God that he loves danger now, and it thrills him much more than it frightens him.
24
The plane taxied in. Pete got out his passport and a fat roll of ten-spots.
The passport was Canadian, and CIA-forged.
Militiamen hit the runway. The Cuban fuzz tapped all the Key West flights for handouts.
Boyd called him two days ago. He said John Stanton and Guy Banister dug that old Big Pete panache. Boyd had just signed on with the Agency. He said he had a tailor-made Big Pete job, which might prove to be a CIA audition run.
He said, “You fly from Key West to Havana under a Canadian passport. You speak French-accented English. You find out where Santo Trafficante is and take delivery of a note from him. The note should be addressed to Carlos Marcello, Johnny Rosselli and Sam Giancana, et al. It should state that Trafficante advises no Mob retaliation against Castro for nationalizing the casinos. You’re also to locate a very frightened United Fruit executive named Thomas Gordean and bring him back with you for debriefing. This has to be accomplished very soon-Castro and Ike are set to permanently cancel all commercial flights running from the U.S. to Cuba.”
Pete said, “Why me?”
Boyd said, “Because you can handle yourself. Because the cabstand gave you a crash course in Cubans. Because you’re not a known Mob man that Castro’s secret police might have a file on.”
Pete said, “What’s the pay?”
Boyd said, “Five thousand dollars. And if you’re detained, the same diplomatic courier who’s trying to get Trafficante and some other Americans out will arrange for your release. It’s just a matter of time before Castro releases all foreign nationals.”
Pete wavered. Boyd said, “You’ll also receive my personal promise that Ward Littell-a very disturbed and dangerous man- will never touch you. In fact, I set you up with Lenny Sands to buffer the two of you.”
Pete laughed.
Boyd said, “If the Cuban cops roust you, tell the truth.”
The doors opened. Pete stuck a ten-dollar bill inside his passport. Militiamen climbed into the plane.
They wore mismatched gun belts and carried odd pistols. Their shirt-front regalia was straight out of some Kellogg’s Corn Flakes box.
Pete squeezed up toward the cockpit. Arc lights strafed the doorways and windows. He walked down the ramp ducking blinding goddamn glare.
A guard snatched his passport. The ten-spot disappeared. The guard bowed and handed him a beer.
The other passengers filed out. Militia geeks checked their passports for tips and came up empty.
The boss guard shook his head. His minions confiscated purses and wallets. A man protested and tried to hold on to his billfold.
The spics laid him out prone on the runway. They cut his trousers off with razor blades and picked his pockets clean.
The other passengers quit squawking. The boss guard rifled through their stuff.
Pete sipped beer. Some guards walked up with their hands out.
He greased them, one ten-spot per hand. He goofed on their uniforms: lots of frayed khaki and epaulets like the ushers at Grauman’s Chinese.
A little spic waved a camera. “You play futbol, hombre? Hey, big man, you play futbol?”
Somebody lobbed a football. Pete caught it one-handed. A flashbulb popped right upside his face.
Get the picture? They want you to pose.
He crouched low and waved the ball like Johnny Unitas. He went deep for a pass, blocked an invisible lineman and bounced the ball off his head like a nigger soccer ace he saw on TV once.
The spics clapped. The spics cheered. Flashbulbs pop-pop-popped.
Somebody yelled, “Hey, eees Robert Mitchum!”
Peasant types ran out on the runway, waving autograph books. Pete ran for a taxi stand by the gate.
Little kids urged him on. Cab doors opened, presto chango.
Pete dodged an oxcart and piled into an old Chevy. The driver said, “Joo are not Robert Mitchum.”
o o o
They cruised Havana. Animals and street riffraff clogged traffic. They never got above ten miles an hour.
It was 92 degrees at 10:00 p.m. Half the geeks out on the stroll wore fatigues and full Jesus Christ beards.
Dig those whitewashed Spanish-style buildings. Dig the posters on every facade: Fidel Castro smiling, Fidel Castro shouting, Fidel Castro waving a cigar.
Pete flashed the snapshot Boyd gave him. “Do you know this man?”
The driver said, “Sн It is Mr. Santo Junior. He is in custody at the Nacional Hotel.”
“Why don’t you take me there.”
Pancho hung a U-turn. Pete saw hotel row up ahead-a line of half-assed skyscrapers facing the beach.
Lights sparkled down on the water. A big stretch of glow lit the waves up turquoise blue.
The cab pulled up to the Nacional. Bellboys swooped down- clowns in threadbare tuxedos. Pete whipped a ten-spot on the driver-the fuck almost wept.
The bellboys stuck their hands out. Pete lubed them at the rate of ten scoots per. A cordon pushed him into the casino.