Tippit and the kids walked out with soft drinks. They divided up between the cars and headed out southbound.

Littell counted to twenty and followed them. Traffic was light-they drove surface streets for five minutes and hit the border crossing one-two-three.

A guard waved them through. Littell popped a location-setting snapshot: two cars en route to Federal violations.

Mexico was a dusty extension of Texas. They drove through a long string of tin-shack villages.

A car squeezed in behind Tippit. Littell used it for protective cover.

They drove up into scrub hills. Littell fixed on J.D.’s foxtailtipped antenna. The road was half dirt and half blacktop-gravel chunks snapped under his tires.

Kabikoff turned right at a sign: Domicilio de Estado Policfa. “State Police Barracks”-an easy translation.

Tippit followed Kabikoff. The road was all dirt-the cars sent dust clouds swirling. They fishtailed up a little rock-clustered mountain.

Littell stayed on the main road and kept going. He saw some tree cover fifty yards up the mountainside-a thick clump of scrub pines to shoot from.

He pulled over and parked off the road. He packed his gear into a duffel bag and covered his car with scrub branches and tumbleweeds.

Echoes bounced his way. The “shoot” was just over the top of the hill.

He followed the sounds. He lugged his gear up a 90-degree grade.

The crest looked down on a dirt-packed clearing. His vantage point was goddamn superb.

The “barracks” was a tin-roofed shack. State Police cars were parked beside it-Chevys and old Hudson Hornets.

Tippit was lugging film cans. Fat Sid was bribing Mexican cops. The smut kids were checking out some handcuffed women.

Littell crouched behind a bush and laid out his gear. His zoom lens brought him into close-up range.

He saw wide-open barracks windows and mattresses set up inside. He saw black shirts and annbands on the cops.

The cop cars had leopard-skin seat covers. The women wore prison ID bracelets.

The crowd dispersed. The blackshirts uncuffed the women. Kabikoff hauled equipment inside the barracks.

Littell went to work. The heat had him weaving on his knees. His zoom lens got him in very close.

He snapped pictures and watched them develop. He placed them in neat rows inside his duffel bag.

He snapped smut girls entwined on a mattress. He snapped Sid Kabikoff coercing lesbian action.

He snapped obscene insertions. He snapped dildo gang bangs. He snapped smut boys whipping Mexican women bloody.

The Polaroid cranked out instant closeups. Fat Sid was colorglossy indicted:

For Suborning Lewd Conduct. For Felony Assault. For Filming Pornography for Interstate Sales, in violation of nine Federal statutes.

Littell shot his way through forty rolls of film. Sweat soaked the ground all around him.

Sid Kabikoff was evidence-snapped:

White slaving. Violating the Mann Act. Serving as an accessory to kidnapping and sexual battery.

Snap!-a snack break-cops baking tortillas on a prowl-car roof.

Snap!-a prisoner tries to escape. Snap!/snap!/snap!-two cops catch her and rape her.

Littell walked back to his car. He started sobbing just over the border.

o o o

He taped the pictures into his scrapbook and calmed down with prayers and a half-pint He found a good spot to perch: the accessroad curb, a half-mile north of the border.

The road ran one way. It was the only route to the Interstate. It was nicely lit-you could almost read license plate numbers. Littell waited. Air-conditioner blasts kept him from dozing. Midnight came and went.

Cars drove by law-abidingly slow-the Border Patrol gave tickets all the way to McAllen.

Headlights swept by. Littell kept scanning rear plates. The airconditioner freeze was making him sick.

Kabikoff’s Cadillac passed-

Littell slid out behind him. He slapped the cherry light to his roof and pulled on his ski mask.

The light swirled bright red. Littell hit his high beams and tapped the horn.

Kabikoff pulled over. Littell boxed him in and walked up to his door.

Kabikoff screamed-the mask was bright red with white devil’s horns.

Littell remembered making threats.

Littell remembered his final pitch: YOU’RE GOING TO TALK TO GIANCANA WIRED UP.

He remembered a sire iron.

He remembered blood on the dashboard.

He remembered begging God PLEASE DON’T LET ME KILL HIM.

30

“Cocksucking Commie fuckers shoot up my cabstand! First it’s Bobby Kennedy, now it’s these Red Cuban shitheels!”

Heads turned their way-Jimmy Hoffa talked loud. Lunch with Jimmy was risky-the hump sprayed food and coffee routinely.

Pete had a headache. The Tiger Kab hut stood catty-corner from the diner-the fucking tiger stripes were giving him eyestrain.

He turned away from the window. “Jimmy, let’s talk-”

Hoffa cut him off. “Bobby Kennedy’s got every shithead grand jury in America chasing me. Every shithead prosecutor in creation wants to go the rump route with James Riddle Hoffa.”

Pete yawned. The red-eye from L.A. was brutal.

Boyd gave him marching orders. Boyd said, Make a deal for the cabstand-I want an intelligence/recruiting hub in Miami. More banana boats are due. When the Blessington campsite flies, we’ll need more driver spots for our boys.

A waitress brought fresh coffee-Hoffa had spritzed his cup empty. Pete said, “Jimmy, let’s talk business.”

Hoffa dumped in cream and sugar. “I didn’t think you flew in for that roast-beef sandwich.”

Pete lit a cigarette. “The Agency wants to lease a half-interest in the cabstand. There’s lots of Agency and Outfit guys that are starting to feel pretty strongly about Cuba, and the Agency thinks the stand would be a good place to recruit out of. And there’ll be shitloads of Cuban exiles coming into Miami, which means big business if the stand goes anti-Castro in a big way.”

Hoffa belched. “What do you mean, ‘lease’?”

“I mean you get a guaranteed $5,000 a month, in cash, plus half the gross profits, plus an Agency freeze with the IRS, just in case. My 5% comes off the top, you’ll still have Chuck Rogers and Fulo running the stand, and I’ll be coming by to check in regularly, once I start my contract job down in Blessington.”

Jimmy’s eyes flashed-$$$$$. “I like it. But Fulo said Kemper Boyd’s tight with the Kennedys, which I do not like one iota.”

Pete shrugged. “Fulo’s right.”

“Could Boyd get me off the hook with Bobby?”

“I’d say his loyalties are stretched too thin to try it. With Boyd, you take the bitter with the sweet.”

Hoffa dabbed a stain off his necktie. “The bitter is those Cornmie humps who shot up my cabstand. The sweet is that if you took care of them, I’d be inclined to accept that offer.”

o o o

Pete huddled up a crew at the dispatch hut. Solid guys: Chuck, Fulo, Boyd’s man Teo Paez.

They pulled chairs up in front of the air conditioner. Chuck passed a bottle around.

Fulo sharpened his machete on a rock. “I understand that all six of the traitors have vacated their apartments. I have been told that they have moved into a place called a ‘safe house.’ It is near here, and I believe it is Communisto-financed.”

Chuck wiped spit off the bottle. “I saw Rolando Cruz checking out the stand yesterday, so I think it’s safe to say we’re under surveillance. A cop friend of mine got me their license numbers, so if you say we go trawling, that’ll help.”

Paez said, “Death to traitors.”

Pete ripped the air conditioner off the wall. Steam billowed out.