62

Poppy fields blitzed the horizon. Stalk bulbs oozing dope covered a valley half the size of Rhode Island.

Prison inmates did the plucking. Mexican cops cracked the whip and did all the conversion work.

Heshie Ryskind led the tour. Pete and Chuck Rogers tagged along and let him play MC.

“This farm has supplied me and Santo for years. They convert ‘O’ into morphine for the Agency, too, ‘cause the Agency’s always backing some right-wing insurgents that get shot at and wounded a lot, and they always need the morph as medication. Most of the zombies they got working here stay past the end of their sentence ‘cause all they want to do is suck a pipe and nosh a few tortillas on the side. I wish I had such simple needs. I wish I didn’t have to keep nine fucking doctors on retainer ‘cause I’m such a fucking hypochondriac, and I wish I didn’t have the chutzpah-which is the same as ‘audacity’ to you goyim-to try to break the world’s record for getting blow jobs, ‘cause I think I’ve reached the point where all that suction is doing my prostate more harm than good. And I’m not the blow-job magnet I used to be. I’ve got to travel with a good cunt man now to see any action at all. Lately, I’ve had Dick Contino bird-dogging for me. I catch all his lounge gigs, and Dick shoots me all the surplus suction I can handle.”

The sun slammed down. They rode out in rickshaws, with junkie inmates at the helm.

Pete said, “We need ten pounds precut for the Cadre. I won’t be able to get back here until after the invasion.”

Chuck laughed. “If and when your boy Jack approves it.”

Pete flicked a bulb-white shit oozed out. “And I want a substantial morphine supply for the medics at Blessington. Let’s just figure this is our last visit for a while.”

Heshie leaned against his rickshaw. The pilot wore a loincloth and a Dodger baseball cap.

“All this can be arranged. It’s a lot simpler than arranging blow jobs for sixty at some farkakte Teamster convention.”

Chuck dabbed bulb goo on a shaving cut. “My jaw’s going a little numb. It’s a nice effect, but I wouldn’t ruin my life for it.”

Pete laughed. Heshie said, “I’m tired. I’ll go back and get your stuff loaded up, then I’m taking a nap.”

Chuck hopped in his rickshaw. The pilot looked like fucking Quasimodo.

Pete stood on his tiptoes. The view spread waaay out.

Maybe a thousand stalk rows. Maybe twenty slaves per row. Low worker overhead: cot space, rice and beans came cheap.

Chuck and Heshie took off-dig that crazy rickshaw drag race.

Boyd said Mr. Hoover had a maxim: Anti-Communism breeds strange bedfellows.

o o o

They flew from Mexico to Guatemala. The Piper Deuce cruised sluggish-Chucky overstuffed the cargo hold.

With rifles, hate pamphlets, heroin, morphine, tortillas, tequil, Army surplus jump boots, Martin Luther Coon voodoo dolls, back issues of Hush-Hush, and five hundred mimeographed copies of a Guy Banister-circulated report culled from the L.A. FBI office, stating that even though Mr. Hoover knew full well that President John F. Kennedy was not playing bury-the-brisket with Marilyn Monroe, he kept her under intensive surveillance anyway, and duly noted that during the last six weeks Miss Monroe fucked Louis Prima, two off-duty Marines, Spade Cooley, Franchot Tone, Yves Montand, Stan Kenton, David Seville of David Seville and the Chipmunks, four pizza delivery boys, bantamweight battler Fighting Harada and a disc jockey at an all-spook R amp;B station.

Chuck called it “essential ordnance.”

Pete tried to doze. Air sickness kept him awake. The training camp popped out of a cloud bank, right on schedule.

It loomed biggg. From the air it looked like ten Blessingtons.

Chuck cut his flaps and eased down. Pete puked out his window just shy of the runway.

They taxied in. Pete gargled tequila for a breath rinse. Cuban trainees hit the hold and off-loaded the rifles.

A case officer trotted up with supply forms. Pete got out and itemized them: guns, R amp;R booze, Hush-Hush anti-Beard propaganda.

The guy said, “You can eat now, or wait for Mr. Boyd and Mr. Stanton.”

“Let me walk around a little. I’ve never seen the place.”

Chuck pissed on the runway. Pete said, “Any word on a go date?”

The guy shook his head. “Kennedy’s waffling. Mr. Bissell’s starting to think we’ll be lucky to go before summer.”

“Jack will come through. He’ll see that it’s too sweet a deal to pass up.”

o o o

Pete meandered. The camp was Disneyland for killers.

Six hundred Cubans. Fifty white men running herd. Twelve barracks, a drill field, a rifle range, a pistol range, a landing strip, a mess hall, an infiltration course and a chemical-warfare simulation tunnel.

Three launch inlets gouged out of the Gulf a mile south. Four dozen amphibious crawlers rigged with.50-caliber machine guns.

An ammo dump. A field hospital. A Catholic chapel with a bilingual chaplain.

Pete meandered. Old Blessington grads waved hello. Case officers showed him some good shit.

Dig Nйstor Chasco-staging mock-assassination maneuvers.

Dig that anti-Red indoctrination workshop.

Dig the verbal abuse drills-calculated to increase troop subservience.

Dig the corpsman’s amphetamine stash-pre-packaged preinvasion courage.

Dig the action in that barbed-wire enclosure-peons flying on a drug called LSD.

Some of them screamed. Some wept. Some grinned like LSD was a blast. A case officer said John Stanton hatched the idea- let’s flood Cuba with this shit before we invade.

Langley co-signed the brainstorm. Langley embellished it: Let’s induce mass hallucinations and stage the Second Coming of Christ!!!!!

Langley found some suicidal actors. Langley dolled them up to look like J.C. Langley had them set to pre-invade Cuba, concurrent with the dope saturation.

Pete howled. The case officer said, “It’s not funny.” A drugzorched peon whipped out his wang and jacked off.

Pete meandered. Everything sparkled and gleamed.

Dig the bayonet drills. Dig the spit-shined jeeps. Dig that rummy-looking priest dispensing outdoor Holy Communion.

Loudspeakers announced chow call. It was 5:00 and nowhere near dark-military types dined early.

Pete walked over to the lounge hut A pool table and wet bar ate up two-thirds of the floor space.

Boyd and Stanton walked in. A large fucker blocked the doorway-resplendent in French paratrooper khakis.

Kemper said, “Entrez, Laurent.”

He was jug-eared and plain huge. He had that frog imperialist swagger down pat.

Pete bowed. “Salut, capitaine.”

Boyd smiled. “Laurent Guйry, Pete Bondurant.”

Froggy clicked his heels. “Monsieur Bondurant. C’est un grand plaisir de faire votre connaissance. On dit que vous кtes un grand patriote.”

Pete tossed out some Quйbecois. “Tout le plaisir est a moi, capitaine. Mais je suis beaucoup plus profiteur que patriote.”

Froggy laughed. Stanton said, “Translate for me, Kemper. I’m starting to feel like a rube.”

“You’re not missing much.”

“You mean it’s just Pete trying to be civilized with the only other six-foot-six Frenchman on earth?”

Froggy shrugged-Quoi? Quoi? Quoi?

Pete winked. “Vous кtes quoi donc, capitaine? Etes-vous un ‘right-wing crackpot’? Etes-vous un ‘mercenary on the Cuban gravy train’?”

Froggy shrugged-Quoi? Quoi? Quoi?

Boyd steered Pete out to the porch. Spics double-timed through a chow line across from the drill field.

“Be nice, Pete. He’s Agency.”