Pete laughed. Pete pissed in a cup and doused the Gulf from 6,000 feet.
Time dragged. Stomach flutters came and went. Pete chased a Dramamine with warm beer.
Lights flashed. Chuck rogered a Pontchartrain patch-in and transcribed the message.
Guy got through to JS. JS pulled strings amp; got thru to Guat. contacts. We’re cleared to land with no passport check amp; if we can get ahold of CM its set up to register him at G.C. Hilton under name Jose Garcia. JS says KB says to have CM call lawyer in Washington D.C. at 0L6-4809 tonight.
Pete pocketed the message. The Dramamine kicked in to his system: good night, sweet prince.
o o o
Leg cramps woke him up. Jungle terrain and a big black runway hovered.
Chuck eased the plane down and cut the engines. Some spics rolled out a literal red carpet.
It was a bit frayed, but nice.
The beaners looked like right-wing toady types. The Agency saved Guatemala’s ass once-some staged coup expunged a shitload of Reds.
Pete hopped out and stamped his legs awake. Chuck and the spics talked rapid-fire Spanish.
They were back in Guatemala-too fucking soon.
The talk escalated. Pete felt his ears pop-pop-pop. They had forty-six minutes to rig something.
Pete walked over to the Customs shack. He got this little Technicolor brain blip: Carlos Marcello needs to urinate.
The bathroom adjoined the passport counter. Pete checked it out.
It ran about 8 feet by 8 feet square. A flimsy screen covered the back window. The view featured more runways and a line of rattletrap bi-planes.
Carlos was stocky. Chuck was rail thin. He was all-around-huge himself.
Chuck walked in and unzipped by the urinal. “We got a big foul-up. I don’t know if it’s good news or bad.”
“What are you saying?”
“I’m saying the Border Patrol’s set to land in seventeen minutes. They’ve got to refuel here and fly to another airport sixty miles away. That’s where Customs is set to pick up Carlos. That ETA I got is for the other goddamned air-”
“How much money have we got in the plane?”
“Sixteen thousand. Santo said to drop it off with Banister.”
Pete shook his head. “We grease the Customs guys with it. We fucking inundate them, so they’ll take the risk. All we need is a car and a driver outside that window, and you to push Carlos through.”
Chuck said, “I get it.”
Pete said, “If he doesn’t have to piss, we’re fucked.”
o o o
The spics dug the plan. Chuck greased them at the rate of two grand per man. They said they’d keep the Border Patrol guys busy while Carlos Marcello took the world’s longest whiz.
Pete loosened the window screen. Chuck stashed the Piper two hangars over.
The spics supplied a ‘49 Merc getaway car. The spics supplied a driver-a musclebound fag named Luis.
Pete backed the Merc up to the window. Chuck crouched on the toilet seat with last week’s Hush-Hush.
The Border Patrol plane landed. A crew hustled out refueling pumps. Pete crouched behind the Customs shack and watched.
The spics zipped out the red carpet. A little geek brushed it off with a whisk broom.
Two Border Patrol clowns deplaned. The pilot said, “Let him go. Where’s he gonna run to?”
Carlos tumbled out of the plane. Carlos ran to the shack, knock-kneed in tight BVDs.
Luis idled the engine. Pete head the bathroom door slam.
Carlos yelled, “ROGERS, WHAT THE FUCK-?”
The window screen popped out. Carlos Marcello squeezed through-and snagged himself bare-assed in the process.
o o o
The run to the Hilton took an hour. Marcello blasted Bobby Kennedy nonstop.
In English. In straight Italian. In Sicilian dialect. In New Orleans Cajun French patois-not bad for a wop.
Luis detoured by a men’s shop. Chuck took down Marcello’s sizes and bought him some threads.
Carlos dressed in the car. Little window-squeeze abrasions bloodied up his shirt.
The hotel manager met them at the freight entrance. They freight-lifted up to the penthouse on the QT
The manager unlocked the door. One glance said Stanton delivered.
The pad featured three bedrooms, three bathrooms and a rec room lined with slot machines. The living room was Kemper Boyd fantasy size.
The bar was fully stocked. A guinea cold-cut buffet was laid out. The envelope by the cheese tray contained twenty grand and a note.
Pete amp; Chuck,
I’m betting you were able to get ahold of Mr. Marcello. Take good care of him. He’s a valuable friend to the Cause.
JS
Marcello grabbed the money. The manager genuflected. Pete showed him the door and slipped him a C-note.
Marcello snarfed salami and breadsticks. Chuck built a tall Bloody Mary.
Pete paced off the suite. Forty-two yards lengthwise-whoa!
Chuck curled up with a hate mag. Marcello said, “I really had to piss. When you hold a piss that long it pisses you off.”
Pete snagged a beer and some crackers. “Stanton’s got you a lawyer in D.C. You’re supposed to call him.”
“I’ve talked to him already. I’ve got the best Jew lawyers money can buy, and now I’ve got him.”
“You should call him now and get it over with.”
“You call him. And stay on the line in case I need you to translate. Lawyers talk this language I don’t always get the first time around.”
Pete grabbed the coffee table extension. The hotel operator placed his call.
Marcello picked up the bar phone. The long-distance rings came through faint.
A man said, “Hello?”
Marcello said, “Who’s this? Are you that guy I talked to at the Hay-Adams?”
“Yes, this is Ward Littell. Is this Mr. Marcello?”
Pete almost SHIT-
Carlos slumped into a chair. “This is him, calling from Guatemala City, Guatemala, where he does not want to be. Now, if you want to get my attention, say something bad about the man who put me here.”
Pete clenched up wicked bad. He covered his mouthpiece so they wouldn’t hear him hyperventilate.
Littell said, “I hate that man. He hurt me once, and there is very little that I wouldn’t do to cause him discomfort.”
Carlos tee-hee-heed-weird for a bass-baritone. “You got my attention. Now, stow that ass-kiss routine you dropped on me before, and say something to convince me you’re good at what you do.”
Littell cleared his throat. “I specialize in deportation writ work. I was an FBI agent for close to twenty yeas. I’m a good friend of Kemper Boyd, and although I distrust his admiration for the Kennedys, I’m convinced that his devotion to the Cuban Cause supersedes it. He wants to see you safely and legally reunited with your loved ones, and I’m here to see that it happens.”
Pete felt queasy. BOYD, YOU FUCK-
Marcello snapped breadsticks. “Kemper said you were ten grand’s worth of good. Now, if you deliver like you talk, ten grand’s just the start of you and me.”
Littell came on servile. “It’s an honor to work for you. And Kemper apologizes for your inconvenience. He was tipped off on the raid at the last second, and he didn’t think they could pull it off as fast as they did.”
Marcello scratched his neck with a breadstick. “Kemper always gets the job done. I’ve got no complaints against him that can’t wait until the next time I see that too-handsome face of his face-to-face. And the Kennedys keestered 49.8% of the American voters, including some good friends of mine, so I don’t begrudge him that admiration if it don’t fuck with my life and limb.”