Littell said, “He’ll be pleased to hear that. And you should know that I’m writing up a temporary reinstatement brief that will be reviewed by a three-judge Federal panel. I’ll be calling your attorney in New York, and we’ll begin devising a long-range legal strategy.”

Marcello kicked off his shoes. “Do it. Call my wife and tell her I’m okay, and do whatever you need to do to get me the fuck out of here.”

“I will. And I’ll be bringing some paperwork down for you to sign. You can expect to see me within seventy-two hours.”

Marcello said, “I want to go home.”

Pete hung up. Steam hissed out of his ears like he was Donald Fucking Duck.

o o o

They killed time. The jumbo pad let them kill it separately.

Chucky watched spic TV. King Carlos buzzed his serfs long-distance. Pete fantasized ninety-nine ways to murder Ward Littell.

John Stanton called in. Pete regaled him with the toilet-snatch story. Stanton said the Agency would cover their bribe tab.

Pete said, Boyd fixed Carlos up with a lawyer. Stanton said, I heard he’s quite good. Pete almost said, Now I can’t kill him.

BOYD, YOU FUCK.

Stanton said the fix was in. Ten grand would buy Carlos a temporary visa. The Guatemalan foreign minister was set to publicly state:

Mr. Marcello was born in Guatemala. His birth certificate is legitimate. Attorney General Kennedy is wrong. Mr. Marcello’s origins are in no way ambiguous.

Mr. Marcello split to America-legally. Sadly, we have no records to corroborate this. The burden of proof now falls upon Mr. Kennedy.

Stanton said the minister hates Jack the K.

Stanton said Jack fucked his wife and both his daughters.

Pete said, Jack fucked my old girlfriend. Stanton said, Wow- and you still helped elect him!

Stanton said, Have Chuck grease the minister. And by the way, Jack’s still clicking around on a go-date.

Pete hung up and looked out the window. Guatemala City by twilight-strictly the rat’s ass.

o o o

They all dozed off early. Pete woke up early-a nightmare had him balled up under his sheets, gasping for breath.

Chuck was out on his bribe run. Carlos was on his second cigar.

Pete opened the living-room curtains. He saw a big hubbub down at ground bevel.

He saw a string of trucks at the curb. He saw men with cameras. He saw cables stretching into the lobby.

He saw people gesturing up.

He saw a big movie camera pointing straight up at them.

Pete said, “We’re blown.”

Carlos dropped his cigar in his hash browns and ran to the window.

Pete said, “The Agency’s got a camp an hour from here. If we can find Chuck and fly out, we’ll make it.”.

Carlos looked down. Carlos saw the ruckus. Carlos pushed his breakfast cart through the window and watched it bullseye down eighteen stories.

65

Heat shimmied off the runway. Blast-oven heat-Kemper should have warned him to dress light.

Kemper warned him that Bondurant would be there. He hustled Marcello out of Guatemala City three days ago and arranged for the CIA to play innkeeper.

Kemper added a postscript: Pete knows you’ve got the Fund books.

Littell stepped away from the plane. He felt woozy. His connecting flight from Houston was a World War II transport.

Propeller thwack boosted the heat. The campsite was large and dusty-odd buildings plunked down in a red clay jungle clearing.

A jeep skidded up. The driver saluted.

“Mr. Littell?”

“Yes.”

“I’ll drive you over, sir. Your friends are waiting for you.”

Littell got in. The rearview mirror caught his bold new face.

He had three shots back in Houston. Daytime shots to help him rise to this one-time occasion.

The driver peeled out. Troops marched by in strict formation; cadence counts overlapped.

They pulled into a barrack’s quadrangle. The driver stopped in front of a small Quonset hut. Littell grabbed his suitcase and walked in ramrod-straight.

The room was air-conditioned. Bondurant and Carlos Marcello stood by a pool table.

Pete winked. Littell winked back. His whole face contorted.

Pete cracked his knuckles-his old intimidation trademark. Marcello said, “What are you, faggots, winking at each other?”

Littell put his suitcase down. The snaps creaked. His surprise had the damn thing bulging.

“How are you, Mr. Marcello?”

“I’m losing money. Every day Pete and my Agency friends treat me better, so every day I end up pledging more money to the Cause. I figure the nut on this hotel’s running me twenty-five grand a day.”

Pete chalked up a pool cue. Marcello jammed his hands in his pockets.

Kemper warned him: the man does not shake hands.

“I talked to your attorneys in New York a few hours ago. They want to know if you need anything.”

Marcello smiled. “I need to kiss my wife on the cheek and fuck my girlfriend. I need to eat some duck Rochambeau at Galatoire’s, and I cannot accomplish any of that here.”

Bondurant racked up the table. Littell swung his suitcase up and blocked it off lengthwise.

Marcello chuckled. “I’m starting to detect old grief here.”

Pete lit a cigarette. Littell caught the exhale full-on.

“I’ve got a good deal of paperwork for you to review, Mr. Marcello. We’ll need to spend some time together and devise a story that details your immigration history, so that Mr. Wasserman can use it when he files his injunction to get your deportation order rescinded. Some very influential people want to see you repatriated, and I’ll be working with them as well. I realize that all this unexpected travel must be exhausting, so Kemper Boyd and I are going to arrange for Chuck Rogers to fly you back to Louisiana in a few days and hide you out.”

Marcello did a quick little shuffle. The man was deft and fast on his feet.

Pete said, “What happened to your face, Ward?”

Littell opened the suitcase. Pete picked up the 8-ball and cracked it in half barehanded.

Wood chunks snapped and popped. Marcello said, “I’m not sure I like where this is going.”

Littell pulled out the Fund books. A quick prayer tamped down his nerves.

“I’m sure you both know that Jules Schiffrin’s estate in Lake Geneva was burglarized last November. Some paintings were stolen, along with some ledgers rumored to contain Teamster Pension Fund notations. The thief was an informant for a Chicago-based Top Hoodlum Program agent named Court Meade, and he gave the books to Meade when he realized that the paintings were too well-known and recognizable to sell. Meade died of a heart attack in January, and he willed the books to me. He told me he never showed them to anyone else, and in my opinion he was waiting to sell them to somebody in the Giancana organization. There’s a few pages that have been torn out, but aside from that I think they’re intact. I brought them to you because I know how close you are to Mr. Hoffa and the Teamsters.”

Marcello went slack-jawed. Pete snapped a pool cue in half.

He tore out fourteen pages back in Houston. He had all the Kennedy entries safely stashed.

Marcello offered his hand. Littell kissed a big diamond ring papal-style.