Kemper mixed a gin and tonic. “I’ll get on it right away. Was there anything else?”

“Yes. The Agency wants to set up a Cuban ‘government in exile,’ to be housed at Blessington during the actual invasion. It’s mostly cosmetic, but we’ve got to have at least a facsimile of a consensus-chosen leadership ready to install if we get Castro out within, say, three or four days of our go date.”

“And you want my opinion as to who gets the nod?”

“Right. I know you’re not too well versed on exile politics, but I thought you might have picked up some opinions from the Cadre.”

Kemper faked deep thought. Steady now, make him wait-

Stanton threw his hands up. “Come on, I didn’t tell you to go into a goddamn trance about-”

Kemper snapped out of it-bright-eyed and forceful. “We want far-right-wingers susceptible to working with Santo and our other friends in the Ouffit. We want a figurehead leader who can maintain order, and the best way to re-stabilize the Cuban economy is to get the casinos operating on a full profit margin. If Cuba stays volatile or the Reds take over again, we’ve got to be able to draw on the Outfit for financial assistance.”

Stanton laced his hands around one knee. “I was expecting something a bit more enlightened from Kemper Boyd the civil rights reformer. And I’m sure you know that the donations of our Italian friends only account for a tiny percentage of our legitimately funded government budget.”

Kemper shrugged. “Cuba’s solvency depends on American tourism. The Outfit can help insure that. United Fruit is out of Cuba now, and only a bribable far-right-winger will be willing to de-nationalize their holdings.”

Stanton said, “Keep going. You’re close to persuading me.”

Kemper stood up. “Carlos is down at the Guatemala camp with my lawyer friend. Chuck’s going to fly him to Louisiana in a few days and hide him out, and I’ve heard that he’s getting more pro-exile by the day. I’m betting that the invasion will succeed, but that chaos will reign inside Cuba for some time. Whoever we install will fall under intense public scrutiny, which means public accountability, and we both know that the Agency will be subjected to intense scrutiny that will limit our deniabibity in all matters pertaining to covert action. We’ll need the Cadre then, and we’ll probably need a half-dozen more groups as ruthless and autonomous as the Cadre, and we’ll need them to be privately funded. Our new leader will need a secret police, and the Outfit will provide him with one, and if he falters in his pro-U.S. stance, the Outfit will assassinate him.”

Stanton stood up. He looked bright-eyed verging on feverish.

“I don’t have the final say, but you sold me. Your pitch wasn’t as flowery as your boy’s Inaugural address, but it was a good deal more politically astute.”

AND PROFIT-MOTIVATED-

Kemper said, “Thanks. It’s an honor to be compared to John F Kennedy.”

o o o

Fulo drove. Nйstor talked. Kemper watched.

They cruised Cadre turf in random figure-eights. Slum shacks and housing projects zipped by.

Nйstor said, “Send me back to Cuba. I will shoot Fidel from a rooftop. I will become the Simon Bolivar of my country.”

Fulo’s Chevy was packed with dope. Powder puffed out of plastic bags and dusted the seats.

Nйstor said, “Send me back to Cuba as a boxer. I will beat Fidel to death with bolo punches like Kid Gavilan.”

Rheumy eyes popped their way-local junkies knew the car. Winos pressed up for handouts-Fulo was a well-known soft touch.

Fulo called it the New Marshall Plan. Fulo said his handouts inspired subservience.

Kemper watched.

Nйstor stopped at drop sites and sold pre-packaged bindles. Fulo backstopped all transactions with a shotgun.

Kemper watched.

Fulo spotted a non-Cadre transaction outside Lucky Time Liquors. Nйstor sprayed the transactors with 12-gauge-propelled rock salt.

The transactors dispersed every which way. Rock salt tore through your clothes and made your skin sting like a mother humper.

Kemper watched.

Nйstor said, “Send me back to Cuba as a skin diver. I will shoot Fidel with an underwater spear gun.”

Street-corner rummies sucked down T-Bird. Glue fiends sniffed rags. Half the front lawns featured dilapidated jalopies.

Kemper watched. Cab calls squawked up the squawk box. Fulo drove from Darktown to Poquito Habana.

Faces went from black to brown. Incidental colors shifted and went more pastel.

Pastel-fronted churches. Pastel-fronted dance clubs and bodegas. Men in bright pastel guayabera shirts.

Fulo drove. Nйstor talked. Kemper watched.

They passed parking-lot crap games. They passed soapbox orations. They passed two kids pummeling a pro-Beard pamphleteer.

Kemper watched.

Fulo glided down Flagler and traded cash for prostitute street talk.

One girl said Castro was queer. One girl said Castro had a 12” chorizo. All the girls wanted to know one thing: When’s this big invasion gonna happen?

A girl said she picked up a rumor down at Blessington. Ain’t that big invasion next week?

One girl said Guantбnamo was gonna get A-bombed. One girl said, You’re wrong-it’s Playa Girуn. One girl said flying saucers would soon descend on Havana.

Fulo drove. Nйstor polled strolling Cubans up and down Flagler.

They’d all head invasion rumors. They all shared them with gusto.

Kemper shut his eyes and listened. Nouns jumped out of run-on Spanish.

Havana, Playa Girуn, Baracoa, Oriente, Playa Giron, Guantбnamo, Guantбnamo.

Kemper caught the upshot:

People were talking.

On-leave trainees were talking. Agency-front-group men were talking. The talk was innuendo, bullshit, wish fulfillment and truth by default-speculate on enough invasion sites and you’ll hit the right one out of sheer luck.

The talk constituted a minor security leak.

Fulo didn’t seem worried. Nйstor shrugged the talk off. Kemper categorized it as “containable.”

They cruised the side streets off Flagler.

Fulo monitored cab calls. Nйstor talked up ways to torture Fidel Castro. Kemper looked out his window and savored the view.

Cuban girls blew them kisses. Car radios churned out mambo music. Street loafers gobbled melons soaked in beer.

Fulo clicked off a call. “That was Wilfredo. He said Don Juan knows something about a dope drop, and maybe we should go see him.”

o o o

Don Juan Pimentel had a TB cough. His front room was littered with customized Barbie and Ken dolls.

They stood just inside the door. Don Juan smelled like mentholated chest rub.

Fulo said, “You can talk in front of Mr. Boyd. He is a wonderful friend of our Cause.”

Nйstor picked up a nude Barbie. The doll wore a Jackie Kennedy wig and Brillo-pad crotch hair.

Don Juan coughed. “It is twenty-five dollars for the story, and fifty dollars for the story and the address.”

Nйstor dropped the doll and crossed himself. Fulo handed Don Juan two twenties and a ten.

He tucked the cash in his shirt pocket. “The address is 4980 Balustrol. Four men from the Cuban Intelligence Directorate live there. They are terribly afraid that your invasion will succeed and that their supply from the island will be, how you say, removed. They have at the house a very large supply of single shots packaged to sell in order to make quick money to, how you say, bankroll their resistance to your resistance. They have over a pound of heroin ready to be sold in these small amounts where there is to be the, how you say, most profit.”

Kemper smiled. “Is the house guarded?”

“I do not know.”