It featured pulley-mounted targets and chairs scrounged from a demolished cocktail hut. The audition weaponry was CIA-prime: M-1s, assorted pistols, and scope-fitted.30.06s.

Teo Paez fashioned straw-stuffed Castro targets. They were lifesize and realistic-replete with beards and cigars.

Laurent Guery crashed the party. Teo said he blew France rбpidamente. Nйstor said he’d tried to clip Charles de Gaulle.

The judges sat under an awning. S. Trafficante, J. Rosselli and S. Giancana-curled up with highballs and binoculars.

Pete played armorer. Kemper played MC.

“We’ve got six men for you gentlemen to choose from. You’ll be funding this operation, and I know you’ll want last say as to who goes in. Pete and I are proposing three-man teams, with Nйstor Chasco, who you already know, as the third man in all cases. Before we start, I want to stress that these men are loyal, fearless and fully comprehend the risks involved. If captured, they will commit suicide rather than reveal who set up this operation.”

Giancana tapped his watch. “I’m running late. Can we get this show on the road?”

Trafficante tapped his. “Move it, would you, Kemper? I’m due back in Tampa.”

Kemper nodded. Pete cranked Fidel #1 fifty feet out. The men loaded their revolvers and assumed the two-handed combat stance.

Pete said, “Fire.”

Chino Cromajor blew Castro’s hat off. Rafael Hernбndez-Brown de-cigared him. Cйsar Ramos severed both his ears.

The reverberations faded. Kemper gauged reactions.

Santo looked bored. Sam looked restless. Johnny looked mildly nonplussed.

Juanita Chacon aimed crotch-high and fired. Fidel #1 lost his manhood.

Flash and Juan fired twice. Fidel lost his arms and his legs.

Laurent Guйry clapped. Giancana checked his watch.

Pete cranked Fidel #2 a hundred yards out. The shooters raised their obsolete M-1s.

The judges held up their binoculars. Pete said, “Fire.”

Cromajor shot Castro’s eyes out. Hernбndez-Brown lopped off his thumbs.

Ramos nailed his cigar. Juanita castrated him.

Flash blew his legs off at the knees. Juan slammed a cardiac bullseye.

Pete yelled, “Cease fire!” The shooters lowered their weapons and lined up at parade rest.

Giancana said, “It’s impressive, but we can’t go off half-cocked on something this big.”

Trafficante said, “I have to agree with Mo.”

Rosselli said, “You need to give us some time to think about it.”

Kemper felt queasy. His speedball rush turned ugly.

Pete was trembling.

Littell locked the money in his desk safe. One month’s retainer-$6,000 cash.

Hoffa said, “You didn’t count it.”

“I trust you.”

“I could’ve made a mistake.”

Littell tilted his chair back and looked up at him. “That’s unlikely. Especially when you walked it over here yourself.”

“You’d’ve felt better walking over to my shop in this fucking cold?”

“I could have waited until the first.”

Hoffa perched on the edge of the desk. His overcoat was soaked with melting snow.

Littell moved some folders. Hoffa picked up his crystal paperweight.

“Did you come for a pep talk, Jimmy?”

“No. But if you got one, I’m all ears.”

“How’s this. You’re going to win and Bobby’s going to lose. It’s going to be a long and painful war, and you’re going to win by sheer attrition.”

Jimmy squeezed the paperweight. “I was thinking Kemper Boyd should leak a copy of my Justice Department file to you.”

Littell shook his head. “He won’t do it, and I won’t ask him to. He’s got the Kennedys and Cuba and God knows what else wrapped in tidy little packages that only he knows the logic of. There’s lines he won’t cross over, and you and Bobby Kennedy are one of them.”

Hoffa said, “Lines come and go. And as far as Cuba goes, I think Carlos is the only Outfit guy who still gives a shit. I think Santo, Mo and the others are pissed off and bored with the whole notion of that rinky-dink goddamn island.”

Littell straightened his necktie. “Good. Because I’m bored with everything except keeping you and Carlos one step ahead of Bobby Kennedy.”

Hoffa smiled. “You used to like Bobby. I heard you used to really admire him.”

“Lines come and go, Jimmy. You said so yourself.”

Hoffa dropped the paperweight. “This is true. It is also fucking true that I need an edge on Bobby. And you fucking pulled the plug on that Kennedy wire job that Pete Bondurant was working for me back in ‘58.”

Littell forced a wince into a smile. “I didn’t know you knew that.”

“That is obvious. It should also be fucking obvious that I forgive you.”

“And obvious that you want to try it again.”

“This is true.”

“Call Pete, Jimmy. I don’t have much use for him, but he’s the best shakedown man alive.”

Hoffa leaned across the desk. His trouser legs slid up and showed off cheap white sweat socks.

“I want you in on it, too.”

Pete rubbed his neck. It was all kinked and knotted-he flew out in a coach seat made for midgets.

“I jump when you say ‘jump,’ Jimmy, but coast-to-coast for coffee and pastry is pushing it.”

“I think L.A.’s the place to set this up.”

“Set what up?”

Hoffa dabbed eclair cream off his necktie. “You’ll see soon enough.”

Pete heard noise in the kitchen. “Who’s that poking around?”

“It’s Ward Littell. Sit down, Pete. You’re’ making me nervous.”

Pete dropped his garment bag. The house stunk of cigars- Hoffa let visiting Teamsters use it for stag nights.

“Littell, shit. This is grief I don’t need.”

“Come on. Ancient history’s ancient history.”

Recent history: your lawyer stole your Fund books-

Littell walked in. Hoffa put his hands up, peacemaker-style. “Be nice, you guys. I wouldn’t put the two of you in the same room unless it was good.”

Pete rubbed his eyes. “I’m a busy guy, and I flew overnight for this little breakfast klatch. Give me one good reason why I should take on additional fucking work, or I’m heading back to the airport.”

Hoffa said, “Tell him, Ward.”

Littell warmed his hands on a coffee cup. “Bobby Kennedy’s coming down unacceptably hard on Jimmy. We want to work up a derogatory tape profile on Jack and use it as a wedge to get him to call off Bobby. if I hadn’t interfered, the Shoftel operation might have worked. I think we should do it again, and I think we should recruit a woman that Jack would find interesting enough to sustain an affair with.”

Pete rolled his eyes. “You want to shake down the President of the United States?”

“Yes.”

“You, me and Jimmy?”

“You, me, Fred Turentine and the woman we bring in.”

“And you’re going at this like you think we can trust each other.”

Littell smiled. “We both hate Jack Kennedy. And I think we’ve got enough dirt on each other to buttress a non-aggression pact.”

Pete popped some prickly little goose bumps. “We can’t tell Kemper about this. He’d rat us in a second.”

“I agree. Kemper has to stay out of the loop on this one.”

Hoffa belched. “I’m watching you two humps stare at each other, and I’m starting to feel like I’m out of the fucking loop, even though I’m financing the fucking loop.”

Littell said, “Lenny Sands.”

Hoffa sprayed eclair crumbs. “What the fuck does Jewboy Lenny have to do with fucking anything?”

Pete looked at Littell. Littell looked at Pete. Their brainwaves meshed somewhere over the pastry tray.

Hoffa looked dead flummoxed. His eyes went out of focus somewhere near the planet Mars. Pete steered Littell to the kitchen and shut the door.