It was a party. Sam Giancana called it a “buy Nixon” bash. Santo Trafficante laughed and shushed him. Carlos roasted a pig on the terrace. Droves of flunkies and call girls. Fools with noisemakers. Convention delegates with Italian surnames. Three bars and a mile-long buffet.
Wayne circulated. The condo was bigger than the Orange Bowl. He walked room-to-room and got lost twice. It was old home week. He saw a hood he popped for flimflam, circa ‘61. He saw a fruit actor he popped at a glory-hole stall. He saw a bevy of Vegas-transplant hookers.
Sam G. waltzed a woman by. Wayne caught “Celia” and “hola” instead of “hello.” Carlos waltzed by and tapped his watch. Wayne caught “den” and “five minutes.”
Wayne circulated. A commotion occurred. Flames shot off the terrace grill and ignited some curtains. A stooge put the blaze out with a seltzer spritzer and promoted a big round of applause.
A call girl walked Wayne to the den. Carlos, Sam and Santo were already ensconced. The walls were plywood-paneled. A photo frieze showed Carlos playing golf with Pope Pius.
The call girl split. Wayne sat down. Sam said, “Did he say ‘Thank you’?”
Wayne smiled. “No, but he called Hubert Humphrey a ‘dough-faced cocksucker.’ ”
Santo laughed. “He is absolutely correct there.”
Carlos said, “Humphrey can’t win. He takes the soft line on social chaos.”
Sam said, “He’s a pinko. He came out of the Farmer-Labor movement in Minnesota. They are 100% Red.”
Santo sipped Galliano. “Howard Hughes. Tell us the latest and greatest.”
Wayne said, “He wants to buy the Stardust and the Landmark. I assured him they’re for sale. Farlan Brown thinks he may be breaching anti-trust laws, which might push the purchases off until next year.”
Carlos sipped XO. “The cocksucking Justice Department.”
Santo sipped Galliano. “Yeah, but lame duck. And I have to say that our boy Dick will not let shit like that impede us.”
Sam sipped anisette. “The inside guys. That’s what concerns me. We have to keep our people on the premises.”
Wayne nodded. “Mr. Hughes agrees. I’ve convinced him that the transition will run much smoother that way.”
Carlos switched to Drambuie. “The Fund books. What’s going on there?”
“I want to buy out banks and loan companies, so they can earn marginal profits and double as laundry fronts. There’s a Negro-owned bank in Los Angeles that interests me. Hughes Air is in L.A., and we need a funnel close to the border.”
Sam shook his head. “I don’t like dealing with niggers.”
Carlos shook his head. “They’re impetuous and get agitated too easy.”
Santo shook his head. “They’ve been demoralized by welfare.”
Sam sipped anisette. “Which our boy Dick will put the skids to.”
Wayne prickled. His skin itched. His ears throbbed.
Santo said, “Wayne’s having an adverse reaction to this conversation.”
Sam said, “Wayne’s an open book in some ways.”
Santo sipped Galliano. “What’s the book? Jungle Bunnies I Have Slain?”
Carlos said, “Wayne’s a coon hunter from way back.”
Sam yukked. “So maybe therein lies the rub?”
Santo said, “What’s the ‘rub’? You sound like a faggot talking like that.”
Carlos looked at Wayne. Carlos raised his hands and eased his palms down-whoa, now, whoa, whoa.
Santo coughed. “Okay, let’s change the subject.”
Sam coughed. “Okay, how about politics? Me, I’m voting for Dick.”
Carlos coughed. “How about your scouting trip? Let’s hear about that.”
Sam switched to XO. “I been to all three places. To me, they’re apples and oranges. Panama’s got the fucking canal, Nicaragua’s got the fucking jungle, and the D.R.’s got the fucking island breeze. They all got right-wing guys with their hands out pulling the strings, which is the most important thing. My friend Celia’s from the D.R., so she’s been lobbying for it.”
Carlos made the jack-off sign. “Sam’s pussy-whipped.”
Santo made the jack-off sign. “Celia this, Celia that. Sam’s got heat-stroke from that island pussy.”
Sam flushed. Carlos raised his hands and eased his palms down- whoa, now, whoa, whoa.
Santo switched to Drambuie. “The front team. Let’s talk about that. Once we pick our spot, we’ll have to send some guys down.”
Wayne coughed. “I want to bring in Jean-Philippe Mesplede.”
Carlos gulped. Santo gulped. Sam gulped. Looks traveled three ways. Mesplede fucked Carlos on the Saigon “H” deal. He was a French-Corsican merc. He was an anti-Castro militant. He was in Dallas that weekend. He shot from the grassy knoll.
Sam sighed. “I’ll admit he’s a good choice, but we got problems with him.”
Santo said, “I heard he’s here in Miami. Wherever you got anti-Fidel shit, you got Jean-Philippe.”
Sam said, “Is this where we all say ‘Let bygones be bygones’?”
Carlos sipped Drambuie. “Three names keep popping into my head. A little birdie keeps telling me that Mesplede wants to clip them.”
Bob Relyea. Caspar Fuentes. Miguel Diaz Arredondo.
A redneck shooter and two Cuban exiles. Part of the Saigon cabal. Relyea sided with the Carlos faction and fucked over Wayne and Mesplede. Relyea joined the Memphis team and dropped Dr. King. Fuentes and Arredondo were anti-Wayne and anti-Mesplede. They plain disappeared last spring.
Santo sighed. “I’ll concede he’s a good choice.”
Sam sighed. “I know he speaks Spanish. ‘Let bygones by bygones’? I don’t know, you tell me.”
Wayne said, “I want him.”
Santo sipped Drambuie. “He’ll want to clip those guys.”
Carlos said, “It’s your call, Wayne.”
Wayne cruised Little Havana. It was all-night, bug-brigade hot. Bug swarms, bug bombardments. Bugs bigger than Rodan and Godzilla. Bugs hit his windshield. He tapped his wiper blades and mulched them to bug juice. Little Havana was HOT.
He cruised. He eyeballed the sidewalk action. Bodegas, fruit stands, vendors selling shaved-ice treats. Leaflet distribution. Pamphlet-packing punks in “Kill Fidel” T-shirts. Political offices: Alpha 66, Venceremos, the Battalion for April 17. He turned off Flagler Street and scoped out rows of houses. He checked his rearview mirror every few seconds. Yes-there’s that blue sedan again, leapfrogged two cars back.
He floored the gas, made four crazy turns and found a parking space on Flager. No blue sedan, okay.
Wayne went walking. His suit instantly rewilted. Street fools jostled him. He got weird looks-Joo ain’t Cubano, joo white. The sky exploded. Dig those lights! Wayne made the source: fireworks from the convention.
People stood and gawked. Papas held their kids up. A street-corner fistfight froze in mid-blow.
Wayne watched. A leaflet-distribution guy waved a little flag. Wayne glanced in a coffee-bar window and saw Jean-Philippe Mesplede.
The glance flew two ways. Mesplede stood and bowed. Le grenouille sauvage-habille tout en noir. Black shirt, black coat, black pants-le grand plus noir.
Wayne walked in. Jean-Philippe hugged him. Wayne felt at least three handguns under his clothes.
They sat down. Mesplede was halfway through a fifth of Pernod. A waiter brought a fresh glass.
“Зa va, Wayne?”
“Зa va bien, Jean-Philippe.”
“And your business in Miami?”
“Political.”
“Par example, s’il vous plaоt?”
“For instance, I was looking for you.”
Mesplede flexed his hands. His tattooed pit bulls grew snarls and erections. He was an ex-French para. He went back to the Algerian War and Dien Bieu Phu. He pushed heroin wherever he went.
They switched to French. They sipped Pernod. Fireworks lit windows all around them. They rehashed Vietnam and their ops deal. Mesplede cursed Carlos, le petit cochon. Wayne did a riff on strange bedfellows. Bygones as bygones. Carlos had work for them. Let me tell you.