American Tabloid - James Ellroy [140]
Thanks in advance for considering this. See you tomorrow in Blessington.
John
59
(Blessington, 2/10/61)
Eyes left, eyes right. Port arms, snap the bolt—let’s see those carbon-free M-1 chambers.
The drill field sparkled. The trainees moved like spic Rockettes—every turn and slapdown was synchronized.
Lockhart called cadence. Néstor Chasco played flag bearer. The Stars & Stripes and Pit Bull Monster fluttered.
Pete lead a white-glove inspection line. Richard Bissell and John Stanton trailed him—civilian squarejohns in worsted wool suits.
The trainees wore starched fatigues and chrome helmets. Fulo, Paez, Delsol, and Gutiérrez stood off in a squad leader flank.
Boyd watched from the dock. He didn’t want rank-and-file recruits to know him.
Pete checked weapons and handed them back. Bissell patted shoulders and smiled. Stanton stifled yawns—he knew it was all PR bullshit.
Lockhart yelled, “Shoulderrr arms! Guide-on front and centerrr!”
Forty-four rifles went up. Chasco marched ten paces forward and about-faced.
Chasco saluted. Chasco snapped his flags out at arm’s length.
Lockhart yelled, “At ease!” The men hoisted down one by one for a nifty ripple effect.
Bissell gawked. Stanton applauded.
Boyd was eyeballing Chasco. Stanton built the little shitbird up as Jesus Christ sans mercy.
Chasco ate tarantula meat and drank panther piss. Chasco killed Reds from Rangoon to Rio.
Chasco coughed and spat on the pavement. “It is a pleasure to be here with joo in America. It is an honor to be able to fight the tyrant Fidel Castro, and an honor to introduce to joo Señor Richard Bissell.”
Locomotive cheers went up—choo-choo-choo fifty voices strong.
Bissell waved the noise down. “Señor Chasco is right. Fidel Castro is a murderous tyrant who needs to be taken down a peg or two. I’m here to tell you that we’re going to do it, most likely in the not-too-distant future.”
CHOO-CHOO-CHOO-CHOO-CHOO-CHOO—
Bissell stabbed the air Kennedy-style. “Your morale is high, and that’s damn good. There’s also some pretty damn high morale inside Cuba, and I would have to say that right now that morale is running about three or four brigade’s worth. I’m referring to on-island Cubans just waiting for you to establish a beachhead and show them the way to Fidel Castro’s parlor.”
CHOO-CHOO-CHOO-CHOO-CHOO—
“You men, and many other men, are going to invade and recapture your homeland. You are going to link with anti-Castro forces living on-island and depose Fidel Castro. We have close to sixteen hundred troops now stationed in Guatemala, Nicaragua and along the Gulf Coast, ready to be launched from coastal installations. You are among those troops. You are a crack unit which will see action. You will be backed by surplus B-26s and escorted to your homeland by a task force of U.S. Navy supply boats. You will succeed. You will spend Christmas with your loved ones in a liberated Cuba.”
Pete gave the signal. A forty-four-gun salute shocked Bissell speechless.
Stanton threw a lunch at the Breakers Motel. The guest list was White Men Only: Pete, Bissell, Boyd, Chuck Rogers.
Santo Junior owned the place. Blessington men dined and drank on the cuff. The coffee shop served starchy wop food—strictly shitsville.
They hogged a choice window table. Bissell hogged the conversation—nobody could squeeze a word in. Pete sat down next to Boyd and picked at a plate of linguine.
Chuck handed out beers. Boyd passed Pete a note.
I like Chasco. He’s got that “Don’t underestimate me because I’m puny” look that I associate with W.J. Littell. Can we send him in to shoot Fidel?
Pete scribbled up his napkin.
Let’s have him shoot Fidel & WJL. Jimmy’s scared & pissed because his Fund books got clouted & we’re the only ones who know who did it. Can’t we do something about it?
Boyd wrote NO on his menu. Pete laughed out loud.
Bissell took offense. “Did I say something funny, Mr. Bondurant?”
“No, sir. You didn’t.”
“I didn’t think so. I was saying that President Kennedy has been briefed several times, but he still