American Tabloid - James Ellroy [154]
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 deniability 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.”
Fulo drove. Néstor talked. Kemper watched.
They cruised Cadre turf in random figure-eights. Slum shacks and housing projects zipped by.
Néstor said, “Send me back to Cuba. I will shoot Fidel from a rooftop. I will become the Simón Bolívar of my country.”
Fulo’s Chevy was packed with dope. Powder puffed out of plastic bags and dusted the seats.
Néstor 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.
Néstor 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. Néstor 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.
Néstor 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. Néstor 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 Guantánamo was gonna get A-bombed. One girl said, You’re wrong—it’s Playa Girón. One girl said flying saucers would soon descend on Havana.
Fulo drove. Né stor polled strolling Cubans up and down Flagler.
They’d all heard invasion rumors. They all shared them with gusto.
Kemper shut his eyes and