American Tabloid - James Ellroy [168]
“You mean you appreciate the way he snowed Carlos and Jimmy.”
“Don’t you?”
Pete blew smoke rings. “I appreciate a good comeback as much as the next man, but I draw the line at Littell. And you’re smiling because your sissy kid brother finally started acting half-ass competent.”
College girls walked by. Big Pete wants a—
Boyd said, “He’s on our side now, remember?”
“I remember. And I remember that your friend Jack used to be.”
“He still is. And he listens to Bobby like he listens to no one else, and Bobby’s becoming more pro-Cause by the day.”
Pete blew nice concentric rings. “That’s good to know. Maybe it means we’ll tap into our casino money about the time fucking Bobby himself gets elected President.”
Boyd looked distracted. It could be shootout side effects—trauma fucked you up long-range sometimes.
“Kemper, are you listening to—?”
Boyd cut him off. “You were evincing general anti-Kennedy sentiment. You were about to start in on the President, even though he remains our best wedge to get at the casino money, and even though general CIA unpreparedness and not Kennedy cowardice was the major contributing cause of the Bay of Pigs disaster.”
Pete whooped and slapped the bench. “I should have known better than to rag your boys.”
“It’s ‘boy,’ singular.”
“I fucking apologize, although I still don’t see what’s so fucking thrilling about sucking up to the President of the United States.”
Boyd grinned. “It’s the places he lets you go.”
“Like protecting niggers in Meridian, Mississippi?”
“I’ve got Negro blood now. That transfusion I got at Saint Augustine’s came from a colored man.”
Pete laughed. “What you’ve got is a Big White Bwana complex. You’ve got your spooks and your spies, and you’ve got this crazy notion that you’re their southern aristocrat savior.”
Boyd said, “Are you finished?”
Pete clicked his eyes off a tall brunette. “Yeah, I’m finished.”
“Do you feel like rationally discussing a Fidel hit?”
Pete flicked his cigarette at a tree. “My one rational comment is ‘Let Néstor do it.’ ”
“I was thinking of Néstor and two expendable backup shooters.”
“Where do we find them?”
“We look around. You recruit two two-man teams, I recruit one. Néstor goes with the finalists no matter what.”
Pete said, “Let’s do it.”
Dougie Frank Lockhart had the far-right South wired. Gun seekers knew the man to call: carrot-topped Dougie in Puckett, Mississippi.
Santo and Carlos kicked in fifty Gs apiece. Pete took the coin and went gun shopping.
Dougie Frank brokered the deals for a 5% commission. He procured A-1 hand-me-downs hot off the race hate circuit.
Lockhart knew his job. Lockhart knew the Dixie Right was reassessing its weaponry needs.
The Commie Threat had mandated major ordnance. Tommy guns, mortars and grenades fit the bill. Feisty niggers now eclipsed the Red Menace—and small arms handled them best.
The Deep South was one big loony yard sale.
Pete traded junk pistols for brand-new bazookas. Pete bought operational Thompsons for fifty scoots a pop. Pete supplied six campsites with half a million rounds of ammunition.
The Minutemen, the National States Rights Party, the National Renaissance Party, the Exalted Knights of the Ku Klux Klan, the Royal Knights of the Ku Klux Klan, the Imperial Knights of the Ku Klux Klan and the Klarion Klan Koalition for the New Konfederacy supplied him. He supplied six exile camps, full of expendable backup killers.
Pete spent three weeks gun shopping. He made five Miami-New Orleans circuits.
The fifty grand evaporated. Heshie Ryskind kicked in an additional twenty. Heshie was scared—his doctors diagnosed him with lung cancer.
Heshie whipped up a camp R&R tour to take his mind off his bum health. He brought in Jack Ruby and his strippers, Dick Contino and his accordion.
The strippers stripped and cavorted with exile trainees. Heshie bought entire campsites blow jobs. Dick Contino played “Lady of Spain” six thousand times.
Jimmy Hoffa showed up at the Lake Pontchartrain soiree. Jimmy ranted, railed and raved against the Kennedys nonstop.
Joe