American Tabloid - James Ellroy [173]
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 NSstor 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 Hernandez-Brown decigared him. César Ramos severed both his ears.
The reverberations faded. Kemper gauged reactions.
Santo looked bored. Sam looked restless. Johnny looked mildly nonplussed.
Juanita Chacón aimed crotch-high and fired. Fidel #1 lost his manhood.
Flash and Juan fired twice. Fidel lost his arms and his legs.
Laurent Guéry 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. Hernández-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.
74
(Washington, D.C., 1/24/62)
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