American Tabloid - James Ellroy [189]
He spun in sideways. Juiced-up water splashed all over him.
He screamed and pulled his arms out. Pete dragged him to the fridge and buried his hands in ice cubes.
Stabilize, fucker—don’t go into shock.
Pete dumped loose cubes into a bowl. Delsol untied the cord with his teeth and wiggled his hands in.
The sink water bubbled and fizzed. Pete lit a cigarette to kill the charred-flesh stink.
Delsol slumped into a chair. His cardiac flush subsided—the puto radiated good resistance.
Pete said, “Well?”
Delsol hugged the bowl with his knees. Ice popped out and hit the floor.
Pete said, “Well?”
“Well, you killed my cousin. Did you think I would always stay loyal?”
His voice stayed just short of a whimper. Spies withstood pain with the best.
“That’s not the answer I wanted.”
“I thought it was a good answer for a man who killed his own brother by mistake.”
Pete picked up a kitchen knife. “Tell me what I want to hear.”
Delsol double-flipped him. Dig those two “Fuck You” fingers shedding skin down to the knuckle.
Pete stabbed the chair. The blade ripped a trouser seam half an inch from Delsol’s balls.
Delsol pulled the knife loose and dropped it on the floor. Pete said, “Well?”
“Well, I suppose I must tell you.”
“Keep going, then. Don’t make me work so hard.”
Delsol smiled. Delsol was exhibiting fucking epic machismo. “You were right, Pedro. Giancana and Mr. Santo have abandoned La Causa.”
“What about Carlos Marcello?”
“No. He is not with them. He is still enthusiastic.”
“What about Heshie Ryskind?”
“He is not with them either. I have heard he is very ill.”
“Santo is still backing the Cadre.”
Delsol smirked. Blisters started bubbling up on his arms.
“I think he will withdraw his support soon. I am certain it will happen.”
Pete chained cigarettes. “Who else has betrayed the Cadre?”
“I do not consider what I did betrayal. The man you used to be would not consider it that, either.”
Pete flipped his cigarette in the sink. “Just answer my questions. I don’t want to hear your extraneous comments.”
Delsol said, “All right. I am the only one in this.”
“ ‘This’?”
Delsol shivered. A big blister on his neck popped and spritzed blood.
“Yes. This is what you thought it was.”
“Explain it for me, then.”
Delsol stared at his hands. “I mean that Mr. Santo and the others have gone over to Fidel. They are just pretending enthusiasm for La Causa, to impress Robert Kennedy and other powerful officials. They are hoping Kennedy will learn about their support and not try to hurt them so hard. Raúl Castro is selling them heroin very cheaply. In exchange, they have given him information on the exile movement.”
Heroin was MONEY. His theory was confirmed straight down the line.
“Keep going. I know there’s more.”
Delsol did a little blank-face number. Pete stared at him. Pete held the stare and held it and held it—
Delsol blinked. “Yes, there is more. Raúl is trying to convince Fidel to let Mr. Santo and the others reopen their casinos in Havana. Mr. Santo and Mr. Sam promised they would inform Raúl on the progress at JM/Wave and try to warn them of any assassination attempts on Fidel.”
More confirmation. More potential grief. Santo and Sam could force Boyd to disband his hit squad.
Delsol examined his arms. His tattoos were scorched into odd smudges.
Pete said, “There’s more.”
“No. There isn’t.”
Pete sighed. “There’s your part. You were recruited because the pro-Castro guys knew the Cadre killed your cousin, and they figured you were vulnerable. You’ve got a part in this, and it’s got something to do with heroin, and if you don’t tell me, I’m going to start hurting you again.”
“Pedro …”
Pete squatted in front of the chair. Pete said, “Heroin. Tell me about it.”
Delsol crossed himself. The ice-cube bowl slipped to the floor and shattered.
“A Cuban shipment is coming in by speedboat. Two hundred pounds of it, uncut. Some pro-Castro men will be there to guard it. I am supposed to transmit it to Mr. Santo.”
“When?”
“The night of May 4th.”
“Where?”
“The Gulf Coast in Alabama. A place called Orange