American Tabloid - James Ellroy [218]
It would wear the Secret Service escort down. It would inure them to gunshot-like noises.
Kemper was working up some Dougie Frank keepsakes. Lockhart’s psychopathology would be summarized in minutiae.
Kemper defaced JFK photographs and carved swastikas on Jack and Jackie dolls. Kemper smeared fecal matter over a dozen Kennedy magazine spreads.
The investigators would find it all in Dougie’s bedroom closet.
Currently in progress: Dougie Frank Lockhart’s political diary.
It was hunt-and-peck typed, with printed ink corrections. The race-mongering text was truly horrific.
The diary was Pete’s idea. Dougie said he bombed the 16th Street Baptist Church—a still-unsolved cause célèbre. Pete wanted to link the Kennedy hit and four dead Negro children.
Dougie told Pete the whole bombing story. Pete typed crucial details into the diary.
They didn’t mention the bombing embellishment to Kemper. Kemper had a quirky affection for coloreds.
Pete kept Dougie sequestered at his house. He fed him takeout pizza, marijuana and liquor. Dougie seemed to enjoy the accommodations.
Pete told Dougie that his Agency gig had been postponed. He fed him a cock-and-bull story about the need to stay out of sight.
Kemper moved his men to Blessington. The FBI was raiding non-CIA campsites—housing his team at Sun Valley was risky.
The men bunked at the Breakers Motel. They test-fired .30.06’s all day every day. Their rifles were identical to the rifles Kemper stole.
The shooters didn’t know about the hit. Kemper would inform them six days before—in time to stage a full-dress Miami rehearsal.
Littell cruised by Dougie’s house. Pete said he always came in through the alley and never let the neighbors see him.
They should plant some narcotics at the house. They should expand Dougie’s pedigree to assassin/church bomber/dope fiend.
Kemper had a drink with the Miami SAC yesterday. They were old Bureau pals—the meeting wouldn’t stand out as anomalous.
The man called the motorcade a “pain in the ass.” He called Kennedy “tough to guard.” He said the Secret Service let crowds get too close to him.
Kemper said, Any threats? Any loonies coming out of the woodwork?
The man said, No.
Their one risky bluff was holding. No one had reported the loudmouthed pseudo Dougie.
Littell drove back to the Fontainebleau. He wondered how long Pete and Kemper would outlive JFK.
93
(Blessington, 10/21/63)
Training officers formed a cordon just inside the front gate. They wore face shields and packed shotguns filled with rock salt.
Refuge seekers slammed the fence. The entry road was jammed with junk cars and dispossessed Cubans.
Kemper watched the scene escalate. John Stanton called and warned him that the raids went from bad to godawful.
The FBI hit fourteen exile camps yesterday. Half the Cubans on the Gulf Coast were out seeking CIA asylum.
The fence teetered. The training men raised their weapons.
There were twenty men inside and sixty men outside. Only weak chain-links and some barbed wire stood between them.
A Cuban climbed the fence and snagged himself on the barbs at the top. A training man blew him down—one salt round de-snagged him and lacerated his chest.
The Cubans picked up rocks and waved lumber planks. The contract men assumed protective postures. A big bilingual roar went up.
Littell was late. Pete was late, too—the migration probably stalled traffic.
Kemper walked down to the boat dock. His men were shooting buoys floating thirty yards offshore.
They wore earplugs to blot out the gate noise. They looked like highline, spit-and-polish mercenaries.
He moved them in just under the wire. They had free run of the campsite—John Stanton pulled strings for old times’ sake.
Ejected shells hit the dock. Laurent and Flash notched bullseyes. Juan fired wide into some waves.
He told them about the hit last night. The pure audacity thrilled them.
He couldn’t resist it. He wanted to see their faces ignite.
Laurent and Flash lit up happy. Juan lit up disturbed.
Juan’s been acting furtive. Juan’s been AWOL three nights