American Tabloid - James Ellroy [67]
Stanton rocked his chair back. “We’ve heard that Castro has taken over the Mafia-owned hotels and casinos.”
“It is true. Fidel calls it ‘nationalization.’ He has stolen the casinos and millions of dollars from the Mafia. Tomás Obregón told me that the illustrious American gangster Santo Trafficante Jr. is currently in custody at the Nacional Hotel.”
Banister sighed. “That cocksucker Castro has a death wish. He is fucking with both the United States of America and the Mafia.”
“There is no Mafia, Guy. At least Mr. Hoover has always said so.”
“Kemper, even God can make mistakes.”
Stanton said, “Enough of that. Teo, what’s the status of the American citizens remaining inside Cuba?”
Paez scratched and stretched. “Fidel wants to appear humane. He is coddling the influential Americans still in Cuba and allowing them to see only the alleged good his revolution has done. He is going to release them slowly, to return to America as duped tools to dispense communistic propaganda. And in the meantime, Fidel has burned many of the cane fields of my beloved United Fruit, and has tortured and killed many of my student informants under the indictment that they are spies for the ‘imperialisto y fascisto’ La United.”
Stanton checked his watch. “Guy, take Teo over for his medical. Teo, go with Mr. Banister. Mr. Boyd will drive you into Miami in a little while.”
Banister hustled Paez out. Kemper watched them walk to the X-ray shack.
Stanton shut the door. “Dump the dead man somewhere, Kemper. I’ll debrief all the personnel who’ve seen him. And don’t rattle Guy’s cage, he can be volatile.”
“I’ve heard. Rumor has it that he was assistant superintendent of the New Orleans Police for about ten minutes, until he got drunk and shot off his gun in a crowded restaurant.”
Stanton smiled. “And rumor has it that you’ve fenced a few hot Corvettes in your day.”
“Touché. And parenthetically, what did you think of Pete Bondurant’s gun donation?”
“I was impressed. We’re thinking of making Pete an offer, and I’ll be bringing it up the next time I talk to the deputy director.”
Kemper said, “Pete’s a good man. He’s good at keeping rowdies in line.”
“Yes, he is. Jimmy Hoffa uses him to good effect at that Tiger Kab place. Keep going, Kemper. I can tell that you’ve got your thinking cap on.”
Kemper turned off the tape recorder. “John, you’re going to find that a sizable percentage of those men out there are uncontrollably psychopathic. Your notion of indoctrinating them and training them as potential anti-Castro guerrillas may not work. If you house them with stable Cuban immigrant families and find them work, per your existing plan, you’ll find them reverting to their former criminal predilections as soon as the novelty of being in this country wears off.”
“You’re saying we should screen them more thoroughly.”
“No, I’m saying I should. I’m saying we should extend the detention period at the Agency’s motel, and I should be the one with final authority as to who we recruit.”
Stanton laughed. “May I ask what qualifies you for this?”
Kemper ticked off points on his fingers. “I worked undercover for nine years. I know criminals, and I like them. I infiltrated car theft rings, arrested the members and worked with the U.S. Attorney’s Office in building their cases for prosecution. I understand the need certain criminals have to acquiesce to authority. John, I got so close to some of those car thieves that they insisted on deposing their confessions to me only—the agent who betrayed them and arrested them.”
Stanton whistled—out-of-character for him. “Are you suggesting that you expand your duties and remain with the men you select as their field officer? That seems unrealistic to me, given your other entanglements.”
Kemper slapped the table. “No. I’m strongly proposing Pete Bondurant for that job. What I’m saying is this: A hardcore criminal contingent, properly indoctrinated and supervised, could be very