American Tabloid - James Ellroy [78]
Pete said, “Nothing?”
Trafficante sighed. “You heard it already, you hump. My father killed a guy once who spoiled one of his punch lines. Maybe you’ve heard of my father?”
“Santo Trafficante Senior?”
“Salud, Frenchman. Jesus, I’m so fucking bored I’m playing one-up with a gorilla.”
Pig grease spattered out a cooling vent. The pad was furnished modern-ugly—lots of fucked-up color combos.
Trafficante scratched his balls. “So who sent you?”
“A CIA man named Boyd.”
“The only CIA guy I know is a redneck named Chuck Rogers.”
“I know Rogers.”
Trafficante shut the door. “I know you know him. I know the whole story of you and the cabstand, and you and Fulo and Rogers, and I know stories about you that I bet you wished I didn’t know. You know how I know? I know because everybody in this life of ours likes to talk. And the only fucking saving grace is that none of us talks to people outside the life.”
Pete looked out the window. The ocean glowed turquoise blue way past the buoy line.
“Boyd wants you to write a note to Carlos Marcello, Sam Giancana and Johnny Rosselli. The note’s supposed to say that you recommend no reprisals against Castro for nationalizing the casinos. I think the Agency’s afraid the Outfit will go off half-cocked and screw up their own Cuban plans.”
Trafficante grabbed a scratch pad and pen off the TV. He wrote fast and enunciated clearly.
“Dear Premier Castro, you Commie dog turd. Your revolution is a crock of Commie shit. We paid you good money to let us keep our casinos running if you took over, but you took our money and fucked us up the brown trail until we bled. You are a bigger piece of shit than that faggot Bobby Kennedy and his faggot McClellan Committee. May you personally get syphillis of the brain and the dick, you Commie cocksucker, for fucking up our beautiful Nacional Hotel.”
Golf balls ricocheted down the hallway. Trafficante flinched and held the note up.
Pete read it. Santo Junior delivered—nice, neat, grammatical.
Pete tucked the note in his pocket. “Thanks, Mr. Trafficante.”
“You’re fucking welcome, and I can tell you’re surprised that I can write and say two different things at the same time. Now, you tell your Mr. Boyd that that promise is good for one year and no more. Tell him we’re all swimming in the same stream as far as Cuba goes, so it’s in our best interest not to piss in his face.”
“He’ll appreciate it.”
“Appreciate, shit. If you appreciated, you’d take me back with you.”
Pete checked his watch. “I’ve only got two Canadian passports, and I’m supposed to bring back a United Fruit man.”
Trafficante picked up a golf club. “Then I can’t complain. Money’s money, and United Fruit’s tapped more out of Cuba than the Outfit ever did.”
“You’ll get out soon. Some courier’s working on getting all the Americans out.”
Trafficante lined up a make-believe putt. “Good. And I’ll set you up with a guide. He’ll drive you around and take you and the UF man to the airport. He’ll rob you before he drops you off, but that’s as good as the help gets with these fucking Reds in power.”
A croupier supplied directions to the house—Tom Gordean threw a torch party there just last week. Jesús the guide said Mr. Tom burned a mean cane field—he was hot to revamp his fascisto image.
Jesús wore jungle fatigues and a baseball cap. He drove a Volkswagen with a hood-mounted machine gun.
They took dirt roads out of Havana. Jesús steered with one hand and blasted palm trees simultaneous. Sizzling cane fields lit the sky up orange-pink—torch parties were a big deal in post-Batista Cuba.
Phone poles blipped by. Fidel Castro’s face adorned every one.
Pete saw house lights in the distance—two hundred yards or so up. Jesús pulled into a clearing dotted with palm stumps.
He eased in like he knew where he was going. He didn’t gesture or say one fucking word.
It felt wrong. It felt prearranged.
Jesús braked and doused his headlights. A torch whooshed the second they snapped off.
Light spread out