American Tabloid - James Ellroy [79]
Jesús said, “That is Señor Tom.”
The spies had sawed-off shotguns. The Caddy was stuffed with luggage and mink coats.
Jesús jumped out and jabbered spic to the spies. The spies waved to the gringo in the Volkswagen.
The minks were piled above the door line. U.S. currency was bulging out of a suitcase.
Pete caught on, dead solid perfect.
Thomas Gordean was weaving. He was waving a bottle of Demerara rum. He was putting out a line of pro-Commie jive talk.
He was slurring his words. He was dead drunk working on dead.
Pete saw torches ready to light. Pete saw a gas can sitting on a tree stump.
Gordean kept spritzing. He got up a fucking A-#l Commie cliché head of steam.
Jesús huddled with the spies. They waved at the gringo again. Gordean puked on the hood of the Caddy.
Pete slid next to the machine gun. The spies turned away and went for their waistbands.
Pete fired. One tight swivel at their backs cut them down. The ack-ack sent a flock of birds up squawking.
Gordean hit the ground and curled himself up fetal-tight. The bullet spread missed him by inches.
The spies died screaming. Pete strafed their bodies into pulp. Cordite and muzzle-scorched entrails formed one putrid smell combination.
Pete poured gas on the stiffs and the Volkswagen and torched them. A box of .50-caliber ammo exploded.
Señor Tom Gordean was passed out cold.
Pete tossed him in the backseat of the Caddy. The mink coats made a cozy little bed.
He checked the luggage. He saw a shitload of money and stock certificates.
Their flight left at dawn. Pete found a road map in the glove compartment and marked a route back to Havana.
He got in the Caddy and punched it. French-fried palm trees provided a glow to drive by.
He made the airport before first light. Friendly militiamen swamped El Señor Mitchum.
Tom Gordean woke up with the shakes. Pete fed him rum-and-Cokes to keep him docile. The spies nationalized the money and furs—no big surprise.
Pete signed Robert Mitchum autographs. Some Commie commissar escorted them to the plane.
The pilot said, “You’re not Robert Mitchum.”
Pete said, “No shit, Sherlock.”
Gordean dozed off. The other passengers eyeballed them—they reeked of gasoline and liquor.
The plane landed at 7:00 a.m. Kemper Boyd met them. He handed Pete an envelope containing five thousand dollars.
Boyd was juuuuust a tad nervous. Boyd was more than just a tad dismissive.
He said, “Thanks, Pete. Take that jitney into town with the other people, all right? I’ll call you in L.A. in a few days.”
He got five grand. Boyd got Gordean and a suitcase full of stock shares. Gordean looked bewildered. Boyd looked quintessentially un-Boyd.
Pete hopped on the jitney He saw Boyd steer Gordean to. a storage hut.
Here’s this deserted hick-town airfield. Here’s this CIA man and this drunk, alone.
His feelers started twitching in high fucking gear.
25
(Key West, 5/29/59)
The hut was matchbook-size. He had to cram the table and two chairs in.
Kemper handled Gordean with kid gloves. The interrogation dragged—his subject had the DTs.
“Does your family know that you possess this United Fruit stock?”
“What ‘family’? I’ve been married and divorced more than Artie Shaw and Mickey Rooney. I’ve got a few cousins in Seattle, but all they know is the way to the bar at the Woodhaven Country Club.”
“Who else in Cuba knows that you own this stock?”
“My bodyguards know. But one minute we’re drinking and getting ready to expunge a few imperialist cane fields, and the next thing I know I’m in the backseat of my car with that buddy of yours at the wheel. I’m not ashamed to admit that I’ve been on a toot, and things are pretty dim. That buddy of yours, does he carry a machine gun?”
“I don’t think so.”
“What about a Volkswagen?”
“Mr. Gordean …”
“Mr. Boyce, or whatever your name is, what’s going on? You sit me down in this shack and ransack my suitcase. You ask me these questions. You think because I’m a rich American businessman that I’m on your side.