American Tabloid - James Ellroy [93]
Pete yawned. The red-eye from L.A. was brutal.
Boyd gave him marching orders. Boyd said, Make a deal for the cabstand—I want an intelligence/recruiting hub in Miami. More banana boats are due. When the Blessington campsite flies, we’ll need more driver spots for our boys.
A waitress brought fresh coffee—Hoffa had spritzed his cup empty. Pete said, “Jimmy, let’s talk business.”
Hoffa dumped in cream and sugar. “I didn’t think you flew in for that roast-beef sandwich.”
Pete lit a cigarette. “The Agency wants to lease a half-interest in the cabstand. There’s lots of Agency and Outfit guys that are starting to feel pretty strongly about Cuba, and the Agency thinks the stand would be a good place to recruit out of. And there’ll be shitloads of Cuban exiles coming into Miami, which means big business if the stand goes anti-Castro in a big way.”
Hoffa belched. “What do you mean, ‘lease’?”
“I mean you get a guaranteed $5,000 a month, in cash, plus half the gross profits, plus an Agency freeze with the IRS, just in case. My 5% comes off the top, you’ll still have Chuck Rogers and Fulo running the stand, and I’ll be coming by to check in regularly, once I start my contract job down in Blessington.”
Jimmy’s eyes flashed—$$$$$. “I like it. But Fulo said Kemper Boyd’s tight with the Kennedys, which I do not like one iota.”
Pete shrugged. “Fulo’s right.”
“Could Boyd get me off the hook with Bobby?”
“I’d say his loyalties are stretched too thin to try it. With Boyd, you take the bitter with the sweet.”
Hoffa dabbed a stain off his necktie. “The bitter is those Commie humps who shot up my cabstand. The sweet is that if you took care of them, I’d be inclined to accept that offer.”
Pete huddled up a crew at the dispatch hut. Solid guys: Chuck, Fulo, Boyd’s man Teo Paez.
They pulled chairs up in front of the air conditioner. Chuck passed a bottle around.
Fulo sharpened his machete on a rock. “I understand that all six of the traitors have vacated their apartments. I have been told that they have moved into a place called a ‘safe house.’ It is near here, and I believe it is Communisto-financed.”
Chuck wiped spit off the bottle. “I saw Rolando Cruz checking out the stand yesterday, so I think it’s safe to say we’re under surveillance. A cop friend of mine got me their license numbers, so if you say we go trawling, that’ll help.”
Paez said, “Death to traitors.”
Pete ripped the air conditioner off the wall. Steam billowed out.
Chuck said, “I get it. You want to give them a target.”
Pete closed down the stand—in full public view. Fulo called an air-conditioner repairman. Chuck radioed his drivers and told them to return their cabs now.
The repairman came and removed the wall unit. The drivers dropped off their taxis and went home. Fulo put a sign on the door: Tiger Kab Temporarily Closed.
Teo, Chuck and Fulo went trawling. They drove their radio-rigged off-duty cars, devoid of tiger stripes and Tiger Kab regalia.
Pete snuck back to the hut. He kept the lights off and the windows locked. The dump was brutal hot.
A four-way link hooked in: the three cars to the Tiger Kab switchboard. Fulo prowled Coral Gables; Chuck and Teo prowled Miami. Pete connected in to them via headset and hand microphone.
It was ass-scratching, sit-still duty. Chuck hogged the airwaves with a long rant on the Jew-Nigger Pantheon.
Three hours slogged by. The trawl cars kept a line of chatter up. They did not see hide-nor-fucking-hair of the pro-Castro guys.
Pete dozed with his headset on. The thick air had him wheezing. Crosstalk gibberish sparked these little two-second nightmares.
His standard nightmares: charging Jap infantry and Ruth Mildred Cressmeyer’s face.
Pete dozed to radio fuzz and wah-wah feedback. He thought he heard Fulo’s voice: “Two Car to base, urgent, over.”
He jerked awake and snapped his mike on. “Yeah, Fulo.”
Fulo clicked on. Traffic noise filtered in behind his voice.
“I have Rolando Cruz and César Salcido in sight.