American Tabloid - James Ellroy [96]
“What’s in the bag?”
“Fourteen point six pounds of uncut heroin and a diamond ring.”
Kemper fished the ring out. The stones and gold setting were beautiful.
Pete poured a cup of coffee. “Keep it. To consecrate my marriage to the Agency.”
“Thanks. I may be popping a question with it soon.”
“I hope she says yes.”
“Did Hoffa?”
“Yeah, he did. He put a condition on the deal, which I fucking fulfilled, as I’m sure you already know.”
Kemper nudged the bag. “You could have unloaded it yourself. I wouldn’t have said anything.”
“I’m along for the ride. And for now, I’m enjoying it too much to fuck with your agenda.”
“Which is?”
“Compartmentalization.”
Kemper smiled. “That’s the biggest word I’ve ever heard you use.”
“I read books to teach myself English. I must have read the Webster’s Unabridged Dictionary at least ten times.”
“You’re an immigrant success story.”
“Go fuck yourself. But before you do it, tell me my official CIA duties.”
Kemper twirled the ring. Sunlight made the diamonds twinkle.
“You’ll be nominally running the Blessington campsite. There’s some additional buildings and a landing strip going up, and you’ll be supervising the construction. Your assignment is to train Cuban refugees for amphibious sabotage runs into Cuba, and to funnel them to other training sites, the cabstand and Miami for general gainful employment.”
Pete said, “It sounds too legal.”
Pool water splashed at their feet. His suite upstairs was almost Kennedy-sized.
“Boyd—”
“Eisenhower has given the Agency a tacit mandate to covertly undermine Castro. The Outfit wants their casinos back. Nobody wants a Communist dictatorship ninety miles off the Florida coast.”
“Tell me something I don’t know.”
“Ike’s budget allocation came in a little low.”
“Tell me something interesting.”
Kemper poked the bag. A tiny trace of white powder puffed out.
“I have a plan to refinance our part of the Cuban Cause. It’s implicitly Agency-vetted, and I think it will work.”
“I’m getting the picture, but I want to hear you say it.”
Kemper lowered his voice. “We link up with Santo Trafficante. We utilize his narcotics connections and my Cadre as pushers, and sell this dope, Santo’s dope and all the other dope we can get our hands on in Miami. The Agency has access to a poppy farm in Mexico, and we can buy some fresh-processed stuff there and have Chuck Rogers fly it in. We finance the Cause with the bulk of the money, give Trafficante a percentage as operating tribute and send a small percentage of the dope into Cuba with our Blessington men. They’ll distribute it to our on-island contacts, who will sell it and use the money to purchase weapons. Your specific job is to supervise my Cadre and make sure they sell only to Negroes. You make sure my men don’t use the dope themselves, and keep their profit skim at a minimum.”
Pete said, “What’s our percentage?” Pete’s response was utterly predictable.
“We don’t take one. If Trafficante approves my plan, we’ll get something much sweeter.”
“Which you’re not going to talk about now.”
“I’m meeting Trafficante in Tampa this afternoon. I’ll let you know what he says.”
“And in the meantime?”
“If Trafficante says yes, we’ll get going in a week or so. In the meantime, you drive down to Blessington and check things out, meet the Cadre and tell Mr. Hughes that you’ll be taking some prolonged Florida vacations.”
Pete smiled. “He’ll be pissed.”
“You know how to get around that.”
“If I’m working up in Miami, who’s going to run the campsite?”
Kemper got out his address book. “Go see Guy Banister in New Orleans. Tell him we need a tough white man to run the camp, a shitkicker type who can handle the crackers around Blessington. Guy knows every right-wing hardcase on the Gulf Coast. Tell him we need a man who’s not too insane and willing to move to South Florida.”
Pete wrote Banister’s number on a napkin. “You’re convinced all this is going to work?”
“I’m certain. Just pray that Castro doesn’t go pro-U.S.”
“That’s a nice sentiment from a Kennedy man.”
“Jack would appreciate the irony.”
Pete cracked his knuckles.