Boyd glommed some morphine from that CIA-friendly dope ranch. He flew it out to L.A. and gave it to Mr. Hughes.
Mr. Hughes appreciated the gift. Mr. Hughes said, Go back to Miami with my best wishes.
He didn’t tell him, I’m an anti-Red crusader now. With 5% of two casinos forever–if Cuba trades Red for Red, White and Blue.
Boyd sold the deal to Trafficante. Marcello, Giancana and Rosselli agreed to it. Boyd figured they’d make at least fifteen million dollars per year per man.
He told Lenny to swamp Hush-Hush with anti-Castro propaganda. He told him to shitcan the sex jive that Hughes and Hoover drooled for. He told him to make up some skank to keep them happy.
L.A. was prison camp. Florida was summer camp.
He flew back to Miami quicksville. Boyd had signed on the Mexican dope farm as the Cadre’s chief supplier. Chuck flew the initial fourteen pounds down for cutting and brought it back at six times the weight. Trafficante kicked loose bonuses for all Cadre personnel.
He gave them sawed-offs and magnums. He gave them bulletproof vests and cherry-new dopemobiles.
Fulo chose a ‘59 Eldo. Chuck picked out a sweet Ford Vicky. Delsol, Obregón, Paez and Gutidrrez were all Chevy men. Spics will be spics–they tacoized their sleds from stem to stern.
He met the men and got to know them.
Gutierrez was solid and quiet. Delsol was calculating and smart. His cousin Obregón seemed borderline dicey–Boyd was starting to think he might run light on balls.
Santo Junior retooled his Miami dope biz. The Cadre took over the nigger trade exclusively.
Boyd decreed free tastes for all local junkies. The Cadre dispensed a shitload of shit totally gratis. Chuck renamed Niggertown Cloud Nine.
They segued from philanthropy to business. They prowled and sold their shit in two-man cars–with shotguns in plain sight A junkie tried to rob Ramón Gutierrez. Teo Paez cut him down with rat-poison-laced buckshot
Santo Junior was pleased so far. Santo proffered the #1 Cadre Commandment: You may not sample the merchandise. Pete proffered Commandment #2: If you use Big “H,” I will kill you.
Miami was Crime Heaven. Blessington was the Pearly Gates To.
The campsite took up fourteen acres. The installation included two bunkhouses, a weapons shed, an operations hut, a drill field and a landing strip. A dock and speedboat launch site were still in construction.
Cadre recruiters jumped the gun and sent some training prospects down. Local crackers took offense at the spic squatters on their turf. Pete hired some unemployed Klansmen to work on the dock. The move facilitated a temporary peace–Klavernites and exiles were toiling together.
Fourteen squatters were now in residence. More exiles were fleeing Cuba every day. There were more CIA campsites pending–with forty-odd projected by mid-1960.
Castro would survive–just long enough to make Boyd and him rich.
o o o
The cross burned high and wide. Pete caught the glow from half a mile out.
A dirt road veered off the highway. Signs pointed the way: “Nigger stay out!” “KKK–White Man Unite!”
Bugs popped in through his air vents. Pete swatted them off. He saw a barbed-wire fence and Klansmen at parade rest.
They wore white robes and hoods with purple piping. Dig their kanine kompanions: sheet-swaddled Doberman pinschers.
Pete flashed Banister’s gate pass. The pointy-heads checked him out and waved him in.
He parked beside some trucks and went strolling. The cross lit up a segregated pine-forest clearing.
Cubans milled around on one side. Whites boogie-woogied on the other. A row of sign-plastered trailers divided them.
On his left: Klan bake sale, Klan rifle range, vendors hawking Klan regalia. On his right: the Blessington campsite duplicated.
Pete strolled the redneck side. Pointy-hoods bobbed his way– Hey, man, where’s your sheet?
Bugs buzz-bombed the cross. Rifle shots and target pings overlapped. The humidity was close to 100%.
Nazi arrnbands went for $2.99. Jew rabbi voodoo dolls–a steal at 3 for $5.00.
Pete walked by the trailers. He saw a sandwich board propped up against an old Airstream: “WKKK–Rev. Evans AntiCommunist Crusade.”
A hi-fi speaker was bolted to the axle. Sound sputtered out– pure crackpot gibberish.
He looked in the window. He saw twenty-odd cats pissing, shitting and fucking. A tall geek was screaming into a microphone. A cat was clawing some short-wave wires, about to get French-fried to kingdom come.