Kemper disconnected.
Ward J. Littell–Jesus Fucking Christ.
55
(Miami, 11/9/60)
Guy Banister screeched long-distance. Pete felt an earache coming on.
“We’re looking at a new papist hegemony. He loves niggers and Jews, and he’s been soft-line on Communism since he was a congressman. I can’t believe he won. I can’t believe the American people bought his line of bull–”
“Get to it, Guy. You said J.D. Tippit picked up something.”
Banister de-throttled his spiel. “I forgot I called you for a reason. And I forgot you were soft-line on Kennedy.”
Pete said, “I like his hair. It gets my dick hard.”
Banister re-throttled. Pete cut him off quick.
“It’s 8:00 fucking a.m. I’ve got cab calls backedup and three drivers out sick. Tell me what you want.”
“I want Dick Nixon to demand a recount.”
“Guy–”
“All right, then. Boyd was supposed to tell you to talk to Wilfredo Delsol.”
“He did.”
“Did you talk to him?”
“No. I’ve been busy.”
“Tippit said he heard Delsol’s bern seen with some Castro guys. A bunch of us think he should explain.”
“I’ll go see him.”
“You do that. And while you’re at it, try to develop some political brains.”
Pete laughed. “Jack’s a white man. I’ve got a big hard-on just thinking about his hair.”
o o o
Pete drove to Wilfredo’s pad and knocked on the door. Delsol opened up in his skivvies.
He was bleary-eyed. He was scrawny. He looked too sleepy to stand upright.
He shivered and plucked at his balls. He shook the cobwebs out of his head and caught on fast.
“Somebody told you something bad about me.”
“Keep going.”
“You only visit people in order to scare them.”
“That’s right. Or to ask them to explain some things.”
“Ask me, then.”
“You were seen talking to some pro-Castro guys.”
“That’s true.”
“So?”
“So they heard how my cousin Tomás died. They thought they could get me to betray the Cadre.”
“And?”
“And I told them I hated what happened to Tomás, but I hate Fidel Castro more.”
Pete leaned against the door. “You don’t much like speedboat runs.”
“Killing odd militiamen is futile.”
“Suppose you get assigned to an invasion group?”
“I’ll go.”
“Suppose I tell you to whack one of those guys you were seen talking to?”
“I would say Gaspar Blanco lives two blocks from here.”
Pete said, “Kill him.”
o o o
Pete cruised Niggertown–for the pure time-marking fuck of it. The radio ran election news exclusively.
Nixon conceded. Frau Nixon pitched some boo-hoo. Bad-Back Jack thanked his staff and announced that Frau Bad-Back was pregnant.
Nigger junkies were cliqued up by a shine stand. Fulo and Ramón drove up to service them. Chuck was trading bindles for signed-over welfare checks.
Jack talked up the New Frontier. Fulo dropped off a fat load of shit with the shoeshine man.
A local bulletin flashed on.
Shots fired outside Coral Gables bodega! Police ID dead man as one Gaspar Ramón Blanco!
Pete smiled. November 8, 1960, was an all-time classic day.
o o o
He stopped at Tiger Kab after lunch. Teo Paez had a parking-lot sale going: hot TVs for twenty scoots a pop. –
The sets were hooked up to a battery pack. Jack the K beamed out of two dozen screens.
Pete mingled with potential buyers. Jimmy Hoffa popped out of the crowd, popping sweat on a nice cool day.
“Hi, Jimmy.”
“Don’t gloat. I know you and Boyd wanted that cunt-lapping faggot to win.”
“Don’t worry. He’ll put his kid brother on a tight leash.”
“As if that’s my only worry.”
“What do you mean?”
“I mean Jules Schiffrin’s dead. His place in Lake Geneva got clouted for some priceless fucking paintings, and some priceless fucking paperwork got lost in the process. Jules had a heart attack, and now our shit has probably been torched in some burglar’s fucking basement.”
LITTELL. 100% certifiably insane.
Pete started laughing.
Hoffa said, “What’s so fucking funny?”
Pete roared.
Hoffa said, “Stop laughing, you frog fuck.”
Pete couldn’t stop. Hoffa pulled a piece and shot Jack the Haircut six TV screens across.
56
(Washington, D.C., 11/13/60)
The mailman brought a special-delivery letter. It was postmarked Chicago and sent without a return address.
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