Pete gave the signal. A forty-four-gun salute shocked Bissell speechless.
o o o
Stanton threw a lunch at the Breakers Motel. The guest list was White Men Only: Pete, Bissell, Boyd, Chuck Rogers.
Santo Junior owned the place. Blessington men dined and drank on the cuff. The coffee shop served starchy wop food– strictly shitsville.
They hogged a choice window table. Bissell hogged the conversation–nobody could squeeze a word in. Pete sat down next to Boyd and picked at a plate of linguine.
Chuck handed out beers. Boyd passed Pete a note.
I like Chasco. He’s got that “Don’t underestimate me because I’m puny” look that I associate with W.J. Littell. Can we send him in to shoot Fidel?
Pete scribbled up his napkin.
Let’s have him shoot Fidel & WJL. Jimmy’s scared & pissed because his Fund books got clouted & we’re the only ones who know who did it. Can’t we do something about it?
Boyd wrote NO on his menu. Pete laughed out loud.
Bissell took offense. “Did I say something funny, Mr. Bondurant?”
“No, sir. You didn’t.”
“I didn’t think so. I was saying that President Kennedy has been briefed several times, but he still won’t commit to an invasion date, which I don’t find amusing at all.”
Pete poured himself a beer. Stanton said, “Mr. Dulles describes the President as ‘enthusiastic, but cautious.’”
Bissell smiled. “Our secret weapon is Mr. Boyd here. He’s our Kennedy confidante, and I imagine that if push came to shove, he could reveal his covert Agency standing, and then overtly advocate our invasion plan.”
Pete froze the moment: Boyd about to lose it six ways from Sunday.
Stanton stepped in. “Mr. Bissell’s joking, Kemper.”
“I know that. And I know that he understands how complex our alliances have become.”
Bissell fingered his napkin. “I do, Mr. Boyd. And I know how generous Mr. Hoffa, Mr. Marcello and a few other Italian gentlemen have been to the Cause, and I know that you possess a certain amount of influence in the Kennedy camp. And as the President’s chief Cuban-issue liaison, I also know that Fidel Castro and Communism are a good deal worse than the Mafia, although I wouldn’t dream of asking you to intercede on our friends’ behalf, because it might cost you credibility with your sacred Kennedys.”
Stanton dropped his soup spoon. Pete let a big breath out eeeasy.
Boyd put out a big shit-eating grin. “I’m glad you feel that way, Mr. Bissell. Because if you did ask me, I’d have to tell you to go fuck yourself.”
60
(Washington, D.C., 3/6/61)
He took three shots a night–no more, no less.
He switched from whisky to straight gin. The bum compensated for the scant volume.
Three shots tweaked his hatreds. Four shots and up cut those hatreds all the way loose.
Three shots said, You project danger. Four shots or more said, You’re ugly and you limp.
He always drank facing his hallway mirror. The glass was chipped and cracked–his new apartment was furnished on the cheap.
Littell knocked the shots back, one-two-three. The glow let him spar with himself.
You’re two days shy of forty-eight years old. Helen left you. J. Edgar Hoover fucked you–you fucked him and he fucked you back much more efficaciously.
You risked your life for nothing. Robert F. Kennedy shunned you. You went to hell and back for a form-letter rejection.
You tried to contact Bobby in person. Yes-men showed you out. You sent four notes to Bobby. All four went unanswered.
Kemper tried to get you work at the Justice Department. Bobby nixed it–the alleged Hoover hater kowtowed to Hoover. Hoover put the fix in: No law firm or law school will employ you.
Kemper knows you’ve got the Fund books. His fear defines your bond now.
You went to a Jesuit retreat in Milwaukee. Newspapers lauded your burglary daring: MYSTERY ART THIEF TEARS LAKE GENEVA ESTATE DOWN! You did odd jobs for the monsignor and imposed your own code of silence.
You boiled the booze out. You put on some muscle. You studied cryptography texts. Prayer told you who to hate and who to forgive.
You read a Chicago Trib obit: Court Meade died of a massive heart attack. You toured old haunts. The foster homes you grew up in were still churning out Jesuit robots.