JEH: May I state that I consider that burst of invective to be ill-concelved and fatuous in its historical perspective?
RFK: You may.
JEH: Was there anything of a similar or less offensive nature that you wish to add?
RFK: Yes. You should know that I intend to Initiate wiretap accountability legislation. I want the Justice Department to be informed of every single instance of wiretapping undertaken by municipal police departments nationwide.
JEH: Many would consider that undue Federal meddling and a flagrant abuse of States’ Rights.
RFK: The concept of States’ Bights has been a smokescreen to obscure everything from de facto segregation to outmoded abortion statutes.
JEH: I disagree.
RFK: Duly noted. And I would like you to duly note that from this day on you are to inform me of every electronic surveillance operation that the FBI engages in.
JEH: Yes.
RFK: Duly noted?
JEH: Yes.
RFK: I want you to personally call the New Orleans SAC and have him assign four agents to arrest Carlos Marcello. I want this done within seventy-two hours. Tell the SAC that I’m having Marcello deported to Guatemala. Tell him that the Border Patrol will be contacting him to iron out details.
JEH: Yes.
RFK: Duly noted?
JEH: Yes.
RFK: Good day, Mr. Hoover.
JEH: Good day.
64
(New Orleans, 4/4/61)
He was too late–by seconds.
Four men grappled Carlos Marcello into a Fed sled. Right outside his house–with Mrs. Carlos on the porch, throwing a fit.
Pete pulled up across the street and watched it happen. His rescue mission clocked in half a minute tardy.
Marcello was dressed in BVDs and beach flip-flops. Marcello looked like this low-rent Il Duce on the rag.
Boyd fucked up.
He said, Bobby wants Carlos deported. He said, You and Chuck get to New Orleans and snatch him first. He said, Don’t call and warn him–just get there.
Boyd said bureaucratic jive would give them time. Boyd mis-fucking calculated.
The Feds took off. Frau Carlos stood on the porch, wringing her hands grieving-wife-style.
Pete tailed the Fed car. Early am. traffic got between them. He eyeballed the Fed’s antenna and rode a purple Lincoln’s back bumper.
Chuck was back at Moisant Airport, gassing up the Piper. The Feds were heading that way
They’d fly Carlos out commercial or dump him on the Border Patrol. He’d be Guatemala-bound–and Guatemala loved the CIA.
The Fed car took surface streets east. Pete saw a bridge up ahead–toll booths and two eastbound lanes across the river.
Both lanes were hemmed in by guardrails. Narrow pedestrian walkways ran flush along the edge of the bridge.
Cars were stacked up in front of the booths–at least twenty per lane.
Pete hopped lanes and swerved in front of the Fed car. He spotted a squeeze space between the left-hand booth and the guardrail.
He accelerated in. A rail housing snapped off his outside mirror.
Horns blared. His left-side hubcaps went spinning. A toll taker looked over and doused an old lady with coffee.
Pete SQUEEZED past the booths and hit the bridge going forty. The Fed sled was stalled, way way back.
o o o
He made it to Moisant fast. His rent-a-car was dinged, chipped and paint-stripped.
He ditched it in an underground lot. He greased a skycap for airport information.
Commercial flights to Guatemala? No, sir, none today. The Border Patrol office? Next to the Trans-Texas counter.
Pete cruised by and loitered behind a newspaper. The office door opened and closed.
Men carried shackles in. Men carried flight logs out. Men stood outside the door and kibitzed.
A guy said, “I heard they popped him in his skivvies.”
A guy said, “The pilot really hates wops.”
A guy said, “They’re flying out at 8:30.”
Pete ran to the private-plane hangar. Chucky was perched on the snout of his Piper, reading a hate mag.
Pete caught his breath. “They’ve got Carlos. We’ve got to get down to Guatemala City ahead of them and see what we can work out.”
Chuck said, “That’s a goddamned foreign country. We’re only supposed to bring the man back to Blessington. We’ve barely got the gas to–”
“Let’s go. We’ll patch some calls in and work something out.”