Littell said, “He’ll be pleased to hear that. And you should know that I’m writing up a temporary reinstatement brief that will be reviewed by a three-judge Federal panel. I’ll be calling your attorney in New York, and we’ll begin devising a long-range legal strategy.”
Marcello kicked off his shoes. “Do it. Call my wife and tell her I’m okay, and do whatever you need to do to get me the fuck out of here.”
“I will. And I’ll be bringing some paperwork down for you to sign. You can expect to see me within seventy-two hours.”
Marcello said, “I want to go home.”
Pete hung up. Steam hissed out of his ears like he was Donald Fucking Duck.
o o o
They killed time. The jumbo pad let them kill it separately.
Chucky watched spic TV. King Carlos buzzed his serfs long-distance. Pete fantasized ninety-nine ways to murder Ward Littell.
John Stanton called in. Pete regaled him with the toilet-snatch story. Stanton said the Agency would cover their bribe tab.
Pete said, Boyd fixed Carlos up with a lawyer. Stanton said, I heard he’s quite good. Pete almost said, Now I can’t kill him.
BOYD, YOU FUCK.
Stanton said the fix was in. Ten grand would buy Carlos a temporary visa. The Guatemalan foreign minister was set to publicly state:
Mr. Marcello was born in Guatemala. His birth certificate is legitimate. Attorney General Kennedy is wrong. Mr. Marcello’s origins are in no way ambiguous.
Mr. Marcello split to America–legally. Sadly, we have no records to corroborate this. The burden of proof now falls upon Mr. Kennedy.
Stanton said the minister hates Jack the K.
Stanton said Jack fucked his wife and both his daughters.
Pete said, Jack fucked my old girlfriend. Stanton said, Wow– and you still helped elect him!
Stanton said, Have Chuck grease the minister. And by the way, Jack’s still clicking around on a go-date.
Pete hung up and looked out the window. Guatemala City by twilight–strictly the rat’s ass.
o o o
They all dozed off early. Pete woke up early–a nightmare had him balled up under his sheets, gasping for breath.
Chuck was out on his bribe run. Carlos was on his second cigar.
Pete opened the living-room curtains. He saw a big hubbub down at ground bevel.
He saw a string of trucks at the curb. He saw men with cameras. He saw cables stretching into the lobby.
He saw people gesturing up.
He saw a big movie camera pointing straight up at them.
Pete said, “We’re blown.”
Carlos dropped his cigar in his hash browns and ran to the window.
Pete said, “The Agency’s got a camp an hour from here. If we can find Chuck and fly out, we’ll make it.”.
Carlos looked down. Carlos saw the ruckus. Carlos pushed his breakfast cart through the window and watched it bullseye down eighteen stories.
65
(Rural Guatemala, 4/8/61)
Heat shimmied off the runway. Blast-oven heat–Kemper should have warned him to dress light.
Kemper warned him that Bondurant would be there. He hustled Marcello out of Guatemala City three days ago and arranged for the CIA to play innkeeper.
Kemper added a postscript: Pete knows you’ve got the Fund books.
Littell stepped away from the plane. He felt woozy. His connecting flight from Houston was a World War II transport.
Propeller thwack boosted the heat. The campsite was large and dusty–odd buildings plunked down in a red clay jungle clearing.
A jeep skidded up. The driver saluted.
“Mr. Littell?”
“Yes.”
“I’ll drive you over, sir. Your friends are waiting for you.”
Littell got in. The rearview mirror caught his bold new face.
He had three shots back in Houston. Daytime shots to help him rise to this one-time occasion.
The driver peeled out. Troops marched by in strict formation; cadence counts overlapped.
They pulled into a barrack’s quadrangle. The driver stopped in front of a small Quonset hut. Littell grabbed his suitcase and walked in ramrod-straight.
The room was air-conditioned. Bondurant and Carlos Marcello stood by a pool table.
Pete winked. Littell winked back. His whole face contorted.
Pete cracked his knuckles–his old intimidation trademark. Marcello said, “What are you, faggots, winking at each other?”