Pete saw the blade drag. Pete saw the blood gout. Pete saw their heads roll into the water.
Flames jumped up at the plane–short by inches.
Chuck pulled off his headset. “I picked up an Ops call! Kennedy says, ‘No second air strike,’ and he says he won’t send in any U.S. troops to help our guys!”
Pete aimed his Magnum out the window. A flame clap spun it out of his hand.
Sharks were churning up the water right below them. This fat Commie fuck waved a severed head.
68
(Rural Guatemala, 4/18/61)
Their room adjoined the radio hut. Invasion updates seeped through the walls uninvited.
Marcello tried to sleep. Littell tried to study deportation law.
Kennedy refused to order a second air strike. Rebel soldiers were captured and slaughtered on the beach.
Reserve troops were chanting “PIGS! PIGS! PIGS! PIGS! PIGS!” That silly word roared through the barracks quadrangle.
Right-wing dementia: mildly distracting. Mildly gratifying: a detectable rise in contempt for John F Kennedy.
Littell watched Marcello toss and turn. He was bunking with a Mafia chieftain–mildly amazing.
His charade worked. Carlos scanned ledger columns and recognized his own Fund transactions. His indebtedness increased exponentially.
Carlos was accruing large legal debts. Carlos owed his safety to a reformed FBI crirnebuster.
Guy Banister called this morning. He said he picked up some straight dope: Bobby Kennedy knows that Carlos is really hiding out in Guatemala.
Bobby applied diplomatic pressure. The Guatemalan prime minister kowtowed. Carlos would be deported, “but not swiftly.”
Banister used to call him a weak sister. His phone manner was near-deferential now.
Marcello started snoring. He was drooping off his army cot in monogrammed silk pajamas.
Littell heard shouts and banging noises next door. He formed a picture: men slapping desks and kicking odd inanimate objects.
“It’s a washout”/”That vacillating chickenshit”/”He won’t send in planes or ships to shell the beach,”
Littell walked outside. The troopers, worked up a new chant.
“KEN-NEDY, DON’T SAY NO! KEN-NEDY, LET US GO!”
They bounced around the quad. They swigged straight gin and vodka. They gobbled pills and kicked apothecary jars like soccer balls.
The case officers’ lounge had been looted. The dispensary door had been trampled to pulp.
“KEN-NEDY, LET US GO! KEN-NEDY IS A PU-TO!”
Littell stepped inside and grabbed the wall phone. Twelve coded digits got him Tiger Kab direct.
A man said, “Sí? cabstand.”
“I’m looking for Kemper Boyd. Tell him it’s Ward Littell.”
“Sí. One second.”
Littell unbuttoned his shirt–the humidity was awful. Carlos mumbled through a bad dream.
Kemper picked up. “What is it, Ward?”
“What is it with you? You sound anxious.”
“There’s riots all over the Cuban section, and the invasion isn’t going our way. Ward, what is–?”
“I got word that the Guatemalan government’s looking for Carlos. Bobby Kennedy knows he’s here, and I think I should move him again.”
“Do it. Rent an apartment outside Guatemala City, and call me with the phone number. I’ll have Chuck Rogers meet you there and fly you someplace more removed. Ward, I can’t talk now. Call me when–”
The line went dead. Overtaxed circuits–mildly annoying. Mildly amusing: Kemper C. Boyd mildly flustered.
Littell walked outside. The chants were a good deal more than mildly pissed-off.
“KEN-NEDY IS A PU-TO! KEN-NEDY FEARS Fl-DEL CAS-TRO!”
69
(Miami, 4/18/61)
Kemper mixed the dope. Néstor mixed the poison. They worked on two desks jammed together.
They had the dispatch hut to themselves. Fulo shut down Tiger Kab at 6:00 p.m. and gave the drivers strict orders: Visit riot scenes and maim Fidelistos.
Kemper and Néstor kept working. Their hotshot assembly line moved slowly.
They mixed strychnine and Drano into a heroin-like white powder. They packaged it in single-pop plastic bindles.
They played their short-wave set. Awful death tallies sputtered in.
Hush-Hush went to press yesterday. Lenny called him for details. The piece described a resounding Bay of Pigs victory.
Jack could still force a win. The ODs would defame Castro, WIN OR LOSE.
They B&E’d the drop house two days ago–a little safety-first trial run. They found two hundred “H” bindles stashed behind a heating panel.
Don Juan Pimentel fed them straight information. His death eliminated witness testimony.