A man said, “We got a nice cemetery outside. It’s just that none of us want to move in real soon.”
A woman said, “You can’t expect the law around here to jump on our side all of a sudden.”
Kemper smiled. Two tastes and a two-martini lunch made the church glow.
“As cemeteries go, that one you’ve got is just about the prettiest I’ve ever seen, but none of us want to visit it until some time around the year 2000, and as far as protection goes, I can only say that President Kennedy did a pretty good job of protecting those Freedom Riders last year, and if those aforementioned white-trash, peckerwood, redneck-cracker elements turn out in force to suppress your God-given civil rights, then the Federal government will meet that challenge with greater force, because your will to freedom will not be defeated, because it is good and just and true, and you have the strength of kindness, decency and unflinching rectitude on your side.”
The congregation rose and applauded.
o o o
“…So it’s what you call a sweetheart deal. I got my Royal Knights Klavern, which is basically an FBI franchise, and all I gotta do is keep my ear down and rat off the Exalted Knights and Imperial Knights for mail fraud, which is the only Klan stuff Mr. Hoover really cares about. I got my own informants subcontracted into both them groups, and I pay them out of my Bureau stipend, which helps to consolidate the power of my own group.”
The shack reeked of stale socks and stale reefer smoke. Dougie Frank wore a Klan sheet and Levi’s.
Kemper smashed a fly perching on his chair. “What about those shooters you mentioned?’
“They’re here. They’ve been bunking with me, ‘cause the motels around here don’t differentiate between Cubans and niggers. ‘Course, you’re trying to change all that.”
“Where are they now?”
“I got a shooting range down the road. They’re there with some of my Royals. You want a beer?”
“How about a dry martini?”
“Ain’t none of those in these parts. And any man asks for one’s gonna get tagged as a Federal agitator.”
Kemper smiled. “I’ve got a bartender at the Skyline Lounge on my side.”
“Must be a Jew or a homo.”
Kemper laid on some drawl. “Son, you are trying my patience.”
Lockhart flinched. “Well… shit, then, you should know that I heard Pete found his four boys. Guy Banister said you’re still two short, which don’t surprise me, given all the integration work you’ve been doing.”
“Tell me about the shooters. Limit your extraneous comments and get to the point.”
Lockhart wiggled his chair back. Kemper slid his chair closer to him.
“Well, uh, Banister, he sent them over to me. They stole a speedboat in Cuba and ran it aground off the Alabama coast. They robbed some gas stations and liquor stores and renewed an old acquaintance with that Frenchy guy Laurent Guéry, who told them to call Guy for some anti-Fidel work.”
“And?”
“And Guy considered them too goddamn crazy for his taste, which is too crazy for just about anybody’s. He sent them to me, but I got about as much use for them as a dog does for fleas.”
Kemper moved closer. Lockhart backed his chair into the wall.
“Man, you are crowding me more than I’m used to.”
“Tell me about the Cubans.”
“Jesus, I thought we were friends.”
“We are. Now, tell me about the Cubans.”
Lockhart slid his chair sideways. “Their names are Flash Elorde and Juan Canestel. ‘Flash’ ain’t Elorde’s real first name. He just took it ‘cause there’s some famous spic boxer with the same last name as him who uses it as a nickname.”
“And?”
“And they’re both crack shots and big Fidel haters. Flash ran this prostitution slave trade in Havana, and Juan was this rape-o who got castrated by Castro’s secret police, ‘cause he raped something like three hundred women between the years 1959 and 1961.”
“Are they willing to die for a free Cuba?”
“Shit, yes. Flash says that given the life he’s led, every day he wakes up alive is a miracle.”
Kemper smiled. “You should adopt that attitude, Dougie.”