Flash kidnapped the girls. Laurent Guery got them hooked on Algerian horse. Juan broke the virgins in and tried to perv them into digging random sex.
Kemper listened. The ugly things drifted away, compartmentalized and non-applicable.
Juan said he missed his balls. He could still get hard and fuck, but he missed the total shoot-your-load experience.
Flash raged against Fidel. Kemper thought: I don’t hate the man at all.
o o o
The six wore starched fatigues and camouflage lampblack. It was Pete’s idea: Let’s turn our shooter candidates out scary.
Néstor built a range behind the Breakers parking lot. Kemper called it a jerry-rig masterpiece.
It featured pulley-mounted targets and chairs scrounged from a demolished cocktail hut. The audition weaponry was CIA-prime: M-1s, assorted pistols, and scope-fitted .30.06s.
Teo Paez fashioned straw-stuffed Castro targets. They were lifesize and realistic–replete with beards and cigars.
Laurent Guery crashed the party. Teo said he blew France rápidamente. Néstor said he’d tried to clip Charles de Gaulle.
The judges sat under an awning. S. Trafficante, J. Rosselli and S. Giancana–curled up with highballs and binoculars.
Pete played armorer. Kemper played MC.
“We’ve got six men for you gentlemen to choose from. You’ll be funding this operation, and I know you’ll want last say as to who goes in. Pete and I are proposing three-man teams, with Néstor Chasco, who you already know, as the third man in all cases. Before we start, I want to stress that these men are loyal, fearless and fully comprehend the risks involved. If captured, they will commit suicide rather than reveal who set up this operation.”
Giancana tapped his watch. “I’m running late. Can we get this show on the road?”
Trafficante tapped his. “Move it, would you, Kemper? I’m due back in Tampa.”
Kemper nodded. Pete cranked Fidel #1 fifty feet out. The men loaded their revolvers and assumed the two-handed combat stance.
Pete said, “Fire.”
Chino Cromajor blew Castro’s hat off. Rafael Hernández-Brown de-cigared him. César Ramos severed both his ears.
The reverberations faded. Kemper gauged reactions.
Santo looked bored. Sam looked restless. Johnny looked mildly nonplussed.
Juanita Chacon aimed crotch-high and fired. Fidel #1 lost his manhood.
Flash and Juan fired twice. Fidel lost his arms and his legs.
Laurent Guéry clapped. Giancana checked his watch.
Pete cranked Fidel #2 a hundred yards out. The shooters raised their obsolete M-1s.
The judges held up their binoculars. Pete said, “Fire.”
Cromajor shot Castro’s eyes out. Hernández-Brown lopped off his thumbs.
Ramos nailed his cigar. Juanita castrated him.
Flash blew his legs off at the knees. Juan slammed a cardiac bullseye.
Pete yelled, “Cease fire!” The shooters lowered their weapons and lined up at parade rest.
Giancana said, “It’s impressive, but we can’t go off half-cocked on something this big.”
Trafficante said, “I have to agree with Mo.”
Rosselli said, “You need to give us some time to think about it.”
Kemper felt queasy. His speedball rush turned ugly.
Pete was trembling.
74
(Washington, D.C., 1/24/62)
Littell locked the money in his desk safe. One month’s retainer–$6,000 cash.
Hoffa said, “You didn’t count it.”
“I trust you.”
“I could’ve made a mistake.”
Littell tilted his chair back and looked up at him. “That’s unlikely. Especially when you walked it over here yourself.”
“You’d’ve felt better walking over to my shop in this fucking cold?”
“I could have waited until the first.”
Hoffa perched on the edge of the desk. His overcoat was soaked with melting snow.
Littell moved some folders. Hoffa picked up his crystal paperweight.
“Did you come for a pep talk, Jimmy?”
“No. But if you got one, I’m all ears.”
“How’s this. You’re going to win and Bobby’s going to lose. It’s going to be a long and painful war, and you’re going to win by sheer attrition.”
Jimmy squeezed the paperweight. “I was thinking Kemper Boyd should leak a copy of my Justice Department file to you.”
Littell shook his head. “He won’t do it, and I won’t ask him to. He’s got the Kennedys and Cuba and God knows what else wrapped in tidy little packages that only he knows the logic of. There’s lines he won’t cross over, and you and Bobby Kennedy are one of them.”