He said he had to cut the Cadre loose.
“Just for now, Pete. I’ve heard there’s Federal pressure coming down. I want to extricate out of narcotics for a while.”
The man just imported two hundred pounds of Big “H.” The man was talking up extrication with a straight face.
Santo showed him a police report. The Miami fuzz bought the charade. They considered it one grisly dope killing–with assumed Cuban exile perpetrators.
Boyd and Néstor went back to Mississippi. The dope was stashed in forty safe-deposit boxes.
They resumed their Whack Castro training. They didn’t care that the Outfit dug Fidel now. They didn’t seem to know that there were men who could make them stop.
Their fear wasn’t screwed on tight.
His was.
They didn’t know you don’t fuck with the Outfit.
He did.
He always sucked up to men with REAL power. He never broke the rules they set. He had to do what he did–but he didn’t know WHY.
Santo swore vengeance. Santo said he’d find the dope thieves–whatever it cost, whatever it took.
Boyd thought they could sell the dope. Boyd was wrong. Boyd said he’d snitch the Mob-Agency links. Boyd said he could level out Bobby’s rage.
He wouldn’t do it. He couldn’t do it. He’d never risk losing stature with the Kennedys.
Pete took another drink. His three shots killed a third of the bottle.
Freddy lugged his tools out. “Let’s go. I’ll drive you back to your hotel.”
“You go. I want to take a walk.”
“Where to?”
“I don’t know.”
o o o
The Rabbit’s Foot Club was a hotbox–four walls trapping smoke and stale air. Underaged Twisters ruled the dance floor–a big liquor-law infraction.
Joey and the boys played half on-the-nod. Barb was singing some dippy wah-wah tune. A single sad-ass hooker sat at the bar.
Barb spotted him. She smiled and fumbled some lyrics.
The only half-private booth in the room was occupied. Two Marines and two high-school girls–ripe for eviction.
Pete told them to shove off. They caught his size and did it The girls left their fruity rum drinks on the table.
Pete sat down and sipped at them. His headache leveled off a bit more. Barb closed with a weak “Twilight Time” cover.
A few Twisters clapped. The combo dispersed backstage. Barb walked straight over and joined him.
Pete slid close to her. Barb said, “I’m surprised. Ward said you were in Miami.”
“I thought I’d come out and see how things were going.”
“You mean you thought you’d check up on me?”
Pete shook his head. “Everybody thinks you’re solid. Freddy Turentine and I came out to check on Lenny.”
Barb said, “Lenny’s in New York. He’s visiting a friend.”
“A woman named Laura Hughes?”
“I think so. Some rich woman with a place on Fifth Avenue.”
Pete toyed with his lighter. “Laura Hughes is Jack Kennedy’s half-sister. She used to be engaged to that man Kemper Boyd that Jack told you about. Boyd was Ward Littell’s FBI mentor. My old girlfriend Gail Hendee slept with Jack on his honeymoon. Lenny gave Jack speech lessons back in ‘46.”
Barb took one of Pete’s cigarettes. “You’re saying this is all too cozy for words.”
Pete gave her a light. “I don’t know what I’m saying.”
Barb tossed her hair back. “Did Gail Hendee work gigs with you?”
“Yes.”
“Divorce gigs?”
“That’s right.”
“Was she as good as me?”
“No.”
“Were you jealous that she slept with Jack Kennedy?”
“Not until Jack fucked me personally.”
“What are you saying?”
“That I had a personal stake in the Bay of Pigs.”
Barb smiled. Bar light twinkled off her hair.
“Are you jealous of Jack and me?”
“If I hadn’t heard the tapes I might have been.”
“What are you saying?”
“That you’re not giving him anything real.”
Barb laughed. “This nice Secret Service man always drives me back to where I’m staying. We stopped for pizza last time.”
“You’re saying that’s real?”
“Only compared to an hour with Jack.”
The jukebox fired up. Pete reached over and pulled the plug.
Barb said, “You blackmailed Lenny into this.”
“He’s used to getting blackmailed.”
“You’re nervous. You’re tapping your knee against the table, and you don’t even know you’re doing it.”