o o o
Pete caught a cab back to the stand. Vandals had stripped the tiger cars down to spare parts.
He read the note. Boyd cut straight to the point.
Néstor’s here. I got a tip that he was seen begging gun money in Coral Gables. My source says he’s holed up at 46th and Collins. (The pink garage apartment on the southwest corner.)
The note meant KILL HIM. Don’t let Santo get to him first.
o o o
He took bourbon and aspirin for his headache.
He took his magnum and his silencer for the job.
He took some pro-Castro leaflets to plant near the body.
He drove to 46th and Collins. He took this weird revelation with him: You might let Néstor talk you out of it.
The pink garage apartment was right there, as stated. The ‘58 Chevy at the curb looked like a Néstor-style ride.
Pete parked.
Pete got butterflies.
Go ahead, do it–you’ve killed at least three hundred men.
He walked up and knocked on the door.
Nobody answered.
He knocked again. He listened for footsteps and whispers.
He couldn’t hear a thing. He picked the lock with his penknife and walked in.
Shotgun slides went KA-CHOOK. Some unseen party hit a light switch.
There’s Néstor, lashed to a chair. There’s two fat henchmen types holding Ithaca pumps.
There’s Santo Trafficante with an icepick.
86
(New Orleans, 9/15/63)
Littell opened his briefcase. Stacks of money fell out.
Marcello said, “How much?”
Littell said, “A quarter of a million dollars.”
“Where’d you get it?”
“From a client.”
Carlos cleared some desk space. His office was top-heavy with Italianate knickknacks.
“You’re saying this is for me?”
“I’m saying it’s for you to match.”
“What else are you saying?”
Littell dumped the money on the desk. “I’m saying that as an attorney, I can only do so much. With John Kennedy in power, Bobby will get you all sooner or later. I’m also saying that eliminating Bobby would be futile, because Jack would instinctively know who did it and take his vengeance accordingly.”
The money smelled. Hughes dredged up old bills.
“But Lyndon Johnson don’t like Bobby. He’d put the skids to him just to teach the fucking kid a lesson.”
“That’s right. Johnson hates Bobby as much as Mr. Hoover does. And like Mr. Hoover, he bears you and our other friends no ill will.”
Marcello laughed. “LBJ borrowed some money from the Teamsters once. He is well known as a reasonable guy.”
“So is Mr. Hoover. And Mr. Hoover is also very upset about Bobby’s plans to put Joe Valachi on TV. He’s very much afraid that Valachi’s revelations will severely damage his prestige and virtually destroy everything that you and our other friends have built.”
Carlos built a little cash skyscraper. Bank stacks rose off his desk blotter.
Littell knocked them over. “I think Mr. Hoover wants it to happen. I think he feels it coming.”
“We’ve all been thinking about it. You can’t get a roomful of the boys together without somebody bringing it up.”
“It can be made to happen. And it can be made to look like we weren’t involved.”
“So you’re saying…”
“I’m saying it’s so big and audacious that we’ll most likely never be suspected. I’m saying that even if we are, the powers that be will realize that it can never be conclusively proven. I’m saying that a consensus of denial will build off of it. I’m saying that people will want to remember the man as something he wasn’t. I’m saying that we’ll present them with an explanation, and the powers that be will prefer it to the truth, even though they know better.”
Marcello said, “Do it. Make it happen.”
87
(Sun Valley, 9/18/63)
The squad shared turf with gators and sand fleas. Kemper called the place “Hoffa’s Paradise Lost.”
Flash set up targets. Laurent bench-pressed cinderblock siding. Juan Canestel was AWOL–with 8:00 a.m. rifle practice pending.
Nobody heard him drive off. Juan was prone to odd wanderings lately.
Kemper watched Laurent Guéry work out. The man could bench three hundred pounds without breaking a sweat.
Dust swirled up the main road. Teamster Boulevard was now a pistol range.