Flash played his transistor radio. Bad news crackled out.
There were no arrests in the Birmingham church bombing case. The revamped McClellan Committee was set to go to televised sessions.
A woman was found sash-cord strangled outside Lake Weir. The police reported no leads and appealed to the public for assistance.
Juan was one hour AWOL. Pete was missing for three days.
He got the phone tip on Néstor four days ago. The tipster was a freelance exile gunman. He gave Guy Banister a note to relay to Pete.
Guy called and said he delivered it. He said he found Pete at the Federal detention jail. He dropped hints that more FBI raids were coming.
A storm browned out their phone setup two days ago. Pete couldn’t call Sun Valley.
Kemper drove to a pay phone off the Interstate last night. He called Pete’s apartment six times and got no answer.
Néstor Chasco’s death never made the news. Pete would have dumped the body in a newsworthy locale.
Pete would put a pro-Castro spin on the murder. Pete would make sure Trafficante got the word.
His morning Dexedrine surge hit. It took ten pills to kick-start the day–he’d built up a large tolerance.
Juan and Pete were missing. Juan was hanging out with Guy Banister lately–little Lake Weir drinking excursions every other day or so.
The Pete thing felt wrong. The Juan thing felt mildly hinky.
His amphetamine surge said, Do something.
o o o
Juan drove a candy-apple-red T-Bird. Flash called it the Rapemobile.
Kemper cruised Lake Weir. The town was small and laid out in a grid pattern–the Rapemobile would be easy to spot.
He checked side streets and the bars near the highway. He checked Karl’s Kustom Kar Shop and every parking lot on the main drag.
He didn’t spot Juan. He didn’t spot Juan’s customized T-Bird.
Juan could wait. The Pete thing was more pressing.
Kemper drove to Miami. The pills started to hit counterproductive–he kept yawning and fading out at the wheel.
He stopped at 46th and Coffins. That pink garage apartment was right where the tipster said it would be.
A traffic cop walked over. Kemper noticed a No Parking sign on the corner.
He rolled down his window. The cop jammed a smelly rag in his face.
o o o
It felt like chemical warfare inside him.
The smell fought his wake-up pills. The smell might be chloroform or embalming fluid. The smell meant he might be dead.
His pulse said, NO–you’re alive.
His lips burned. His nose burned. He tasted chloroformed blood.
He tried to spit. His lips wouldn’t part. He gagged the blood out through his nose.
He stretched his mouth. Something tugged at his cheeks. It felt like tape coming loose.
He sucked in air. He tried to move his arms and legs.
He tried to stand up. Heavy ballast held him down.
He wiggled. Chair legs scraped wood flooring. He thrashed his arms and got rope burns.
Kemper opened his eyes.
A man laughed. A hand held up Polaroid snapshots glued to cardboard.
He saw Teo Paez, gutted and quartered. He saw Fulo Machado, shivved through the eyes. He saw Ramdn Gutierrez, powderscorched from big-bore shots to the head.
The photos disappeared. The hand swiveled his neck. Kemper caught a slow 180 view.
He saw a shabby room and two fat men in a doorway. He saw Néstor Chasco–nailed to the far wall with icepicks through his palms and ankles.
Kemper shut his eyes. A hand slapped him. A big heavy ring cut his lips.
Kemper opened his eyes. Hands slid his chair around 360.
They had Pete chained down. They had him double-cuffed and shackled to a chair. They had the chair bolted directly into the floor.
A rag hit his face. Kemper sucked the fumes in voluntarily.
o o o
He heard stories filtered through a long echo chamber. He picked out three storytelling voices.
Néstor got close to Castro twice. You got to hand it to him.
A kid that tough–what a shame to put his lights out.
Néstor said he bought off some Castro aide. The aide said Castro was considering a Kennedy hit. The aide said, What’s with this Kennedy? First he invades us, then he pulls back–he’s like a cunt who can’t make up her mind.