Fidel’s the cunt. The aide told Chasco he’d never work with the Outfit again. He thinks Santo screwed him on the heroin deal. He didn’t know it was Néstor and our boys here.
Bondurant pissed his pants. Look, you can see the stain.
Santo and Mo were not gentle. And I got to say Néstor went out brave.
I’m bored with this. I got to say this waiting around is stretching me thin.
I got to say they’ll be back soon. I got to say they’ll want to put some hurt on these two.
Kemper felt his bladder go. He took a deep breath and forced himself unconscious.
o o o
He dreamed he was moving. He dreamed somebody cleaned him up and changed his clothes. He dreamed he heard fierce Pete Bondurant sobbing.
He dreamed he could breathe. He dreamed he could talk He kept cursing Jack and Claire for disowning him.
He woke up on a bed. He recognized his old Fontainebleau suite or an exact replica of it.
He was wearing clean clothes. Somebody pulled off his soiled boxer shorts.
He felt rope burns on his wrists. He felt tape fragments stuck to his face.
He heard voices one room over–Pete and Ward Littell.
He tried to stand up. His legs wouldn’t function. He sat on the bed and coughed his lungs out.
Littell walked in. He looked commanding–that gabardine suit gave him some bulk.
Kemper said, “There’s a price.”
Littell nodded. “That’s right. It’s something I worked out with Carlos and Sam.”
“Ward–”
“Santo agreed, too. And you and Pete get to keep what you stole.”
Kemper stood up. Ward held him steady.
“What do we have to do?”
Littell said, “Kill John Kennedy.”
88
(Miami, 9/23/63)
1933 to 1963. Thirty years and parallel situations.
Miami, ‘33. Giuseppe Zangara tries to shoot President-elect Franklin D. Roosevelt. He misses–and kills Chicago Mayor Anton Cermak.
Miami, ‘63. A Kennedy motorcade is scheduled for November 18.
Littell slow-cruised Biscayne Boulevard. Every inch of ground told him something.
Carlos told him the Zangara story last week.
“Giuseppe was a fucking nut. Some Chicago boys paid him to pop Cermak and take the bounce. He had a fucking death wish, and he got his fucking wish fulfilled. Frank Nitti took care of his family after he got executed.”
He met with Carlos, Sam and Santo. He bartered for Pete and Kemper. They discussed the fall-guy issue at length.
Carlos wanted a leftist. He thought a left-wing assassin would galvanize anti-Castro feeling. Trafficante and Giancana overruled him.
They matched Howard Hughes’ contribution. They added one stipulation: we want a right-wing patsy.
They still wanted to suck up to Fidel. They wanted to replenish Raul Castro’s dope stash and effect a late-breaking rapprochement. They wanted to say, We financed the hit–now, will you please give us back our casinos?
Their take was too convoluted. Their take was politically naive.
His take was minimalistically downscaled.
The hit can be accomplished. The planners and shooters can walk. Bobby’s Mob crusade can be nullified.
Any results beyond that are unforeseeable, and will most likely resolve themselves in a powerfully ambiguous fashion.
Littell drove through downtown Miami. He noted potential motorcade routes–wide streets with high visibility.
He saw tall buildings and rear parking lots. He saw Office for Rent signs.
He saw blighted residential blocks. He saw House for Rent signs and a gun shop.
He could see the motorcade pass. He could see the man’s head explode.
o o o
They met at the Fontainebleau. Pete ran a wall-to-wall bug sweep before they said one word.
Kemper mixed drinks. They sat around a table by the wet bar.
Littell laid the plan out.
“We bring the fall guy to Miami some time between now and the first of October. We get him to rent a cheap house on the outskirts of downtown, close to the announced or assumedto-be-announced motorcade route–and an office directly on the route–once that route is determined. I cruised every major airport-to-downtown artery this morning. My educated guess is that we’ll have plenty of houses and offices to choose from.”
Pete and Kemper stayed quiet. They still looked close to shellshocked.
“One of us sticks close to the fall guy between the time we bring him here and the morning of the motorcade. There’s a gun shop near his office and his house, and one of you burglarizes it and steals several rifles and pistols. Hate literature and other bits of incriminating paraphernalia are planted at the house, and our man handles them to insure latent fingerprints.”