Littell walked past the window. Pete opened the door and pulled him in bodily.
He didn’t react. He looked glazed and hurt.
Kemper shut the door. “Ward, what is it?”
Littell hugged his briefcase. He didn’t even blink at the room damage.
“I talked to Sam. He said the Miami hit is out, because his liaison to Castro told him that Castro would never speak to any Outfit man ever again, under any circumstances. They’ve given up the idea of a rapprochement. I’ve always considered it farfetched, and now apparently Sam and Santo agree.”
Pete said, “This is all crazy.” Kemper read Littell’s face: DON’T TAKE THIS AWAY FROM ME.
“Are we still on?”
Littell said, “I think so. And I spoke to Guy Banister and figured something out.”
Pete looked ready to blow. “So tell us, Ward. We know you’re the smartest and the strongest now, so just tell us what you think.”
Littell squared his necktie. “Banister saw a copy of a presidential memo. It passed from Jack to Bobby to Mr. Hoover, then through to the New Orleans SAC, who leaked it to Guy. The memo said that the President is sending a personal emissary to talk to Castro in November, and that further JM/Wave cutbacks will be forthcoming.”
Pete flicked blood off his hands. “I don’t get the Banister connection.”
Littell tossed his briefcase on the bed. “It was coincidental. Guy and Carlos are close, and Guy’s a frustrated lawyer himself. We talk from time to time, and he just happened to mention the memo. What it all ties in to is my feeling that Mr. Hoover senses there’s a hit plan in the works. Since none of us have broken cover, I’m thinking that–maybe–there’s a second hit in the planning stages. I’m thinking also that Banister might have knowledge of it–and that’s why Hoover leaked the memo in his direction.”
Kemper pointed to the window. “Did you see that checkpoint?”
Littell said, “Yes, of course.”
Kemper said, “That’s Hoover again. That’s him letting the raids happen to keep the hate against Jack peaking. John Stanton called me, Ward. There’s supposed to be a half-dozen or six dozen or two dozen more fucking plots in the works, like the fucking assassination metaphysic is just out there too undeniably–”
Pete slapped him.
Kemper pulled his piece.
Pete pulled his.
Littell said, “No,” VERY SOFTLY.
Pete dropped his gun on the bed.
Kemper dropped his.
Littell said, “Enough,” VERY SOFTLY.
The room crackled and buzzed. Littell unloaded the guns and locked them in his briefcase.
Pete spoke just shy of a whisper. “Banister bailed me out of jail last month. He said, ‘This Kennedy bullshit is about to end,’ like he had some kind of fucking foreknowledge.”
Kemper spoke the same way. “Juan Canestel’s been acting strange lately. I tailed him a few hours ago, and spotted his car parked next to Banister’s and Carlos Marcello’s. It was right down the road here, outside another motel.”
Littell said, “The Larkhaven?”
“That’s right.”
Pete sucked blood off his knuckles. “How’d you know that, Ward? And if Carlos is in on a second hit, are Santo and Mo calling ours off?”
Littell shook his head. “I think we’re still on.”
“What about this Banister stuff?”
“It’s new to me, but it fits. All I know for certain now is that I’m meeting Carlos at the Larkhaven Motel at five. He told me that Santo and Mo have handed the whole thing to him, with two new stipulations.”
Kemper rubbed his chin. The slap left his face bright red.
“Which are?”
“That we reschedule out of Miami and work up a left-wing patsy. There’s no chance at a truce with Castro, so they want to build the killer up as pro-Fidel.”
Pete kicked the wall. A landscape print hit the floor.
Kemper swallowed a loose tooth. Pete pointed to the highway.
The cops were putting on full riot gear. The cops were running strip searches in broad daylight.
Kemper said, “Look at that. That’s all Mr. Hoover’s chess game.”
Pete said, “You’re crazy. He’s not that fucking good.”
Littell laughed in his face.
94
(Blessington, 10/21/63)
Carlos arranged a liquor tray. The setting was incongruous– Hennessy XO and paper-wrapped motel glasses.