Pete said, “It sounds too legal.”
Pool water splashed at their feet. His suite upstairs was almost Kennedy-sized.
“Boyd–”
“Eisenhower has given the Agency a tacit mandate to covertly undermine Castro. The Outfit wants their casinos back. Nobody wants a Communist dictatorship ninety miles off the Florida coast.”
“Tell me something I don’t know.”
“Ike’s budget allocation came in a little low.”
“Tell me something interesting.”
Kemper poked the bag. A tiny trace of white powder puffed out
“I have a plan to refmance our part of the Cuban Cause. It’s implicitly Agency-vetted, and I think it will work.”
“I’m getting the picture, but I want to hear you say it.”
Kemper lowered his voice. “We link up with Santo Trafficante. We utilize his narcotics connections and my Cadre as pushers, and sell this dope, Santo’s dope and all the other dope we can get our hands on in Miami. The Agency has access to a poppy farm in Mexico, and we can buy some fresh-processed stuff there and have Chuck Rogers fly it in. We finance the Cause with the bulk of the money, give Trafficante a percentage as operating tribute and send a small percentage of the dope into Cuba with our Blessington men. They’ll distribute it to our on-island contacts, who will sell it and use the money to purchase weapons. Your specific job is to supervise my Cadre and make sure they sell only to Negroes. You make sure my men don’t use the dope themselves, and keep their profit skim at a minimum.”
Pete said, “What’s our percentage?” Pete’s response was utterly predictable.
“We don’t take one. If Trafficante approves my plan, we’ll get something much sweeter.”
“Which you’re not going to talk about now.”
“I’m meeting Trafficante in Tampa this afternoon. I’ll let you know what he says.”
“And in the meantime?”
“If Trafficante says yes, we’ll get going in a week or so. In the meantime, you drive down to Blessington and check things out, meet the Cadre and tell Mr. Hughes that you’ll be taking some prolonged Florida vacations.”
Pete smiled. “He’ll be pissed.”
“You know how to get around that.”
“If I’m working up in Miami, who’s going to run the campsite?”
Kemper got out his address book. “Go see Guy Banister in New Orleans. Tell him we need a tough white man to run the camp, a shitkicker type who can handle the crackers around Blessington. Guy knows every right-wing hardcase on the Gulf Coast. Tell him we need a man who’s not too insane and willing to move to South Florida.”
Pete wrote Banister’s number on a napkin. “You’re convinced all this is going to work?”
“I’m certain. Just pray that Castro doesn’t go pro-U.S.”
“That’s a nice sentiment from a Kennedy man.”
“Jack would appreciate the irony.”
Pete cracked his knuckles. “Jimmy thinks you should tell Jack to put a leash on Bobby.”
“Never. And I want to see Jack elected President, and I will not intercede with the Kennedys to help Hoffa. I keep–”
“–things compartmentalized, I know.”
Kemper held the ring up. “Stanton wants me to help influence Jack’s Cuban policy. We want the Cuban problem to extend, Pete. Hopefully into a Kennedy administration.”
Pete cracked his thumbs. “Jack’s got a nice head of hair, but I don’t see him as President of the United States.”
“Qualifications don’t count All Ike did was invade Europe and look like your uncle.”
Pete stretched. His shirttail slid up over two revolvers.
“Whatever happens, I’m in. This is too fucking big to pass up.”
o o o
His rent-a-car came with a discreet dashboard Jesus. Kemper slipped the ring over its head.
The air conditioner died outside Miami. A radio concert kept his mind off the heat.
A virtuoso played Chopin. Kemper replayed the scene at Pavillon.
Jack played peacemaker and smoothed things out. Old Joe’s freeze thawed out nicely. They stayed for one awkward drink.
Bobby sulked. Ava Gardner was plain flummoxed. She had no idea what the scene meant.
Joe sent him a note the next day. It closed with, “Laura deserves a man with balls.”
Laura said “I love you” that night. He made up his mind to propose to her at Christmas.