Maheu motioned to Sam Gold and Joe the Courier. “Johnny brought you gentlemen to the table. And the CIA has graciously sent us Mr. Calendar to handle their side of things. I’m just the broker in the middle.”
Maheu smiled in his unctuous way. Joe the Courier and Sam sat satisfied, adding nothing, letting others talk. Roselli beamed to be in the room with this much firepower, obviously thinking well of himself.
“It’s an odd alliance, certainly,” Maheu said, “but one that I think can do something great.”
The mood around the table was complacent, everybody happy to consider great deeds and their boxing winnings. The fruity interior made the meeting bright, seem like fun. And who ran this meeting? Fashion-plate Maheu, Howard Hughes’s go-fer?
No, Calendar thought. America ran the meeting. Why? Because Uncle Sam had more money than Hughes. And he’d killed a few millions more than Sam and Joe.
Calendar slipped his mouthpiece out of his pants pocket into his hand.
“So,” he piped up, “Joe the Courier. Sam Gold. I like those names. I got to get me one of those nicknames like you guys.”
The two winced at Calendar, Joe from behind his big glasses. He said, “What?”
“Yeah.” Calendar smacked his own forehead. “I just came up with one! Tell me what you think. Bud the Vacuum. Huh? Got a ring?”
Roselli pressed his forearms into the table. “What are you doin’?”
Calendar swiveled his attention to Roselli. He matched the man’s posture, leaning in. He kept the mouthpiece tucked in his fist.
“Ask me why,” he said to Roselli.
The soldier blinked once, slowly. “Why?”
Calendar put a hand under his own chin. “Because I’m up to here in dirtbags.”
At the end of the table, Maheu shot to his feet. “Calendar! I told you to curb your goddam mouth.”
“Bob,” Calendar calmly said, not prying his eyes off Roselli, “sit down and shut up.”
Calendar reached into his jacket pocket. Roselli stiffened on instinct when Calendar’s hand disappeared into his coat. He said, “I hope you know what you’re doin’, big fella.”
Calendar withdrew the hand slowly. Sam Gold motioned for Maheu to take his seat. On the table, Calendar unfolded a page out of yesterday’s Sunday Miami Herald.
“Let’s see what we got here. Uh huh, here we go.”
He spun the newspaper around to face Joe the Courier and Sam Gold.
“See anybody you recognize there, boys?”
Beneath a banner reading “America’s Most Powerful Mafiosi,” seven black-and-white photos had been laid out to mock a lineup. Below each picture ran their names: Joe Bonanno, Frank Costello, Carlo Gambino, Meyer Lansky, Charles “Lucky” Luciano; then Joe the Courier’s round face and black rims in profile leaving a Tampa courtroom above the caption Santo Trafficante Jr. Bringing up the rear, Sam Gold had been caught in a jaunty straw hat and fat smile. The name under his picture read Sam Giancana.
Calendar waited while Giancana and Trafficante took in the spread. Roselli leaned across, curious. Calendar glared at Maheu. Then he tapped the table with the flat of his palm.
“I’m the United States government, boys. Who you think you’re dealing with? Do you even know what the CIA does? Who we are? Sam Gold, Joe the Courier. Gimme a break.”
Calendar paused. No one spoke; Roselli’s threatening manner had vanished.
“So, should I get up and walk away now and handle this situation on my own? Or are you gonna stop lying to me like a bunch of two-bit hoods?”
Maheu tried to speak, but Calendar broke him off with a glance.
“Because I hate being bullshited by people I’m trying to do business with.”
He crooked an elbow on the table and pointed at Trafficante, who sat stonily peering through his black rims.
“Santo Trafficante Junior,” Calendar announced. “Born in America, one of the few men to actually succeed his father as a Mafia don. Head of the Tampa family. You lived in Havana from ‘46 ‘til Castro chucked you out in ‘59. One of the first mobsters to get into the hotels and casinos in Cuba in a big way. That was back in the heyday, huh? How much you losing every month, with no business in Cuba, Santo? A million?”
“Two.”
Calendar turned on Giancana.
“Sam ‘Momo’ Giancana. You run Chicago. Used to be muscle for Capone. Chauffeur for Paulie Ricca. Moved up pretty fast through murder and rackets. You like to hang out with the stars. You’re a good pal of the Kennedys. And you and JFK are both fucking Marilyn Monroe.”
Roselli leaped out of his chair. Calendar rose fast; on his way up, he popped the mouthpiece past his lips and clamped down. The broad table separated them enough to make both men consider how to get at the other, long enough for Giancana to bellow, “Basta!”
Roselli froze at the command. Calendar licked the outside of the mouthpiece, then spit it into his hand.
“Sit down, Johnny.” Trafficante had his hand on Roselli’s thick wrist. “We’re all friends here. Aren’t we, Mr. Calendar?”
“Sure. I’m even dating Johnny’s sister.”
Another tug on Roselli’s wrist was needed to get him back into the leather chair.
Roselli asked through thinned lips, “Calendar, have you asked yourself lately whether you’re right in the fucking head?”
At the head of the table, Giancana smiled sagely.
“It’s okay, Johnny. Mr. Calendar here does in fact know what he’s doing. He’s just letting us all know who’s the boss in this affair. I respect that. I think Santo does, too.”
Trafficante nodded. Roselli still glared, wary. At the far end of the table, Maheu looked disgusted.
Giancana continued: “In our business, Mr. Calendar, we learn to take a shot. And we’re good at giving one back. Live by the sword, die by the sword. Remember that. Now, for the record, your friend Mr. Roselli there is my representative in Las Vegas and Hollywood. And, of course, Mr. Maheu, a former FBI agent, works closely with the richest man in the world. So, Mr. Calendar. You know our credentials. We don’t know yours. Do you mind?”
Calendar breathed through his nose, quieting his pulse. He took his seat, pocketing the mouthpiece.
“Sure.”
Calendar looked around the room. He wasn’t cleared to say anything he was about to. But what the hell, he thought. Everybody at this table lived in a world of money and murder. All of them were surely discreet. Or they’d be dead.
“Ten years ago, it dawned on the CIA that there was no way we were ever going to roll back Communism. The countries that were Red were gonna stay Red unless we went to war with them. Fair enough, they weren’t gonna change us either. So, we decided the better way to fight the Commies was containment. That means there isn’t going to be a global war, because no one wins that one. The real battleground is small engagements in Third World countries that are still in play between the Reds and us.”
“Cuba,” said Giancana.
“And Viet Nam, and Congo, and Panama and the other half of the planet that’s got their palms out waiting for one of the big boys to fill ‘em up. We play hard, both teams do, but we play in secret. That way the odds of a mushroom cloud are less.”
Trafficante asked, “So where’ve you been playing, Mr. Calendar?”
“A few places. Maybe you heard of them. Iran. In ‘53 we put Pahlevi back on the throne. And we did Guatemala the next year. CIA engineered a coup to get rid of Arbenz after we figured out he was taking money and arms from the Soviets. We faked an invasion, dropped some smoke bombs on the capitol, and Arbenz got cold feet and lit out for Mexico.”
Trafficante seemed unimpressed. “Who gives a crap about Guatemala?”
Calendar answered, “The Commies. That’s why we give a crap. Lately, we’ve had our eye on Congo. You’ve probably heard that Lumumba’s gone missing. What you won’t hear on the news is that he’s been chopped up with a hacksaw and dropped in sulfuric acid. I’m sorry to say we weren’t di
rectly responsible for that one.” Giancana nodded approval. “Even so, nice.” Calendar brightened. “Okay, Santo. Even you’ll like this one. You heard of Sukarno?” “Indonesia.”
“Bingo. We did a blue movie, with him as the star.” At the far end of the table, Maheu jerked. “You were behind that?”
“Yes, Bob, I was.”
Calendar continued addressing himself to the two mob bosses. “Back in ‘58, Sukarno was starting to get cozy with the Russians. Uncle Sam was concerned, as you can imagine. So, we did some checking, and found out that Sukarno is quite the poon hound. Isn’t that right, Bob?”
Maheu grimaced at Calendar’s vulgarity. “President Sukarno has an ample sexual appetite, yes.”
“CIA found out that Sukarno had been shacking up at the Kremlin with a KGB agent. She’d been posing as a stewardess on his flights to Moscow. The classic honey trap. So, we hired Bob here to set up a little porno movie for us out in Hollywood. He got a hot little blonde hooker who looked just like the KGB gal from behind, and some Hispanic guy in a bald cap to play Sukarno. And you’re gonna love who Bob got to produce this little number. Bob, tell everybody.”
Maheu did not like the role of second banana Calendar had set out for him. But he cleared his throat, and said, “Bing Crosby.”
“Get the fuck outta here!” Giancana rocked back in his seat. Roselli waved both hands in the air. Trafficante rubbed his big forehead.
“I call that living by the sword,” Calendar said, knocking Giancana in the shoulder like a comrade, “huh, Sam?” Giancana accepted the gesture with a merry wink.
“Anyway,” Calendar mopped up, “all we had to do was circulate some stills from the film around Indonesia. Sukarno had to stop seeing the gal. And the Soviets aren’t such great pals of his as they once were.”
Again, Giancana said, “Nice.” All three gangsters looked at Maheu, the proper California gent with his silk tie, niceties, and his high horse.
Trafficante glanced at his watch.
“Mr. Calendar. All due respect, but we’re not here tonight to make any dirty movies. If you catch my meaning. Sukarno’s a sick fuck. Arbenz got scared.” The mobster rubbed fingers down his long, sad jowls. “We got a different situation. Castro don’t scare.”
“And that,” said Calendar, “is why, if we can’t turn him, we’re going to kill him.”
In intel circles, this word was never spoken. They called it Executive Action, the magic bullet, the button. There were any number of euphemisms to smother the ethical dilemma of murder. Calendar savored saying to these unflinching men exactly what they were going to do.
Across from him, Trafficante finally stopped fingering his face in concern. He laid his hands flat on the table.
“And how do you figure this should take place, Mr. Calendar?”
“First of all,” Calendar asked the dapper man at the end of the table, “Bob? Do you want to hear this? Or is Howard Hughes not paying you enough to be an accomplice?”
“Proceed, Mr. Calendar. Mr. Hughes won’t cry when Castro is removed, but he’s not involved in this operation.”
“Then what’s your reason?”
“I’m a patriot, Mr. Calendar,” Maheu answered with a blank face. “Same as you.”
“You sure it’s got nothing to do with the fact that your boss makes about a billion bucks a year supplying the U.S. government with weaponry? Maybe Howard’s a bit of a kiss ass. Maybe he’s more involved than you think. And maybe you’re a good employee, as well as a patriot.”
“Maybe, Mr. Calendar.”
“Okay, then. We’re all on the same page. Here’s some ground rules first. This is a cutout operation. That means it’s a one-time shot. The CIA and the mob are not gonna start holding hands after this. Understand? One deal, then it’s back to cops and robbers.”
Nods all around. Calendar pressed on.
“Tell you the truth, we’ve been trying to hit Castro on our own for six months now. We tried giving him poison cigars last year while he was in New York at the U.N. Couldn’t get close enough to make the delivery. We’ve been providing the Cuban underground with every weapon they ask for to clip Fidel. Plastic bombs, sniper rifles, you name it, and every time they come up craps.”
Giancana asked, “What’s wrong with the underground?”
“Too many snitches. Castro’s police have infiltrated just about every cell on the island.”
Roselli pitched in, “Fucking Cubans can’t keep a secret anyway.”
Calendar thought Roselli was right, but didn’t say as much. He kept on describing the CIA’s tough luck in getting to Fidel. “We thought about putting thallium salts in his boots to make his beard fall out. We made plans to get him high on an aerosol LSD before one of his radio talks. We tried more poison cigars. Considered jabbing him with a shellfish poison needle like Gary Powers, that U-2 pilot who got shot down, was supposed to stick himself with. Just last week we got real close. We wired a mine under a conch shell where Fidel goes spear fishing. Some kids were poaching on his private reef. One boy got his arm blown off right in front of me. Two goddam minutes before Fidel showed up.”
Giancana nodded sympathetically. “Murder on television looks real easy, don’t it? Not so easy to do in real life.”
“Then a couple of days ago, we had a sniper team get picked up the minute they landed.”
“Too bad,” agreed the mobsters.
“Anyway, I’m done with the underground. I may as well publish what I’m doing in the newspapers as deal with those blabbermouths. That’s why I’m here, gentlemen. I need names, people I can trust in Havana. I’m sick of dealing with nothing but patriots. I want your guys, greedy and scared to death of you. I’ll be honest, this omerta thing you people have got, it’s a CIA man’s wet dream.”
Trafficante, ever the businessman, asked, “Alright, Mr. Calendar. You’ve figured out you need our help. And from the sound of things, you’re right. How does this go down?”
“The CIA’s first choice is a gangland-style hit. You guys find someone in Havana to do it with a lot of noise, a submachine gun in a public square, a drive-by, something out of that TV show The Untouchables, you know? We want it to look like the Mafia did it. Revenge murder for Castro closing down the casinos.”
Roselli nodded, enjoying the image of Fidel splayed out and bleeding, the doing of it. Trafficante remained staid. Giancana stroked his chin.
Calendar said, “The government’s willing to pay a pretty penny for this operation. You pull it off, you name your price.”
Trafficante replied, “We’ll do it for free.” As the Florida crime boss with mob jurisdiction over Cuba, this was his call. “Lansky’s already got a million-dollar price on Castro. We’re covered.”
Giancana shook his head. “Nah.”
Trafficante asked, “What’s the matter, Momo?”
“You’ll never get anyone to pull the trigger,” Giancana said. “It’s in the middle of Cuba, for Chrissakes. What kind of stunad you gonna find for that idea? Gun down Castro and do what? Fucking shoot yourself next, is what. Nah. It’s gotta be quiet.”
Calendar began to respond but Giancana cut him off.
“Frankly, we don’t need the CIA or anybody if we want to gun Castro down. We’d have done it already. If we’re gonna hit the son of a bitch and get away with it, we gotta work together. We got connections inside Havana. You got all those secret weapons. No other way to make it work, if you want us involved.”
Trafficante immediately agreed with the logic. Roselli shrugged, clever enough to have no opinion but clearly saddened not to relive one more time the old Chicago days of blasting away from the running board of a speeding coupe.
Calendar let this percolate for a moment. He’d anticipated the mobsters’ reaction. Then he nodded.
“If that’s what’ll get the job done, okay. Pills, it is. Bob?”
“Yes, Mr. Calendar?”
“You’re liaison. If the CIA wants additional contact with these gentlemen aga
in, we’ll go through you. If anyone says anything about this meeting or any event that comes out of it, they’ll not only be called a liar, they will engender the ill will and full attention of their government. Not good, trust me.”
All these men, including the absent Howard Hughes, made their livings ducking and weaving Uncle Sam. All knew better than to poke him in the eye.
“The concept, gentlemen, is plausible deniability. By that I mean that neither the CIA nor any branch of the U.S. government can be put in a position where we’re linked to the assassination of a foreign leader. This will be a civilian operation. Understood?”
Giancana fingered a thick gold ring on his left hand. “What you’re saying is, if this goes bad, you don’t know nothing.”
The Betrayal Game - [Mikhal Lammeck 02] Page 4