by James Ellroy
Kabikoff said, “Tomorrow afternoon, say 2:00. We’ll meet at the coffee shop at the Sagebrush Motel in McAllen, and drive across to the shoot from there. What an audition! All auditions should go so smooth!”
One boy had a tattooed penis. Two girls were knife-scarred and bruised. A dogfight erupted—Ruby yelled, “No, children, no!”
Littell ordered a room-service dinner: steak, Caesar salad and Glenlivet.
It was a robbery-stash splurge—and more Kemper’s style than his.
Three drinks honed his instincts. A fourth made him certain. A nightcap made him call Mad Sal in L.A.
Sal pitched a tantrum: I need money, money, money.
Littell said, I’ll try to get you some.
Sal said, Try hard.
Littell said, It’s on. I want you to refer Kabikoff for a Fund loan. Call Giancana and set up a meeting. Call Sid in thirty-six hours and confirm it.
Sal gulped. Sal oozed fear. Littell said, I’ll try to get you some money.
Sal agreed to do it. Littell hung up before he started begging again.
He didn’t tell Sal that his robbery stash was down to eight hundred dollars.
Littell left a 2:00 a.m. wake-up call. His prayers ran long—Bobby Kennedy had a large family.
The drive took eleven hours. He hit McAllen with sixteen minutes to spare.
South Texas was pure hot and humid. Littell pulled off the highway and inventoried his backseat.
He had one blank-paged scrapbook, twelve rolls of Scotch tape and a Polaroid Land Camera with a long-range Rolliflex zoom lens. He had forty rolls of color film, a ski mask and a contraband FBI flashing roof light.
It was a complete mobile evidence kit.
Littell eased back into traffic. He spotted the Sagebrush Motel: a horseshoe-shaped bungalow court right on the main drag.
He pulled in and parked in front of the coffee shop. He put the car in neutral and idled with the air conditioner on.
J.D. Tippit pulled in at 2:06. His convertible was overloaded: six smut kids up front and camera gear bulging out of the trunk.
They entered the coffee shop. Littell snapped a zoom-lens shot to capture the moment.
The camera whirred. A picture popped out and developed in his hand in less than a minute.
Amazing—
Kabikoff pulled up and beeped his horn. Littell snapped a shot of his rear license plate.
Tippit and the kids walked out with soft drinks. They divided up between the cars and headed out southbound.
Littell counted to twenty and followed them. Traffic was light—they drove surface streets for five minutes and hit the border crossing one-two-three.
A guard waved them through. Littell popped a location-setting snapshot: two cars en route to Federal violations.
Mexico was a dusty extension of Texas. They drove through a long string of tin-shack villages.
A car squeezed in behind Tippit. Littell used it for protective cover.
They drove up into scrub hills. Littell fixed on J.D.’s foxtail-tipped antenna. The road was half dirt and half blacktop—gravel chunks snapped under his tires.
Kabikoff turned right at a sign: Domicilio de Estado Policía. “State Police Barracks”—an easy translation.
Tippit followed Kabikoff. The road was all dirt—the cars sent dust clouds swirling. They fishtailed up a little rock-clustered mountain.
Littell stayed on the main road and kept going. He saw some tree cover fifty yards up the mountainside—a thick clump of scrub pines to shoot from.
He pulled over and parked off the road. He packed his gear into a duffel bag and covered his car with scrub branches and tumbleweeds.
Echoes bounced his way. The “shoot” was just over the top of the hill.
He followed the sounds. He lugged his gear up a 90-degree grade.
The crest looked down on a dirt-packed clearing. His vantage point was goddamn superb.
The “barracks” was a tin-roofed shack. State Police cars were parked beside it—Chevys and old Hudson Hornets.
Tippit was lugging film cans. Fat Sid was bribing Mexican cops. The smut kids were checking out some handcuffed women.
Littell crouched behind a bush and laid out his gear. His zoom lens brought him into close-up range.
He saw wide-open barracks windows and mattresses set up inside. He saw black shirts and armbands on the cops.
The cop cars had leopard-skin seat covers. The women wore prison ID bracelets.
The crowd dispersed. The blackshirts uncuffed the women. Kabikoff hauled equipment inside the barracks.
Littell went to work. The heat had him weaving on his knees. His zoom lens got him in very close.
He snapped pictures and watched them develop. He placed them in neat rows inside his duffel bag.
He snapped smut girls entwined on a mattress. He snapped Sid Kabikoff coercing lesbian action.
He snapped obscene insertions. He snapped dildo gang bangs. He snapped smut boys whipping Mexican women bloody.
The Polaroid cranked out instant closeups. Fat Sid was color-glossy indicted:
For Suborning Lewd Conduct. For Felony Assault. For Filming Pornography for Interstate Sales, in violation of nine Federal statutes.
Littell shot his way through forty rolls of film. Sweat soaked the ground all around him.
Sid Kabikoff was evidence-snapped:
White slaving. Violating the Mann Act. Serving as an accessory to kidnapping and sexual battery.
Snap!—a snack break—cops baking tortillas on a prowl-car roof.
Snap!—a prisoner tries to escape. Snap!/snap!/snap!—two cops catch her and rape her.
Littell walked back to his car. He started sobbing just over the border.
He taped the pictures into his scrapbook and calmed down with prayers and a half-pint. He found a good spot to perch: the access-road curb, a half-mile north of the border.
The road ran one way. It was the only route to the Interstate. It was nicely lit—you could almost read license plate numbers.
Littell waited. Air-conditioner blasts kept him from dozing. Midnight came and went.
Cars drove by law-abidingly slow—the Border Patrol gave tickets all the way to McAllen.
Headlights swept by. Littell kept scanning rear plates. The air-conditioner freeze was making him sick.
Kabikoff’s Cadillac passed—
Littell slid out behind him. He slapped the cherry light to his roof and pulled on his ski mask.
The light swirled bright red. Littell hit his high beams and tapped the horn.
Kabikoff pulled over. Littell boxed him in and walked up to his door.
Kabikoff screamed—the mask was bright red with white devil’s horns.
Littell remembered making threats.
Littell remembered his final pitch: YOU’RE GOING TO TALK TO GIANCANA WIRED UP.
He remembered a tire iron.
He remembered blood on the dashboard.
He remembered begging God PLEASE DON’T LET ME KILL HIM.
30
(Miami, 8/29/59)
“Cocksucking Commie fuckers shoot up my cabstand! First it’s Bobby Kennedy, now it’s these Red Cuban shitheels!”
Heads turned their way—Jimmy Hoffa talked loud. Lunch with Jimmy was risky—the hump sprayed food and coffee routinely.
Pete had a headache. The Tiger Kab hut stood catty-corner from the diner—the fucking tiger stripes were giving him eyestrain.
He turned away from the window. “Jimmy, let’s talk—”
Hoffa cut him off. “Bobby Kennedy’s got every shithead grand jury in America chasing me. Every shithead prosecutor in creation wants to go the rump route with James Riddle Hoffa.”
Pete yawned. The red-eye from L.A. was brutal.
Boyd gave him marching orders. Boyd said, Make a deal for the cabstand—I want an intelligence/recruiting hub in Miami. More banana boats are due. When the Blessington campsite flies, we’ll need more driver spots for our boys.
Hoffa dumped in cream and sugar. “I didn’t think you flew in for that roast-beef sandwich.”
Pete lit a cigarette. “The Agency wants to lease a half-interest in the cabstand. There’s lots of Agency and Outfit guys that are starting to feel pretty strongly about Cuba, and the Agency thinks the stand would be a good place to recruit out of. And there’ll be shitloads of Cuban exiles coming into Miami, which means big business if the stand goes anti-Castro in a big way.”
Hoffa belched. “What do you mean, ‘lease’?”
“I mean you get a guaranteed $5,000 a month, in cash, plus half the gross profits, plus an Agency freeze with the IRS, just in case. My 5% comes off the top, you’ll still have Chuck Rogers and Fulo running the stand, and I’ll be coming by to check in regularly, once I start my contract job down in Blessington.”
Jimmy’s eyes flashed—$$$$$. “I like it. But Fulo said Kemper Boyd’s tight with the Kennedys, which I do not like one iota.”
Pete shrugged. “Fulo’s right.”
“Could Boyd get me off the hook with Bobby?”
“I’d say his loyalties are stretched too thin to try it. With Boyd, you take the bitter with the sweet.”
Hoffa dabbed a stain off his necktie. “The bitter is those Commie humps who shot up my cabstand. The sweet is that if you took care of them, I’d be inclined to accept that offer.”
Pete huddled up a crew at the dispatch hut. Solid guys: Chuck, Fulo, Boyd’s man Teo Paez.
They pulled chairs up in front of the air conditioner. Chuck passed a bottle around.
Fulo sharpened his machete on a rock. “I understand that all six of the traitors have vacated their apartments. I have been told that they have moved into a place called a ‘safe house.’ It is near here, and I believe it is Communisto-financed.”
Chuck wiped spit off the bottle. “I saw Rolando Cruz checking out the stand yesterday, so I think it’s safe to say we’re under surveillance. A cop friend of mine got me their license numbers, so if you say we go trawling, that’ll help.”
Paez said, “Death to traitors.”
Pete ripped the air conditioner off the wall. Steam billowed out.
Chuck said, “I get it. You want to give them a target.”
Pete closed down the stand—in full public view. Fulo called an air-conditioner repairman. Chuck radioed his drivers and told them to return their cabs now.
The repairman came and removed the wall unit. The drivers dropped off their taxis and went home. Fulo put a sign on the door: Tiger Kab Temporarily Closed.
Teo, Chuck and Fulo went trawling. They drove their radio-rigged off-duty cars, devoid of tiger stripes and Tiger Kab regalia.
Pete snuck back to the hut. He kept the lights off and the windows locked. The dump was brutal hot.
A four-way link hooked in: the three cars to the Tiger Kab switchboard. Fulo prowled Coral Gables; Chuck and Teo prowled Miami. Pete connected in to them via headset and hand microphone.
It was ass-scratching, sit-still duty. Chuck hogged the airwaves with a long rant on the Jew-Nigger Pantheon.
Three hours slogged by. The trawl cars kept a line of chatter up. They did not see hide-nor-fucking-hair of the pro-Castro guys.
Pete dozed with his headset on. The thick air had him wheezing. Crosstalk gibberish sparked these little two-second nightmares.
His standard nightmares: charging Jap infantry and Ruth Mildred Cressmeyer’s face.
Pete dozed to radio fuzz and wah-wah feedback. He thought he heard Fulo’s voice: “Two Car to base, urgent, over.”
He jerked awake and snapped his mike on. “Yeah, Fulo.”
Fulo clicked on. Traffic noise filtered in behind his voice.
“I have Rolando Cruz and César Salcido in sight. They stopped at a Texaco station and filled up two Coca-Cola bottles with gasoline. They are driving toward the stand rapidly.”
“Flagler or 46th?”
“46th Street. Pete, I think they—”
“They’re going to torch the cabs. Fulo, you stay behind them, and when they turn into the lot, you box them in. And no shooting, do you understand?”
“Sí, I comprende. Ten-four, over.”
Pete dumped his headset. He saw Jimmy’s nail-topped baseball bat on a shelf above the switchboard.
He grabbed it and ran out to the parking lot. The sky was pitch black and the air oooozed moisture.
Pete swung the bat and worked out some kinks. Headlights bounced down 46th—low, like your classic Cubano hot rod.
Pete crouched by a tiger-striped Merc.
The taco wagon swung into the lot.
Fulo’s Chevy glided in sans lights and engine, right behind it.
Rolando Cruz got out. He was packing a Molotov cocktail and matches. He didn’t notice Fulo’s car—
Pete came up behind him. Fulo flashed his brights and backlit Cruz plain as day.
Pete swung the bat full-force. It ripped into Cruz and snagged on his ribs.
Cruz screamed.
Fulo piled out of his car. His high beams strafed Cruz, spitting blood and bone chips. César Salcido piled out of the spicmobile, wet-your-pants scared.
Pete yanked the bat free. The Molotov hit the pavement AND DID NOT SHATTER.
Fulo charged Salcido. The taco wagon idled at a high pitch—good cover noise.
Pete pulled his piece and shot Cruz in the back. The high beams caught Fulo’s part of the show.
He’s duct-taping Salcido upside the face. He’s got the taco-wagon trunk wide open. There’s dervish-quick Fulo, uncoiling the parking-lot hose.
Pete dumped Cruz in the trunk. Fulo nozzle-sprayed his entrails down a sewer hole.
It was dark. Cars cruised up and down Flagler, oblivious to the whole fucking thing.
Pete grabbed the Molotov. Fulo parked his Chevy. He was lip-syncing numbers over and over—Salcido probably spilled the safe-house address.
The taco wagon was metal-flake purple and fur-upholstered—a cherry ’58 Impala niggered up.
Fulo took the wheel. Pete got in back. Salcido tried to scream through his gag.
They hauled down Flagler. Fulo yelled an address: 1809 Northwest 53rd. Pete turned on the radio full-blast.
Bobby Darin sang “Dream Lover,” earsplitting loud. Pete shot Salcido in the back of the head—exploding teeth ripped the tape off his mouth.
Fulo drove VERY VERY SLOW. Blood dripped off the dashboard and seats.
They gagged on muzzle smoke. They kept the windows up to seal the smell in.
Fulo made left turns and right turns. Fulo made nice directional signals. They drove their coffin wagon out to the Coral Gables Causeway—VERY VERY SLOW.
They found an abandoned mooring dock. It ran thirty yards out into the bay.
It was deserted. No winos, no lovebirds, no late-night fly casters.
They got out. Fulo put the car in neutral and pushed it up on the planks. Pete lit the Molotov and tossed it inside.
They ran.
Flames hit the tank. The Impala exploded. The planking ignited kindling-quick.
The dock whoooshed into one long fireball. Waves lapped up and fizzed against it.
Pete coughed his lungs out. He tasted gunsmoke and swallowed blood off the dead men.
The dock caved in. The Impala sunk down on some reef rocks. Steam hissed off the water for a solid minute.
Fulo caught his breath. “Chuck lives nearby. I have a key to his room, and I know he has equipment we can use.”
They found suppressor-rigged revolvers and bulletproof vests. They found Chuck’s Tiger Kab parked at the curb.
They grabbed the guns and vested up. Pete hot-wired the cab.
Fulo drove a hair too fast. Pete thought of old Ruth Mildred all the way.
The house looked decrepit. The door looked un-breakdownable. The place was bracketed by palm groves—the only crib on the block.
>
The front room lights were on. Gauze curtains covered the window. Shadows stood out well defined.
They crouched beside the porch, just below the windowsill. Pete made out four shadow shapes and four voices. He pictured four men boozing on a couch FACING THE WINDOW.
Fulo seemed to pick up on his brainwaves. They checked their vests and their guns—four revolvers and twenty-four rounds total.
Pete counted off. They stood up and fired on “three”—straight through the window.
Glass exploded. Silencer thunks faded into screams.
The window went down. The curtains went down. They had real targets now—Commie spics up against a blood-spattered wall.
The spics were flailing for guns. The spics were wearing shoulder holsters and cross-draw hip rigs.
Pete vaulted the sill. Return fire hit his vest and spun him backward.
Fulo charged. The Commies fired wide; the Commies fired near-death erratic. They got off un-suppressored big-bore pistol shots— tremendously goddamn loud.
A vest deflection sent Fulo spinning. Pete stumbled up to the couch and emptied both his guns at ultraclose range. He notched head hits and neck hits and chest hits, and took in a big gasping breath of gray viscous something—
A diamond ring rolled across the floor. Fulo grabbed it and kissed it. Pete wiped blood from his eyes. He saw a stack of plastic-wrapped bricks by the TV set.
White powder was leaking out. He knew it was heroin.
31
(Miami, 8/30/59)
Kemper read by the Eden Roc pool. A waiter freshened his coffee every few minutes.
The Herald ran it in banner print: “Four Dead in Cuban Dope War.”
The paper reported no witnesses and no leads. The assumed perpetrators were “Rival Cuban Gangs.”
Kemper linked events.
John Stanton sends him a report three days ago. It states that President Eisenhower’s Cuban-Ops budget has come in way below the requested amount. It states that Raul Castro is funding a Miami propaganda drive through heroin sales. It states that a distribution shack/safe house has already been established. It states that the heroin gang includes two ex-Tiger Kab men: César Salcido and Rolando Cruz.
He tells Pete to clear an Agency/cabstand lease deal. He assumes that Jimmy Hoffa will stipulate vengeance on the men who shot up the stand. He knows that Pete will wreak that vengeance with considerable flair.