The Company: A Novel of the CIA (60 page)

"The mob doesn't work for free. There must have been a quid pro quo."

"Papa Kennedy promised Giancana that if his son became President, he'd appoint Bobby Attorney General. On paper at least, Hoover reports to the Attorney General. Joe indicated that Bobby would take the heat off the Chicago Cosa Nostra." Macy reached for the bottle of Sancerre in the bucket, refilled both of their glasses and took a sip of wine. "Hoover has other tapes. Last August, a few weeks after he won the nomination in Los Angeles, Jack disappeared from the Carlyle Hotel in Manhattan for twenty-four hours. The Secret Service guys assigned to him went crazy. We happened to pick him up on tape—he was in Judy Exner's hotel room. There was the usual screwing around. At one point Jack told Judy that if he didn't win the election he was probably going to split with Jackie. The tryst turned out to be coitus interruptus—the doorman called up to announce a visitor named Flood."

"Kennedy met with Giancana!"

Macy nodded. "It was all very innocent. Judy excused herself to use what she called the facilities. Jack opened the door. The two men chatted in the living room for a few minutes. They talked about the weather. Mooney described Floyd Patterson's knockout of Johansson in the fifth—turns out he had a ringside seat. Jack said he'd heard from his father that Sal—"

"They were on a first-name basis?"

Macy nodded. "Sal, Jack—Jack, Sal, sure. Jack said he'd heard Sal would get out the vote in Chicago. He thanked him for his help. Judy returned and made them drinks. When it came time for Mr. Flood to leave there was talk of a satchel in a closet—Judy was asked to bring it and give it to Sal."

"What was in it?"

'Your guess is as good as mine. Money, probably. To pay off the people to come out to vote early and often in Giancana's six wards."

The Sorcerer stole a glance in Angleton's direction. The counterintelligence chief had turned away from the mirror to talk to someone passing next to his table. Torriti produced an envelope and slid it across the table to Macy, who quickly slipped it into a pocket.

"Walk on eggshells," Macy said. "Rosselli, Giancana—these guys play for keeps."

"This is turning into a fucking can of worms," the Sorcerer muttered. "I think we're barking up the wrong tree—we maybe ought to give some serious thought to taking our business elsewhere."

Dick Bissell signed off on a message being dispatched to Jack McAuliffe in Guatemala. He went over to the door and handed it to his secretary. "Doris, start this down the tube right away," he said. He closed the door and made his way back to the seat behind the desk and began torturing a paperclip. "Where'd you get this information, Harvey?"

"I consulted with an old pal from Hoover's shop, is where. Listen, Dick, Johnny Rosselli was only too happy to appear helpful. I'm supposed to meet Mooney in Miami tomorrow afternoon. He's going to sing the same lyrics. These jokers have got nothing to lose, Rosselli and Giancana. Helping us knock off Castro—whether they succeed or not; whether they actually try or not—gives them a working immunity against prosecution. Bobby's not going to let a federal prosecutor put them onto a witness stand and make them swear to tell the whole truth and nothing but, for fear they might."

"On the other hand," Bissell said, "the Company doesn't have a pot to piss in when it comes to Cuba. Almost all of our assets have been rolled up. These guys have contacts in Havana. And they have an incentive to help us—with Castro out of the way they'll be able to get back into the casino business. I know it's a long shot, Harvey. But it's a shot. They might just get the job done, if only because they'd have more leverage with the Justice Department if they actually succeeded in knocking off Castro. And without Castro, the road from the invasion beaches to Havana will turn into a cakewalk for the brigade. Bissell rummaged through a drawer and came up with an inhaler. He closed one nostril with a forefinger and breathed in the medication through the other to clear a stuffed sinus. "I was raised in the house in Hartford where Mark Twain wrote Tom Sawyer and The Adventures of Huck Finn," he said. "Maybe that's why I'm tantalized by the idea of starting down a river on a raft—you have a rudder that can give you a semblance of control over the craft, but basically you go with the current." He shook his head reflectively. "Someone in my shoes has to weigh alternatives. In the great scheme of things, two thugs avoiding prosecution is a small price to pay for neutralizing Castro." Bissell accompanied the Sorcerer to the door. "They'll probably get knocked off themselves one of these days," he told him. "Keep the raft heading downriver, Harvey—let's see where the current takes you. Okay?"

Torriti touched two fingers to an eyebrow. "Aye, aye, captain."

The Sorcerer couldn't take his eyes off Mooney's fingers. Long and skeletal, with tufts of black hair protruding from the joints below the knuckle and a sapphire ring (a gift from Frank Sinatra) on one pinkie, they drummed across the bar, took a turn around the ashtray overflowing with cigar butts, caressed the side of a tall double Scotch, picked wax out of an ear, then jabbed the air to emphasize the point he was making. "Bobby Kennedy's uh fuckin' four-flusher," Mooney sneered. "He is cross-examinin' me in front of dis fuckin' Senate committee last year, right? I keep uh fuckin' smile plastered on my puss while I take duh fifth like my mouthpiece tells me to, an what does dis fucker say?"

"What does the fucker say?" Rosselli asked.

"Duh fucker says, 'I thought only little fuckin' girls giggled, Mr. Giancana' is what he says. Out loud. In front of deze fuckin' senators. In front of deze fuckin' reporters. Which makes some of them laugh out loud. Nex' thing you fuckin' know, every fuckin' newspaper in duh fuckin' country has uh headline about fuckin' Bobby Kennedy callin Mooney Giancana uh little fuckin' girl." Giancana's fingers plucked the Havana from his lips and pointed the embers straight at Torriti's eye. "Nobody insults Mooney Giancana. Nobody. I'm gonna fuckin' whack dis little prick one of deze days, fuckin' count on it."

The three of them were sitting on stools at the half-moon bar in a deserted cocktail lounge not far from the Miami airport. Heavy drapes had been drawn across the windows, blotting out the afternoon sunshine and dampening the sound of traffic. Rosselli's people were posted at the front door and the swinging doors leading down a hallway to the toilets and the kitchen. The bartender, a bleached blonde wearing a flesh-pink brassiere under a transparent blouse, had fixed them up with drinks, left the bottle and ice on the bar and vanished.

Rosselli delivered his verdict on Bobby Kennedy. "The cocksucker was grandstanding."

Nobody fuckin' grandstands at my expense." Giancana chomped on his cigar and sized up the Sorcerer through the swirl of smoke. "Johnny here tells me you're all right," he said.

Rosselli, looking debonair in a double-breasted pinstriped suit, said, "I know people in Sicily who remember him from the war—they say he is okay."

"With a recommendation like that I could have gone to an Ivy League college," Torriti said with a snicker.

The idea seemed to amuse Rosselli. "What would you have done in Ivy League college?"

"Educate them as to the facts of life."

Giancana, a short, balding man who bared his teeth when something struck him as funny, bared his teeth now; Torriti noticed that several of them were dark with decay. "Dat's uh fuckin' good one," Mooney said. "Go to uh fuckin' college to educate duh fuckin professors."

The Sorcerer gripped the bottle by its throat and poured himself a refill. "I think we need to lay out some ground rules if we are going to collaborate," he said.

"Lay away," Giancana said cheerfully.

"First off, this is a one-shot arrangement. When its over we never met and it never happened."

Giancana waved his cigar, as if to say this was so obvious it was hardly worth mentioning.

"Johnny here," the Sorcerer continued, "has already turned down compensation—"

Giancana eyes rolled in puzzlement.

"Like I told you, Mooney, he is ready to pay cold cash but I told him we decide to get involved, we get involved out of patriotism."

"Patriotism is what dis is all about," agreed Giancana, his hand on his heart. "America has been fuckin'—"

"—fucking good to you," said the Sorcerer. "I know."

"So like you want for us to whack Castro?" Giancana gave a nervous little giggle.

"I was hoping you would have associates in Havana who could neutralize him."

"What's with dis fuckin' neutralized" Giancana asked Rosselli.

"He wants us to rub him out," Rosselli explained.

"Dat's what I said in duh first place—you want us to whack him. You got dates dat are more convenient than other dates?"

"The sooner, the better," said the Sorcerer.

"Deze things take time," Giancana warned.

"Let's say sometime before next spring."

Giancana nodded carefully. "How do deze people you represent see duh hit?"

The Sorcerer understood they had gotten down to the nitty-gritty, "we imagined your associates would figure out Castro's routine and waylay his car and gun him down. Something along these lines..."

Giancana looked at Rosselli. His lower lip curled over his upper lip as he shook his head in disbelief. "You can see duh Wall Street pricks don't have no fuckin' experience in deze matters." He turned back to the Sorcerer. "Guns is too risky. I don't see no one usin' guns on Castro. For duh simple reason dat one pullin' off duh hit could get away with all doze bodyguards or what have you around. If we specify guns nobody's goin to volunteer."

"How do you see the hit, Mooney?"

Giancana puffed thoughtfully on his cigar, then pulled it out of his mouth and examined it. "How do I see duh hit? I see duh hit usin' poison. Let's say, for argument's sake, you was to give me uh supply of poison. Castro likes milkshakes—"

Rosselli told Torriti, "Mooney is a serious person. He has given serious thought to your problem."

"I am very impressed," the Sorcerer said. "Like I was sayin, he has dis thing for milkshakes. Chocolate milkshakes, if you want to know everythin'. He buys them in duh cafeteria of duh Libre Hotel, which was duh Havana Hilton when I was there. He always offers to pay for deze milkshakes but they don't never take his money. Then sometimes he goes to dis Brazilian restaurant—it's uh small joint down on duh port uh Cojimar, which is where dat Hemingway character used to hang out before duh fuckin' revolution. Castro goes there uh lot with his lady friend, uh skinny broad, daughter of uh doctor, name of Celia Sanchez, or with the Argentine, what's his fuckin' name again?"

"Che Guevera," said Torriti.

"Dat's duh guy. Someone with uh fast boat could spike Castro's milkshake in duh hotel or his food in duh restaurant an get away by sea." Giancana slid off the stool and buttoned the middle button of his sports jacket. He nodded toward the two men guarding the door to the cocktail lounge. "Bring duh car around, huh, Michael." He turned back to the Sorcerer. "How about if we meet again, say around duh middle of January. If you need me, Johnny here knows how to get hold of me. I'll nose around Havana an' see what I can see. You nose around Wall Street"—Rosselli smiled knowingly and Giancana giggled again—"an see if your friends can come up with uh poison dat could do duh trick. It needs to be easy to hide—it needs to look like ordinary AlkaSeltzer, somethin like dat. It needs to work fast before they can get him to uh fuckin' hospital an pump his fuckin' stomach out."

"I can see I've come to the right place with my little problem," Torriti said.

"You have," Rosselli said. "Mooney here does not fuck around."

"I do not fuckin' fuck around," Giancana agreed.

3

PALM BEACH, TUESDAY, JANUARY 10, 1961

A SWARM OF SECRET SERVICE AGENTS, WEARING DARK GLASSES AND distinctive pins in their lapels, descended on the visitors as they walked up the gravel driveway.

"Would you gentlemen kindly identify yourselves," the section leader said. Allen Dulles, hobbling along because of an attack of gout, seemed insulted not to have been recognized. "I'm the Director of Central Intelligence," he said huffily. "These gentlemen and I have an appointment with the President-elect."

"We'd appreciate it if you produce IDs," the section leader insisted. Dulles, Dick Bissell, Leo Kritzky, and the Sorcerer all dragged laminated identity cards from their wallets. The section leader studied each photograph and then looked up to compare it to the face in front of him. "Anyone here carrying?" he wanted to know.

DCI Dulles looked bewildered. Dick Bissell said, "They're asking if we're armed, Allen."

"Holy cow, I haven't had a weapon on me since the war."

Both Bissell and Leo Kritzky shook their heads. Torriti, a bit shamefaced, plucked the pearl-handled revolver from under his armpit and handed it, grip first, to one of the agents, who deposited it in a brown paper bag. Bissell coughed discreetly to attract the Sorcerer's attention. "Oh, yeah, I almost forgot," Torriti said. He pulled the snub-nosed Detective Special from its makeshift ankle holster and gave it to the astonished agent.

At the end of the driveway, a young aide holding a clipboard checked off their names and then led them through Joseph Kennedy's rambling house, across a very manicured garden toward the summer pavilion in the back of the compound. From behind a high hedge came the peal of female laughter and the sound of people splashing in a pool. Passing a gap in the hedge, Leo caught a glimpse of a very slim and suntanned young woman, wearing only the bottom half of a bikini, sunning herself on the diving board. Up ahead he could see Jack Kennedy sitting in a wicker rocking chair, his shirt sleeve rolled up, looking off to one side as a woman administered an injection.

Bissell, trailing behind with Leo, murmured, "Penicillin shots for ch ronic non-gonorrheal urethritis."

"That's a venereal disease," Leo whispered. "How do you know that?"

"Keep my ear to the ground. Want to wager the first words out of his mouth have to do with the New York Times?"

"It's a sucker's bet."