10

I HAD BEEN IN MIAMI ON THAT DAY, APRIL 14, 1962, WHEN THE SIXTY wounded members of the Brigade came back to Miami, but I had not been out at International Airport. Harvey had given orders that JM/WAVE personnel, unless on specific assignment, were not to be present for the occasion. All too many of our Cuban agents might be able to point us out to friends.

If I had known that Kittredge would be there, I would have disobeyed the order, yet, now, reading her letter, I was critical of the tone. I thought she was becoming much too impressed with both of the Kennedy brothers.

One did not have long to brood about it. A note came two days later by way of the pouch.

         

April 25, 1962

Harry,

Forgive the shift in method, but wanted to reach you overnight. Sidney Greenstreet, of all people, was over for dinner this evening. Afterward, while doing my best to make conversation with Mrs. Greenstreet, Sidney and Hugh, having settled in the study, got into quite an altercation. You don’t often hear my husband raise his voice, but clearly, I heard him say, “You will most certainly take him along, and that’s an end of it.”

I am reasonably certain you are the person referred to. Keep me informed.

Hadley

That was a name Kittredge took on sometimes when communicating by pouch. And Sidney Greenstreet had to be Bill Harvey. Harlot often referred to Wild Bill as “the fat man.”

Kittredge’s note gave the alert. I was not surprised when a cable came in for me that morning via LINE/ZENITH—OPEN signed GRANDILOQUENT. It merely said: “Place a call via seek.” Harlot and I were back to the secure phone.

“I have a job again,” were his first words. “Let us promise ourselves it is not too large for you.”

“If there are doubts,” I answered, “why choose me?”

“Because I’ve since learned what it was you were working on with Cal. That’s good. You never told me. I need someone who can keep his mouth shut. You see,” said Harlot, “this looks to be a bit more of the same, although under better management.”

“Yessir.”

“Rasputin remains the target.”

It was a mark of progress that Harlot expected me to grasp what he meant. Rasputin could only be Castro. Who else had ever evaded so many attempts on his life? Of course, there was really no need to use concealment—we were on a secure phone—but Harlot had his penchants.

“The fat man was miserable,” he went on, “to learn that I’ve made you his companion for all this, but then he will grow used to the notion. He had better.”

“I have a question. Are you heading this one up?”

“Let’s say I’m sharing the bridge with Old Tillers.”

“Has McCone given approval?” It was not a proper question to ask, but I sensed that he would reply.

“Don’t think of McCone. Heavens, no. He’s not equipped.”

I didn’t have to inquire about Lansdale. Hugh would not invite Lansdale. “What do we call it?” I asked.

“ANCHOVY. A palette of tinted anchovies. Fat man is ANCHOVY-RED; you are ANCHOVY-GREEN; I am ANCHOVY-BLUE; and Rasputin is ANCHOVY-GRAY. You’ll be meeting soon with a gentleman whom Classy Bob used to employ. Johnny Ralston. He will be ANCHOVY-WHITE.”

“And what about”—I did not know how to describe him. Of course, we were secure on seek, but given the manners of the moment, I did not want to use his name—“what about Touch-Football?”

“Yes, call him that. Good. Touch-Football. He doesn’t really want to know. Just keeps exhorting everyone to bring in results, but don’t bring his nose into contact with his mind.”

“Yessir.”

“You will accompany ANCHOVY-RED everywhere on this venture. Doesn’t matter whether he likes it or not.”

“Will he call on me every time?”

“He will if he doesn’t want any uncomfortable moments with me.”

On that, Harlot hung up.

I would not have long to wait. Harvey, I knew, was at Zenith today. My phone soon rang. “Have you had lunch?” he asked.

“Not yet.”

“Well, you are going to miss it. Meet me in the car pool.”

His Cadillac was waiting, motor running, and I reached the vehicle just enough in advance to open the door for him. He grunted and signaled to me to get in first and slide over. While we rode, he did not speak, and the bad mood that came off the bulk of his presence was as palpable as body odor.

Only when we were on the Rickenbacker Causeway to Miami Beach did he speak. “We are going to see a guy named Ralston. You know who he is?”

“Yes.”

“All right. When we get there, keep your mouth shut. I will do the talking. Is that clear?”

“Yessir.”

“You are not equipped for this job. As you probably know, you have been handed to me. In my opinion, it is a mistake.”

“I’ll try to make you change your mind.”

He belched. “Just pass me that jug of martinis, will you?”

Along Collins Avenue in Miami Beach, he spoke again. “Not only will you keep your mouth shut, but you will not take your eyes off this greaseball, Johnny Ralston. Keep looking at him as if he’s a piece of shit and you will wipe him if he moves. Keep thinking that you are capable of splashing acid in his eyes. Don’t speak or he’ll know it’s nothing but cold piss.”

“The picture is clear by now,” I said.

“Nothing personal. I just don’t think you have the makings for this mode of procedure.”

Roselli was living in a brand-new houseboat moored on Indian Creek, across Collins Avenue from the Fontainebleau. Lashed next to it was a spanking new thirty-foot power cruiser with a flying bridge. A slim, well-tanned, sharp-featured man about fifty with elegantly combed silver hair was sitting on the deck of the houseboat, and he stood up when he saw the Cadillac come to a stop. Dressed in a white shirt and white slacks, he was barefoot. “Welcome,” he said. I noticed that the houseboat was named Lazy Girl II, and the power cruiser moored to it, Streaks III.

“Can we move out of the sun?” asked Harvey as he came on board.

“Come inside, Mr. O’Brien.”

The living room of the houseboat was more than thirty feet long and was decorated in flesh tones like a suite at the Fontainebleau. Puffed-up furniture full of curves undulated along a wall-to-wall carpet. Sitting at a white baby grand piano, with their backs to the keys, were two girls in pink and orange halters, yellow skirts, and white high-heeled shoes. They were blond and suntanned and had baby faces and full lips. Their near-white lipstick gave off a moon-glow as if to say that they were capable of kissing all of you and might not mind since this was exactly what they were good at.

“Meet Terry and Jo-Ann,” said Roselli.

“Girls,” said Harvey, speaking precisely between recognition and dismissal.

As if by prior agreement, the girls did not look at me; I did not smile at them. I felt that I was going to be surprisingly good at not saying a word. I was still seething, after all, from my boss’s evaluation of me.

Harvey gave a small inclination of his chin in the direction of Terry and Jo-Ann.

“Girls,” said Roselli, “go up on deck and get some more tan for yourselves, will you?”

The moment they were gone, Harvey lowered himself distrustfully to the edge of one of the large round armchairs, and from his attaché case withdrew a small black box. He switched it on and said, “Let me open our discussion by telling you that I am not here to fart around.”

“Totally comprehended,” said Roselli.

“If you are wired,” said Harvey, “you might as well take it off and get comfortable. If you are operating any installed recording equipment, you are wasting tape. This black box scrambles all reception.”

As if in assent, a small unpleasant electronic hum came up from the equipment.

“Now,” said Harvey, “I don’t care who you dealt with before on this matter, you will at present deal with me and no one else.”

“Agreed.”

“You agree too quickly. I have a number of questions. If you don’t answer them to my satisfaction, I will cut you off the project. If you make noise, I can throw you to the wolves.”

“Listen, Mr. O’Brien, do not issue threats. What can you do, kill me? As far as I am concerned, I have visited that place already.” He nodded to certify these words and added, “Drinks?”

“Not on duty,” said Harvey, “no, thank you. I will repeat: We know why you are in this. You entered the U.S. illegally when you were eight years old and your name was Filippo Sacco. Now you want a citizenship.”

“I ought to have one,” said Roselli. “I love this country. There are millions of people with citizenship who despise this country, but I, who don’t have my passport, love it. I am a patriot.”

“There is,” said Harvey, “no room to double-cross me, or the people I represent. If you try any tricks, I can have you deported.”

“You do not need to talk like a hard-on.”

“Would you rather,” asked Harvey, “have me say behind your back that I am holding you by the short hairs?”

Roselli laughed. He was all by himself in this merriment but he kept it going for a while.

“I guess, Mr. O’Brien,” he said, “you are one total example of a prick.”

“Wait until I show you the warts and the welts.”

“Have a drink,” said Roselli.

“Martini. Scotch over the cubes, spill it out, then lay in the gin.”

“And you, sir,” said Roselli to me, “what would you like?”

I looked at him and did not reply. It was more difficult than I had expected not to offer small courtesies to people I did not know. Besides, I wanted a drink. Roselli shrugged, got up and went to the bar near the white baby grand piano. Harvey and I sat in silence.

Roselli handed Harvey his martini. He had also mixed a bourbon on the rocks for himself and a Scotch for me which he made a point of setting down on an end table next to my chair, a deft move for Roselli, I decided, since a bit of my attention kept returning to the drink.

“Let’s address the positive side of the question,” said Roselli. “What if I bring this off? What if the big guy—”

“Rasputin.”

“What if he gets hit?”

“In that case,” said Harvey, “you get your citizenship approved.”

“To success,” said Roselli, lifting his drink.

“Now, answer my questions,” said Harvey.

“Shoot.”

“How did you get into this project in the first place?”

“Classy Bob came to me.”

“Why?”

“We know each other.”

“What did you do?”

“I went to Sam.”

“Why?”

“Because I needed to get to the Saint.”

“Why?”

“You know.”

“Don’t worry about what I know. Answer my questions.”

“The Saint is the only man who knows enough Cubans to select the guy who is right for the job.”

“What did Sam do?”

“Besides fuck everything up?” asked Roselli.

“Yes.”

“He dabbled. He picked a few people. He didn’t break a sweat.”

“He did, however, get Classy Bob in trouble with the Bureau.”

“You are the one who said that.”

“You are the one,” said Harvey, “who said Sammy fucked everything up.”

“I don’t know what he did. But I thought we were set to go. Rasputin was supposed to be off the board before the election. Nixon for President. So I ask one question: Did Sam jam the gears?”

“We are referring to October 31 of last year in Las Vegas.”

“Yes.”

“Sam did it, you say?”

“I,” said Roselli, “would rather avoid what I cannot prove.”

“Sam,” Harvey said, “is bragging that he has worked with some of my associates.”

“For a guy with a closed mouth, Sam can open it,” said Roselli.

“Why?”

“Vanity.”

“Explain that,” said Harvey.

“When Sam started out, he was just one more ugly little guy with an ugly little wife. Now, he goes around saying, ‘We Italians are the greatest lovers in the world. We can out-do any nigger on his best day. Look at the evidence,’ says Sam.”

“Who does he say this to?”

“The dummies around him. But word gets out. He brags too much. Vanity. He says, ‘Look at the evidence. Two world leaders. Kennedy and Castro.’” Here Roselli stopped. “Forgive me. You mind if I use the names?”

“It’s secure,” said Harvey, “use them.”

“All right,” said Roselli, “two guineas like Sammy G. and Frank Fiorini are fucking Kennedy and Castro’s broads. Modene may screw Kennedy but she comes back to Sammy, says Sammy, for the real stuff. I would say he has an excessively exaggerated idea of himself. When I first knew Sam G. he used to wear white socks and black shoes, and the white socks was always falling down. That’s what a meatball he used to be.”

“Thank you,” said Harvey, “you are giving me a clear picture.”

“Sam is a big man in the States,” said Roselli, “Chicago, Miami, Vegas, L.A.—don’t mess with him. Cuba, no. He needs the Saint for Cuba.”

“And Maheu?”

“His loyalty is to Howard Hughes.”

“Is Hughes interested in Havana?”

“Who isn’t? Havana will put Las Vegas back in the desert again.”

“This collates,” said Harvey. “You are not to deal any longer with Bob and Sammy. Consider them untrustworthy and surplus.”

“I hear you. I concur.”

“Down the hatch,” said Harvey. He held out his martini glass for a refill, and after one good gulp, added: “Let’s look at the situation with Santos.”

“He is the menu,” said Roselli.

“Horseshit,” said Harvey. “Trafficante works with us, he works with Castro. How are you to trust him?”

“The Saint works with a lot of people. He used to work with Batista. He is close to some of the Batista people today, Masferrer and Kohly. The Saint has friends in Inter-Pen, in MIRR, Alpha 60, DRE, 30th of November, MDC and CFC. I can name a lot of organizations. Around Miami, half the exiles is taking hits on the other half, but the Saint is friends with all. He is friends with Prio Socarras and Carlos Marcello in New Orleans—a very big friendship—and Sergio Arcacha Smith. With Tony Varona and with Toto Barbaro. With Frank Fiorini. He is friends with Jimmy Hoffa and some of the big oil money in Texas. Why shouldn’t he be friends with Castro? Why shouldn’t he be friends with you? He will tell Castro what he wants to tell him; he will tell you as much as he feels like telling you. He will do a job for you and do it right, he will do a job for Castro and do it right. His real loyalty—”

“Yes,” said Harvey, “the real loyalty?”

“To the holdings in Havana.”

“What about Meyer?”

“Santos is also friends with Meyer. He don’t worry about Meyer. If Castro goes, Santos will be holding the casinos. That is bigger than being Lansky or Jimmy Hoffa. Santos could become number-one in the mob. That is equal to being the number-two man in America. Right under the President.”

“Who taught you to count?” asked Harvey.

“It’s a matter of debate. Give me that much.”

“If I was Santos,” said Harvey, “I would put in with Castro. Castro is there. He can give me the casinos.”

“Yes, but then you got to run them for Castro.”

“A point,” said Harvey.

“Castro will never give the casinos back,” said Roselli. “He is keeping them closed. He is a puritan right up the ass. I know Santos. He will come along with us to get Castro.”

“Well, I have my hesitations,” said Harvey. “There is a little prick with fire coming out of his ears named Bobby Kennedy. He does not cut a deal. Sammy may have helped to bring in Illinois for Jack Kennedy, but the FBI is persecuting Sammy right now. Santos can read that kind of handwriting.”

“Santos will take his chances. Once Castro is dead, Santos has a lot of cards to play.”

A silence came over both men. “All right,” said Harvey, at last, “what are the means?”

“No guns,” said Roselli.

“They do the job.”

“Yeah,” said Roselli, “but the guy who makes the hit would like to live.”

“I can get you a high-powered rifle, equipped with a silencer, and accurate at five hundred yards.”

Roselli shook his head. “Santos wants pills.”

“Pills,” said Harvey, “have too many links. Castro has always been tipped off.”

“Pills. We need delivery next week.”

It was Harvey’s turn to shrug. “We will produce the product on date specified.”

They spent the next few minutes talking about a shipment of weapons for an exile group that Trafficante wanted to supply.

“I will deliver the ordnance myself,” said Harvey.

He stood up, packed away the scrambler, and shook hands with Roselli.

“I’d like you,” said Harvey, “to answer another question for me.”

“Sure,” said Roselli.

“Are you any relation to Sacco of Sacco and Vanzetti?”

“Never heard of the cocksucker,” Roselli said.