21

ABOUT THE MIDDLE OF AUGUST, HUNT MADE A MOVE HE HAD BEEN PREparing for some time, and our Frente leaders transferred their headquarters to Mexico. It was considered by Quarters Eye a necessary piece of camouflage for the oncoming operation, and Hunt welcomed it. His children, having finished their school term in Montevideo, were soon coming back to America with Dorothy, and I think he had been facing the difficulty of locating good lodging in Miami where costs were prohibitive. Now he and Dorothy might find a villa in Mexico City. Besides, he could feel once again, as he had in Montevideo, that he could run his own show.

Back at Zenith, left in charge of the Political Action Section, I actually moved up to a larger office with a window. If it looked out across a crabgrass lawn to our wire fence, our guardhouse, and our gate, and there was no more to see across the road than a spread of low, flattopped modern buildings belonging to the University of Miami, and so, qua window, was but a mean gain, still, I had taken my first step on the rung of hierarchical ascension.

Otherwise, the new job was no boon. I now had to watch over Hunt’s unfinished business in addition to my own. This included public relations concerning the Cubans who were arriving daily in every kind of boat. Given the ties we had developed to individual reporters on the Miami newspapers, we now could count on a feature story every few weeks about exiles who had just floated over from Havana on rafts news-worthy for the crudity of their construction. Some consisted of no more than a platform of two-by-eight planks lashed to oil drums welded together, and the thought of this journey across one hundred and eighty miles of open water from the port of Havana to Miami was awesome, and so diverted attention from the less exceptional fact that the great majority of our exiles were still coming in on airlines from Mexico and Santo Domingo. Then, late one moonless night, while out on the patio of La Nevisca, I watched a powerboat tow a full load of people and two rafts out to sea, the sight barely visible by starlight, and next morning, lo, the rafts had floated in again, the press was called, and one of the people I had personally registered two weeks ago at Opa-Locka, a particularly engaging curly headed young Cuban, would grin at me the following day from the front page of the second section as if he had just arrived. I was learning that in publicity it was obscene not to lie. Of course, I felt no great moral stirrings—I just wished that Hunt had briefed me better. The virtue of military operations, I was deciding, was in the whole simplicity of the decision to win.

Meanwhile, Hunt stayed in touch by cable and phone. From across the Gulf of Mexico, he still attempted to control the work handed over to me. I was now nominally in charge of his sector of agent recruitment, but many of our activities bore few dependable returns. It was easy to find agents who would take our pay, but how many in our pool of gossip-mongers, student idealists, petty criminals, unsuccessful pimps, marginal businessmen, new Cuban shopkeepers, boatmen of all varieties, exiles waiting to be shipped out for training, ex-soldiers from the Cuban army, and Cuban-Americans from the U.S. Army, plus a superstructure, if you could call it that, of Cuban journalists, lawyers, respectable businessmen, and career revolutionaries could give us accurate information? “Our agents,” as Hunt pointed out, “tell us what they think we want to hear.”

Meanwhile, in August, hurricanes were building in the Caribbean, Calle Ocho was springing Spanish signs in neon, new arrivals were sleeping on our recruiting-house porch in downtown Miami, and Quarters Eye circulated a handbook among Zenith personnel listing the hundred and more exile organizations in the Miami area, a work of redundancy, since we had made the same compilation at Zenith. I was also sitting in on committee meetings with other case officers trying to work up an operative procedure that would shape the exiles into self-policing groups who might weed out the Castro agents in the exile community. FBI reports, which we also circulated at Zenith, put the number of such DGI men at two hundred. It was an in-house joke. Three months ago, the number had been the same. There was every expectation that three months from now the FBI would still be speaking of two hundred DGI agents running amok in Miami.

Then, early in September, another envelope banded about with strapping tape came in the Quarters Eye pouch.

It began:

I’m enclosing a letter from Bob Maheu. If you can’t bury it in a safe place, destroy it. I have a copy.

Dear Mr. Halifax,

This is to inform you that I have met with a well-recommended top banana of the Mafia who calls himself Johnny Ralston. Since he has his own expropriated investments to recoup, he is, to say the least, well motivated.

Naturally, I went into this lunch as a representative of some wealthy figures who are willing to pay for an authoritative stroke to the tune of $150,000. Well, the Ralston gentleman can be acerbic. He threw back the name of Meyer Lansky. “Meyer has a price out,” he said, “of one million dollars for the same job.”

“Yes,” I assured him, “but once you are successful, you have to collect it. Do you care to be the man who has to ask Meyer Lansky for that amount of money?”

Since I taped the conversation, let me give you the rest directly.

R: How can I trust your people to be good for one-fifty?

M: We will put it in escrow.

R: Why are you in this?

M: Because of my sense of serious obligation to this country. I have been told that you have similar feelings of patriotism.

R: I will lay it on the line: I feel so patriotic I would like to obtain my citizenship. Fuck your hundred-fifty thousand bucks—I want those citizenship papers. I am tired of being pulled in by immigration officials.

M: Your citizenship can be arranged.

R: Yes, and I have been doublecrossed before.

M: There is no way such an arrangement can be promised in advance. After the event, you would have every leverage for obtaining your desired result.

At this point in the lunch with Ralston, there is a malfunction in the recording that goes on for a few minutes. Probably I pressed too severely against the back cushions, a regrettable hitch to be avoided next time.

While I cannot recall in detail what transpired over this gap, I can assure you that I did my best to convince him he could depend on “my people” to get what he wanted.

Son, let me cut in here. Never trust Maheu altogether. He’s enough of an old hand to know how to flex his butt while wearing a sneaky. I suspect he excised some of the tape. I would presume it covers his admission to Ralston that the “wealthy figure” he’s representing is the Agency. Obviously, it is to Maheu’s advantage to let Ralston in on such a matter because the Company is better situated than private individuals to obtain his citizenship. (Although, God knows, we could have trouble there with Immigration.) In any event, once Maheu returns to the tape, Ralston is considerably more amenable and agrees in principle to come aboard. He does, however, tell Maheu that he wants to meet “the guy who talks to you. I want to shake hands with the real stuff.”

This enclosure is merely to keep you advised. If any observations are stimulated, pass them along. I do wonder what Ralston’s real name might be.

HALIFAX

The next morning, I received a coded memo from Harlot sent over a medium-security circuit.

Buddhists report that one Johnny Roselli, a close associate to RAPUNZEL, met with Robert Maheu for lunch at the Brown Derby in Beverly Hills. Unfortunately, no reliable sources were available. That most curious meeting leaves us therefore in Ponder Gardens.

GREENHOUSE

“Reliable sources” were tape recordings. Obviously, the FBI had been able to do no more than take note of the luncheon. Hugh, however, had given me a leg up on my father. Once again, I walked down the hall, obtained access to VILLAINS, and punched into it for Johnny Roselli. A good deal came back.

JOHNNY ROSELLI aka Johnny Ralston, aka Rocco Racuso, aka Al Benedetto, aka Filippo Sacco. Born in Italy (Esteria) in 1905, immigrated to the US in 1911, grew up in Boston, is reputed at age 12 to have assisted a relative in burning down a house to obtain the insurance.

First arrest, 1921: narcotics peddling.

In 1925, Filippo Sacco becomes Johnny Roselli. Works with Al Capone on liquor shipments. Reported expert at extortion, gambling, labor racketeering, Roselli becomes a West Coast cohort of Willy Bioff and George Brown of the International Alliance of Theatrical Stage Employees and Motion Picture Machine Operators. Early in World War II, Roselli became close friends with Harry Cohn, head of Columbia Pictures. Lent money by Cohn at no interest to buy into Tijuana Race Track, Roselli, in gratitude, purchased matched twin star rubies set in matching rings for Cohn and himself. Both men still reputed to wear such rings.

When Sammy Davis, Jr., was conducting a “torrid” love affair with Kim Novak, Roselli, as a favor to Cohn, is reputed to have convinced the Negro singer to forgo any further favors. Novak was Cohn’s number-one blonde star at Columbia during this period. It is reported that Sammy Davis, Jr., blind in one eye, was told by Roselli: “Cool off on the blonde, or you lose the other eye.” Davis complied.

In 1943, Roselli served 3 years, 8 months of ten year prison term for extorting reported two millions plus from the film industry. On release, became the Top Coordinator for Las Vegas and Southern California rackets. His appointment was overseen by Sam Giancana, reputedly head of Mafia’s Grand Council.

Roselli is now known as Don Giovanni of the Mafia. Ambassadorial in appearance. Is called the Silver Fox. Reputed to be a loner. Has family but never visits them. Has, however, put his younger sisters through college.

Physical description: Slim. Medium height. Well-chiselled features. Silver-gray hair. Reported credo: “Never threaten me. I have nothing to lose.”

I sent this printout to my father by SPECIAL SHUNT/HALIFAX, and added a note that I had looked up RALSTON in VILLAINS and found nothing, but happened to come across ROSELLI AKA RALSTON, a fortuitous accident, I added, since there were thousands of entries under R.

Next day a call came in from Cal on open phone. “Get thee to a nunnery at 4:00 P.M.,” was all he said, and it meant, “Call my private line from an outside phone at 1:00 P.M.” When I reached him during my lunch break, he was as garrulous as if he’d just had three cups of coffee. “Thank you,” he said. “I went right over to K Building to bring Bissell up to date on the meeting between Maheu and Roselli. Thank you. I didn’t feel like telling Bissell that Maheu was meeting someone whose name I could not offer. Well, Rick, right there in Bissell’s office was Allen Dulles, and, of course, he couldn’t resist looking at what I’d brought over on Johnny R. I could see that Allen was reading the printout upside down. For that matter, Bissell kept the paper well out on his desk so as not to obstruct Allen’s view.” My father began to chuckle. “Have you practiced reading upside down lately?”

“Not daily,” I said.

My father laughed louder. “Son, in OSS days we used to believe that was the only ability you needed other than a little moxie.”

“Yessir.”

“Allen has made it clear he’s to be kept one watertight compartment away from all of this, but, just the same, he couldn’t resist comment. ‘Well,’ he said, ‘these are fishy waters, aren’t they, Cal?’ ‘Damned fishy waters, sir,’ I said. He smiled. ‘Cal, I’m just going to make one remark: Use your judgment. Use your judgment, Cal, because it’s always kept you out of the very worst trouble, hasn’t it?’ ‘No, sir,’ I said, and we both laughed, because we both knew that if anything goes wrong, the tar is on my fingers. All the same, this one appeals to me. It’s lopsided, but it’s fancy, isn’t it?” he said, and added, “I wonder if you can find out where the lunch took place. Maheu was staying at the Beverly Hills Hotel, so it could have been the Polo Lounge.”

“I’ll do some research,” I told him.

SERIAL: J/38,961,601

ROUTING: LINE/QUARTERS EYE—OPEN

TO: HALIFAX

FROM: ROBERT CHARLES

10:46 A.M. SEPT. 6, 1960

SUBJECT: RESTAURANTS

I presume to take up Company time and encoders sufficiently to bring you up to date on Los Angeles restaurants you might like. I’d pick the Brown Derby. I hear via the Yale grapevine—an old classmate, of all things, is working for Harry Cohn—that that’s where the cognoscenti go.

ROBERT CHARLES

On the next morning, another letter bound in strapping tape was in the pouch for me:

Sept. 7, 1960

Son:

Your restaurant guide is most useful. It helps to bring a transcript to life.

Now, I confess that I did not fill you in on all the details of Maheu’s first meeting with Roselli. Such reserve is pro forma since you had no real need to know, but, considering your good work lately, it makes me happier to bring you up to date. Roselli has a friend named Sam Gold whom he needs to take into the project. So he claims. Gold has deep contacts in our target country. Next question is whether Sam Gold happens to be Meyer Lansky or Sam Giancana. I’ve had a talk with the case officer I’ve assigned to work on this in Washington and New York, an ex-FBI worthy I believe you know. Says he had you in training, one dour but most capable gent named Raymond Burns, Bullseye Burns. According to Ray, these Mafia boys have the predictable habit of holding on to their first names while using a false last name with the same initial, viz—Johnny Ralston for Johnny Roselli. Sam Gold puts us on track for Sam Giancana. Maheu, however, warns me not to assume Lansky is out of the game—Sam Gold could also be the redoubtable Meyer. Whoever he is, Gold is ready to come in. I assume that the mobster who recaptures the gambling casinos will then have a clear and dominating position in the Syndicate.

For the interim, a meeting has been set up at the Plaza Hotel in New York on September 14 involving Maheu, Roselli, and Bullseye Burns. Since Roselli insists on meeting a “top-drawer associate,” it is up to Bullseye to rise to the occasion.

Keep the Hubbard fortunes prospering, son. Yours, and love,

Dad

On the next day, another message came from Cal:

Sept. 8, 1960

Son:

I enclose a copy of Maheu’s report on the Plaza meeting at Trader Vic’s:

Dear Mr. Halifax,

The restaurant din made for low-level accuracy in our recordings. Neither Mr. Burns’ take, nor mine, has proven satisfactory. I am, thankfully, a longtime hand at keeping mental notes when there are obstacles to viable recording. So I offer my recollections of the proceedings, and place reliability at 90 percent for substantive matters, and 60 percent, at least, on precise word-to-word reconstruction. On the other hand, given the noise, our Bureau friends could not possibly have tapped in.

Ralston sized up Case Officer Burns quickly, and was rude. Ralston said: “Take no offense personally, fellow, but I can see you are on the kiss-ass level. That is inadequate for this operation. Pass the word to your boss: Do not try to fuck me over.”

I must say that the language came as a shock since Ralston, in appearance, is as silky and well gotten up as George Raft.

Burns had to spend time assuring Ralston that the next meeting would be on a “higher level” and was a good soldier about it, but from old days in the Bureau together, I know his temper. Raymond Burns has a virulent hatred of hoodlums high and low. I do not wish to denigrate old “Bullseye” since I am aware of his bulldog tenacity and other sterling virtues, but for liaison with Ralston, we cannot anticipate any hope of future compatibility.

Burns, however, had the massive discipline to be silent, and I kept pursuing the main subject. In response to my inquiry, Ralston finally stated that our next meeting would take place in Miami Beach at the Fontainebleau, September 25.

We proceeded to modes and methods. Ralston said, “You don’t want a fire-hose for the job. This can’t be St. Valentine’s Day.”

My understanding from our initial meeting is that you want the signature of the operation to suggest the Mafia. Five hoods with machine guns would offer a clear message to the world that gangland did the job.

Those fellows, however, want none of that. I think we have to forgo the most useful option. The question may then arise whether we still want to work with these particular elements. While I, of course, make no recommendation, Ralston also said, “We have all the contacts needed to get to El Supremo.”

“What method do you propose?” I answered.

“Pills,” said Ralston. “Powder it into his chow. He’ll be sick for three days before he gets sick enough to call for a priest.” We ended by agreeing the pills would be passed on to Ralston on September 25, at which time it might be advisable for you to meet him.

Sincerely,
R.M.

A note from Cal followed this memo:

I’m naturally concerned. We’ll have to make haste to be ready by the 25th. The order, via suitable intermediaries, has been placed with the Office of Medical Services, who will probably have to use some of the more exotic labs in TSS. There is no possibility that Hugh won’t sniff out some of this. The question is: How much?

HALIFAX