she is, you'd never get it up her pussy, man.'
I can't believe that.'
Forget about it. She's just another piece of meat for him, I swear. And let me tell you, the guy owns the fucking butcher's shop.'
Tom looked unconvinced.
Don't take my word for it,' said Sorges. I'll bring the tape. I can fix it. This surveillance guy? I think his name is Bernie something. He works for Hoffa and Momo. He's a friend of Johnny's. Johnny used to be a telephone man himself. Maybe I'll speak to Johnny. We can make an evening of it, hey? What do you say?'
Sounds like fun,' said Tom. Sure, why not?'
Gotta tape machine?'
Tom showed him the Phonotrix portable tape-recorder he had bought the previous summer. Almost as light as a camera, he sometimes used it for reconnaissance work.
This is no good,' said Sorges.
What do you mean, no good? This cost me a hundred bucks.'
Three-inch spool's too small. I'm talking several hours of tape, here. You'd better come and hear it at the safe house. Besides, Johnny doesn't like lending it out that much. He'd probably feel happier if I kept a hold of it.'
I can imagine,' said Tom.
Why bother, when I can save you the trouble? That's what this is all about. After you hear this tape you won't ever have to imagine what it's like with her again. You won't want to either. You'll know, man. You'll know all there is to know. That she's a whore. That she wears a-G string, or sometimes no panties at all. That she likes him to talk dirty when he's fucking her. That she likes to suck his dick. That she even takes it up the ass.'
That's okay,' shrugged Tom. Nobody's perfect.'
Chapter 6
The Highway of the Dead
Tom's idea was to give Everton Echeverria a trial run somewhere other than Cuba. Since he had to go to Mexico City anyway, Tom suggested that the MIRR send Echeverria down there on some kind of wild goose chase that would test his reliability. And so, on 13 October, a Thursday, the day of the third Nixon/JFK debate, Tom flew Pan American to the oldest city in North America. Around the same time, Everton Echeverria was boarding a Continental Trailways bus in Laredo, on the last stage of a long and gruelling journey from Miami. It would be another twenty-four hours before he arrived.
Tom liked Mexico City a lot, although it was fast becoming just another city of skyscrapers. The newest tallest building, the Latino-Americano, was some forty-five storeys high and it was here, at the Bankers' Club on the top floor, that Tom met the manager of the Banco de Comercio for an early lunch, before visiting the branch on Venastiano Carranza to review his account and to sign some papers. The hundred thousand dollars from Rosselli's consortium of mob and CIA had been deposited just a few days before and Tom wanted to remove twenty-five thousand of it in cash, to take back to Miami and place in his safety deposit box at the Pan American bank.
In the afternoon he arranged through his hotel, the Reforma, the hire of a chauffeur-driven car and, as was his habit - on average, Tom visited Mexico City twice every year - he went out to see the pyramids at Teotihuacan. It was one of his favourite places, with the Pyramid of the Sun, at 216 feet high, approaching Egyptian dimensions. The sides were terraced, with wide steps leading up to the summit, and Tom always made a point of climbing to the top. He liked heights, although sometimes he felt naked on top of the pyramid without a rifle. From there he had a superb view of the Pyramid of the Moon, the Temples of Tlaloc, of Quetzalcoatl and the Highway of the Dead. It was the only place that ever made Tom feel like he believed in a God.
Back in Mexico City he met up with two members of the local anti-Castro community, Leopoldo and Angel, at the cocktail bar in Tom's hotel. A member of the Intercontinental Hotel Group, the Reforma was the city's most modern hotel, and the bar one of the smartest. As soon as Tom saw the two Cubans he realised it had been a mistake to see them there. Leopoldo was tall and aged about forty; Angel was shorter and wore tinted glasses. Neither man was educated, and neither was clean. They both wore greasy polyester suits and brightly coloured Nybuc nylon slip-ons; Leopoldo's were red, and Angel's light blue, which was the way Tom managed to remember who was who. An angel in blue shoes. Neither one of them spoke any English, and they both smoked Old Gold and drank Margaritas.
We'll meet your friend off the bus,' said Leopoldo. That's no problem. We meet lots of people off that particular bus. And we've booked him a room with bath at the Hotel del Comercio.' Worrying an eczematous earlobe, he laughed and looked around at the Reforma's sumptuous interior. Of course, it's nothing like this place. Not for a dollar a day. But Orlando said that it didn't matter. The cheaper the better.'
Tom nodded, trying to contain his loathing for the two Cubans. That's right,' he said. You did good.' He ordered another round of drinks to help loosen their tongues. You could never know too much about the scum you were working with. Even when your first instinct was to shoo them away like a pair of mangy dogs. But don't bring him here. He works with horses and I don't want the little punk stinking the place out. Have him wait for me at the Bottoms Up, this time tomorrow. No wait. Better make it the Florida bar. That way he won't forget where to go. Besides, I take him to the Bottoms Up and he's liable to think I'm giving him dinner.'
Exactly what are you giving him?' asked Angel Orlando didn't say.'
Just a drink and a package to take home with him. This is kind of a dry run to see if he can be trusted to perform a courier service for us in Cuba. You see, I'll know if the package has been opened, on account of the fact that he'll be real pissed off when he finds out that it contains nothing more than a couple of copies of the Beatnik dictionary.'
Leopoldo laughed. A mule, then. It figures. Orlando wanted us to take some pictures, too. Everton looking like he's headed for the OK Corral. Rifle, sidearm, the full Burt Lancaster.'
Where are you going to do that?'
Back at my place,' said Angel. I live in Los Remedies. It's a small town, about fifteen miles out. I've got plenty of guns there.' He chuckled. Enough to start another revolution.'
If there's time,' added Leopoldo, we'll maybe even get Everton to hand out some anti-Castro literature in front of the Cuban embassy.'
Why there?' asked Tom.
Because, my friend, the CIA runs a photographic surveillance operation outside the embassy. Orlando figures him being seen handing out leaflets like that will be enough to give Everton a file. But don't ask me why. We just do what we are asked to do.'
Are there many of you down here?'
Enough. It's easier getting into Cuba from down here.'
Easier getting all kinds of things in and out of Mexico,' observed Angel. Maybe you'd like to score some dope while you're down here?'
No, thanks,' said Tom. I've always been more of a juicehead, myself.' He shrugged. But a man's gotta making a living. Who runs the show down here?'
Harold Meltzer.'
Really?' said Tom, impressed.
It's a pretty big show.'
They talked for a while longer before Tom looked at his watch and informed his guests that he had a dinner appointment.
Somewhere nice?'
Tom smiled. It was his turn to be pumped.
French place on Lopez,' he said smoothly. The Normandia.'
Fancy,' grinned Angel.
They all left together. Tom watched them get into a battered Oldsmobile, and then hailed a taxi. He rode it only as far as Chapultepec Park, at the end of Paseo de Reforma, just to make sure he wasn't being followed. For a few minutes he walked around under the ahuehuete trees, enjoying the fountains and early-evening air before catching another cab and telling the driver to take him not to the Normandia, but to the Cadillac Grill.
Alex Goldman finished eating and, leaning back in his chair, loosened his hand-stitched belt by a notch.
Best fuckin' dinner I've had since I've been in MC.
