Shift: A Novel

I’m willing to bet.”

“I been in this pissant country two years. Whoever sent me here don’t even know I’m alive anymore. So drop the macho act and tell me who you’re working for. Is it just Momo, or is he representing outside interests?”

For the first time Louie seemed to realize that his captor knew who he was. He peered at Melchior curiously.

“Officially? Paychecks come via a sausage factory in New Orleans, but everyone knows it’s a Company front. Banister’s the cutout, but according to him the authority comes from higher up.”

“Banister’s a prick who’d say just about anything. But just for kicks: did he say it was Bobby or Jack or both?”

“Little brother.”

“And did he say why Bobby Kennedy’d risk his and his brother’s careers to hire the Chicago Organization to kill Fidel Castro, when he’s got the whole CIA to do it?”

Louie coughed out another weak, wincing laugh. “Cuz Castro’s still alive, you dipshit.”

Melchior had to give that one to Louie. “What plan did they come up with for you?”

Louie rolled his eyes. “Poison pills. We was supposed to get them in his food somehow.” He turned his head and spat blood. “You?”

“Exploding cigars.” Melchior laughed, then jerked a thumb at the mill. “This is a little far from the Plaza de la Revolucion.”

Louie’s eyes glazed over, and Melchior wasn’t sure if he was dying, or thinking what his life might’ve been like if he’d managed to complete his deal. He could feel Louie’s blood warming his knees as it soaked into the ground and was just about to kick the gangster when his eyes snapped back into focus.

“You got any rum?”

“Does a Cuban dog have fleas?”

“No more than a Cuban whore. Gimme a taste, and I’ll tell you what you want to know. I’d just as soon go out of this world like I came into it: drunk.”

Melchior pulled Eddie Bayo’s bottle from his jacket and held it to Louie’s mouth. Louie wrapped his lips around the neck and drank the smoky liquid like lemonade.

“Jesus,” Melchior said when Louie finally came up for air. “That would hurt me more than getting shot in the hip.”

“Yeah? Gimme your gun and let’s find out.”

Melchior laughed. He’d always been partial to a wiseass.

“So: Bobby sent you here to kill Castro. You didn’t kill Castro but you’re still here. What gives?”

Louie burped and spat more blood. “Bastard pulled the plug. Left us high and dry just like Jack did the Brigade.” The disgust was audible in Louie’s voice. “That’s the problem with those smug Paddies. They don’t follow through.”

“Yeah, yeah, save it for the campaign trail. Do they know about tonight’s meet? Does anyone?”

Now it was pride that filled Louie’s voice. “Sam said there’s always a way to make money in Cuba. Sugar, gambling, girls. But not even Sam knows about this.”

“What about the Russians?”

“Vassily—that was the guy I was nice enough to shoot for you—Vassily says Russia’s barely getting by. The people don’t trust the government and the government don’t trust itself. There’s Khrushchev and his guys on one side, the hard-liners on the other. KGB’s got their own agenda, Red Army’s got theirs. If you worked them for once, put one against the other instead-a messing around in no-account places like Cuba, you might actually manage to win the Cold War.”

“Yeah, but then guys like me would be out of a job.”

Louie’s eyes narrowed. “I thought you said the Company didn’t know you was here. So who’re you working for? Castro pay you off? The Reds?”

Melchior couldn’t keep from smirking. “Let’s just say one little brother’s gonna have to buy me back from another.”

“Segundo?” Louie pursed his lips, but all that came out was a wet stream of air. “I heard that when the fighting was over in ’59 it was him who lined up what was left of Batista’s men and shot them all. I’d take Bobby over that cold-blooded motherfucker any day—and I fucking hate those Paddy bastards.”

“You do realize your boss gave Kennedy Chicago, which gave him Illinois, which gave him the election? What in hell have you got against him, besides the fact that he’s Irish?”

“Ain’t that enough?” Louie’s laugh turned into a cough, and he spat up what seemed like a mouthful of blood. “Garza,” he said when he could talk again. “Luis.”

It took Melchior a moment to get it. “You’re … Cuban?”

“Can’t keep fucking with someone’s country and not expect consequences. And Cubans is like Italians. They ain’t ashamed to play dirty if that’s the only way to win.”

Louie broke off, panting heavily, but otherwise holding it together. Not crying and carrying on like Eddie Bayo, begging for mercy like a bully with a bloody nose. Melchior thought he would’ve liked the guy, if the circumstances had been different.

“I’m getting tired,” Louis said now, “and my hip hurts like you can’t imagine. Are we done with the twenty questions?”