“Like what?”
“One thing is you don’t panic. You don’t flap. And we reckon you’ve played it down the middle. Helping both sides and hindering both sides when you thought it was necessary. But I guess what we really appreciate is that you care about what we do and how we do it. You don’t go along easily with the bit about the end justifies the means. We’ve been a bit light on that recently. It’s time we had a few more on board who question what we’re doing.”
“A kind of professional old-maid?”
Schultz smiled. “No. Anyway American old-maids are pretty tough cookies. Call it a restraining hand. A looker before we leap.”
“You mean a permanent transfer? Or just a short-term engagement?”
“Neither, Jimmy. We mean that you resign from SIS and apply to join us. You’d need to be a citizen before we could take you on but we’d arrange that. You would have the same status as me after two or three months to be shown our funny ways. You’d get 40,000 dollars a year and backdated pension rights. Free medical care and the usual benefits.”
“You’ve only known me for about twenty months. Is that long enough?”
“We think so. Think about it, Jimmy. You’re due to take leave soon. Have a word with me when you get back. There’s Patsy and the kids coming back. Don’t discuss it with her.”
“OK. Anyway I appreciate the offer. I’ll think about it seriously.”
Carlos Marcello had been born Calogero Minacore. He had changed his name because although his parents were both Sicilian he had been born in Tunisia. And if he were ever deported from the USA that would be where they would send him. His place of birth on his passport was Guatemala, which was much nearer than North Africa.
Marcello was known as “The Little Man.” He was 5 ft 4 in, but he was described by the Director of the New Orleans Crime Commission as “one of the two or three most sinister figures in the history of organized crime.” When pressed, the Director would name Santos Trafficante as one of the other two. The official estimate was that Marcello’s syndicate, based in New Orleans, was taking in over a billion dollars annually.
An early conviction on narcotics charges had made him shun all publicity and public appearances, but he was feared and respected by his associates in the mob. And others too. His patronage was extensive, and on his occasional brushes with the law the New Orleans Crime Commission had made a list of those who had actually sought clemency on his behalf. The list included one sheriff, one state legislator, two former state police commanders, one union president, one bank president, one former assistant district attorney, three insurance agencies, five realtors, five physicians, one funeral director and six clergymen.
On 4 April 1961, Marcello made a routine visit to the New Orleans Immigration Department. And there, on the personal orders of Bobby Kennedy, he was seized, handcuffed and rushed to the airport. The only passenger on a government jet, he was flown to Guatemala.
The deportation itself was bad enough but such public humiliation of a Mafia boss was intolerable.
Trafficante’s friend, Rubinstein, raised the 25,000 dollars it took to get Trafficante out of the Cuban jail, and he was back in the United States after only six months imprisonment. Marcello, too, was back in Florida from Guatemala. The private plane that brought him back illegally had landed on Marcello’s three thousand acre estate outside New Orleans, and that was where the first meeting took place, in an old shack used as a hunting lodge far away from all other buildings.
Untypically indiscreet, Marcello talked openly about the Mafia’s mounting misfortunes. The tremendous financial losses now that Cuba was closed to them, and the determined attack by the Attorney-General, Bobby Kennedy. The subject of the meeting was the damage being done to the mobsters by the Kennedys and Castro.
For once their roles were reversed, Marcello talking angrily and volubly, Trafficante drinking and listening. When eventually Marcello had talked himself to a standstill it was Trafficante’s turn. He leaned forward and tapped Marcello on the knee.
“You get it the wrong way round, Carlos. First we hit Fidel. Then we hit that little sonofabitch in the White House. You wanna know why we do it that way, eh?”
“Tell me.”
“First is Fidel has cost us money. Real money. Kennedy is trouble but not bread. Second is we got help to hit Castro. Real help. The kind we need.”
“Like what?”
Trafficante smiled. “Like the CIA, my friend.”
“Sure. And the US Fifth Cavalry and the Marines.”
Trafficante leaned back in his comfortable chair, a tolerant smile on his face.
“I’m telling you. It’s true. I’ve talked to ’em. They’re ready to do a deal.”
“Why should they help us, for Christ’s sake?”
“They want to knock off Castro just as much as we do. It’s official government policy to bring him down. The CIA are putting together all sorts of operations. They’re waiting to meet us.”
“When can we talk with them?”
“Next week. I’ve fixed a meeting for next weekend starting Friday night. At the Fontainebleau. How about it?”
“It’s OK by me. So long as you’re sure it’s not some trap by those bastards in Washington.”
Trafficante laughed softly. “Believe me, these CIA boys feel the same way about those sonsofbitches in the White House as we do. We ain’t the only ones who’re suffering withdrawal symptoms.”
Trafficante had booked four suites and six double rooms at the Fontainebleau in Miami, and had gone there on the Thursday night to check that everything was satisfactory. His own man had checked every room for electronic bugs and had declared them clean.
Shrewd and street-smart as he was, Trafficante didn’t know that the apparently accidental meeting with his CIA contact had been no accident. The original meetings with the CIA about possible cooperation with the Mafia in the assassination of Castro had been at the highest level.
