Текст книги "The Bone Tree"
Автор книги: Greg Iles
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“There had to be another shooter there,” Kaiser asserts. “One firing a rifle with a muzzle velocity greater than three thousand, two hundred feet per second, the speed required for a bullet to reliably and effectively explode. A rifle like the Remington 700 you identified from Brody Royal’s basement. A hot load for that rifle can reach four thousand feet per second.”
“Why didn’t ballistics experts see this long ago?” I ask.
Stone smiles sadly. “The forest and the trees, Penn.”
“Contrary to popular belief,” Kaiser says, “Oswald had the skill to make that shot. What he didn’t have on that day was the rifle or the bullet.”
“But Dwight said Oswald hit Kennedy in the back,” I point out.
“Even a blind pig finds a truffle now and again,” says Stone.
“That was luck,” says Kaiser. “The scope on Oswald’s Carcano was a cheap Japanese add-on, and it wasn’t even zeroed. In fact, it couldn’t be zeroed. It only had two screws holding it on. But even if it could have been, that Carcano couldn’t fire a bullet fast enough to explode, and Oswald wasn’t using frangible rounds.”
“Okay, let’s say I buy all that. If Oswald didn’t kill JFK, who did?”
Stone and Kaiser share a long look. Then Stone says, “Frank Knox.”
I shouldn’t be surprised to hear this, but the conviction with which Stone said the name has rattled me—not least because I know my father knew Frank Knox.
“On November twenty-second, 1963,” Stone goes on, “Frank Knox—the ex-marine from Ferriday, Louisiana, and founder of the Double Eagle group—fired the bullet that blew John Kennedy’s brains out. Knox was sent there by Carlos Marcello. He fired from a lower floor of the Dal-Tex Building, probably the second floor. He fired one reasonably silenced shot from deep within the room, and he accomplished his mission, just as he’d done so often during the war.”
Stone sounds as sure of this as any man has ever been sure of anything.
“Can you prove that?” I ask.
“Some of it. With your father’s help, I think we can prove the rest.”
My skepticism quickly morphs into an almost frantic exasperation. “Dwight . . . I love you, man. But this is pretty hard to take. Last night John told me that you think Dad knows who killed Kennedy.”
Stone shakes his head. “No, it’s worse than that, I’m afraid. Your father actually made Frank’s shot possible.”
These stunning words trigger the disorientation of an unexpected blow, when your brain tries haltingly to fathom the cause and extent of the damage. Stone closes his eyes as though he feels the same pain I do, but when he opens them, I realize that he doesn’t even see me. He grimaces in agony, and then his hands go to his emaciated belly.
“Dwight! Are you okay?”
“I need to get to the bathroom,” he croaks.
Kaiser has already sprung to his feet. He unfolds the wheelchair, and together we transfer the old agent from the bed to the chair. Dwight’s quivering muscles tell me he barely has the strength to hold himself erect. With Kaiser’s help, moving him into the bathroom isn’t that difficult, but once he’s there we stand anxiously outside the door, listening closely in case he should pass out.
“I can’t believe he flew down here in such bad shape,” I whisper.
Kaiser shakes his head, then whispers back, “This really may be his last ride. That’s how much this case means to him.”
Sobered by the nearness of mortality, I blow out a rush of air. “John . . . what the hell was he talking about? My dad made Frank’s shot possible? Even if Knox did shoot Kennedy, that’s just nuts.”
Kaiser gives me a long look, then shakes his head. “Let’s just wait for Dwight, okay?”
This doesn’t reassure me. “I haven’t got all night, man.”
“It won’t take that long. But you’ve got time for this. Stone wants to solve this case, but he also wants to help your father if he can. So how about you make time for him?”
A groan and a thud come through the door.
“Oh, fuck,” says Kaiser, grabbing the knob.
CHAPTER 33
BILLY KNOX SAT on the front deck at Valhalla, staring out through the cold dusk toward the Mississippi River. Billy had his chair tilted back, his feet on the rail, and a big glass of bourbon in his hand. His father sat in a teak glider to his right, Forrest’s pit bull curled up beside him, and Sonny Thornfield stood at the rail beyond Snake. The cheep of crickets and the calls of night birds filled the air, but Billy was listening for the deep rumble of barges passing on the river, a mile to the west. Most of the land directly across the river was unpopulated wildlife refuge, but the clouds had begun to glow to the southwest as the lights of Marksville, Louisiana, came on.
The past two hours had been the most uncomfortable of Billy’s life, outside of prison. After Forrest and Ozan flew away in the big state-police helicopter, Snake had begun saying all the things he hadn’t had the guts to say to his nephew’s face. Worse, he kept looking to Billy for agreement, and even prodding him for information. Billy had claimed that Forrest had spent their time alone giving him instructions on how to protect their financial assets during this crisis, but his father wasn’t buying it. And the more Snake drank, the nearer he came to what Forrest would consider treason.
“You know what I think?” Snake mumbled into his glass. “I think he’s got Dr. Cage already. That’s why nobody can find him. I think Forrest has the doc holed up in some safe house, and he thinks he’s working some kind of deal. But what’s really happening is the doc is working him.”
When no one responded, Snake jabbed Billy’s shoulder with his fist. “What do you think, son? Only stands to reason, don’t it?”
“No,” Billy said wearily. “If Forrest had Dr. Cage, he’d be a lot less worried than he is.”
“So you say. And another thing. I don’t like Forrest bringing his SWAT guys into our business. What the hell do we need them for?”
“Keep your voice down,” Sonny said. “We don’t know who the hell might be out here right now. Or whether there might be microphones around here.”
Snake waved his hand as if to brush these worries away. “And why’s he jamming the cell phones? Huh? Who’s he afraid we’ll talk to?”
Billy had puzzled over this himself (and he’d actually switched off the jammer momentarily to make a couple of calls). “Forrest told me it was to help block FBI surveillance. But I think that’s probably for the Black Team as much as anything. He doesn’t want anybody being able to prove they were here, later on.”
Snake grunted, obviously dissatisfied with his explanation. “I tell you, those Black Team bastards wouldn’t hesitate to kill us if Forrest ordered them to. In fact . . . that might be why he’s calling them in. You ever think about that?”
“You’ve had one too many drinks, Pop. Seriously.”
“Black Team, my ass,” Snake went on. “I can outshoot every one of those pissants. They never shot nothing but nigger dope dealers through a night-vision scope. They don’t know nothing about war.”
Billy looked over at Sonny, who looked older than ever with a white frizz of stubble on his normally clean-shaven face. Sonny was staring back with naked fear in his eyes.
“You boys listen to me,” Snake said. “Walking into the CPSO tomorrow to get arrested don’t make no damn sense, with meth charges waiting for us. I don’t care what Forrest has planned for Walker Dennis. That’s just plain suicidal. I think Forrest wants us in jail.”
“That’s crazy, Pop,” Billy said finally. “What’s Forrest got to gain from you going to jail?”
“It’d take the heat off him, for one thing. You seen his name in the newspaper yet? No.”
“Forrest can’t let you go to jail. You could rat him out any time you wanted.”
“If we lived long enough.” Snake clutched Billy’s arm. “Forrest could have us killed in jail.”
“Come on. . . . You need to get some sleep.”
“He’s done it before.” Snake’s eyes flashed with certainty. “I know that for a fact. So do you.”
Billy was thinking about Forrest’s final words to him, but he forced himself to chuckle. “He couldn’t kill all of you, could he?”
“He wouldn’t have to,” Snake said, his eyes still shining with animal cleverness. “If he killed me, the rest would fall right into line.” Snake looked back over his shoulder. “Ain’t that right, Sonny?”
Sonny Thornfield swallowed audibly. “I say we’re already in line. I don’t see what the problem is. Forrest will take care of us. Let’s just get this thing done tomorrow, then start the move to the businesses Forrest’s talking about.”
“Sonny’s right,” Billy said. “All Snake told me after you guys went out was to keep you calm and get you there in the morning. Forrest isn’t looking to kill you. He’s trying to save you. We’re family, for Christ’s sake.”
Snake let his hand fall from Billy’s sleeve and slumped in his chair, his gaze once again lost in the vast darkness over the river. Half a minute later, he sat up suddenly, his head cocked like that of a hunting dog. Traveller came to his feet, puzzled but curious.
“What is it?” Billy asked.
“I heard something,” Snake said. “Listen.”
WALT HAD BEEN LYING beneath the bed for so long that his back and legs were numb. Just once he had crawled out to check if the pit bull was still outside—it was—and then to listen at the door for the drone of voices.
The men below were still talking.
Walt’s only consolation was that a half hour ago he’d received a coded text message from Tom telling him his location. He didn’t know how the message had come through, since he’d begun to suspect the presence of a cell frequency jammer. But apparently Tom had found a way to cross the river and had made his way to Quentin Avery’s house in Jefferson County. This gave Walt a destination to aim for, if he could ever get out of this place. But the transmission of that message had also put Tom at risk. Walt had deleted it immediately, for if the men downstairs dragged him out from under the bed, they would find his phone before they killed him.
Though he was almost frantic with the desire to escape Valhalla, he knew he’d be insane to do anything but lie as still as he could and sweat as little as possible. If the pit bull outside caught his scent, he was doomed. Walt was wishing he’d hid his truck better when the sound of a helicopter coming over the trees reached him. Seconds later, the window began rattling as the chopper settled over the lodge as though preparing to land.
Walt dragged himself from beneath the bed, then struggled to his feet beside the window. Through the crack in the curtains, he saw the chopper disgorge six men and one German shepherd. Clad in black, the men moved easily beneath the rotor blast, and each carried a heavy gear bag as he trotted toward a building about thirty yards to the south. Walt felt a wild compulsion to use the cover of the rotors to run downstairs and make a break for the woods, but he knew better. Those rotors meant nothing to a dog’s nose, and now there was more than one dog down there.
He had no choice but to sit tight.
SONNY THORNFIELD WATCHED THE state police JetRanger bore in low over the trees and hover above the lodge, blasting leaves and pine straw and other debris into the air in a mini-tornado. Its rotors buffeted the air so hard that Sonny felt the waves like a bass drum in his chest.
“Why don’t he land down at the goddamn strip?” Snake shouted, flipping the bird to the pilot. “Lazy motherfucker!”
Sonny watched the big helo settle earthward on the other side of the lodge. Five seconds later it disappeared from view, and the noise dropped by 50 percent.
“That’s the beauty of having a chopper,” Billy said, a note of envy in his voice. “You can land where you want.”
Snake grumbled something unintelligible.
“I better go check on them,” Billy said, getting to his feet. “Forrest told me to make sure they had everything they needed.”
“Yeah, jump to it, Hop Sing,” Snake said. “Make sure they’ve all got butt wipes and a hair dryer.”
As Billy opened the sliding doors and walked back through the house, Snake shook his head and muttered, “SWAT, my ass. A SWAT team oughta be able to live on bugs in the middle of hell for ten days. These assholes need a goddamn babysitter?”
Sonny didn’t bother answering.
Suddenly Snake got up and walked down the steps of the deck, then made his way to the corner of the lodge and disappeared around it. Forrest’s pit bull followed at his heels. Sonny reluctantly got up and went after them.
The big JetRanger had landed in the clearing before the lodge. Three men clad in black were trotting between the chopper and bunkhouse, heads ducked beneath the spinning rotors.
“We got a problem, Sonny,” Snake said, loud enough to be heard over the rotors. “You know that?”
Sonny shifted uncomfortably. “I’m not so sure. Don’t you think maybe we ought to let Forrest try it his way first? Let him de-escalate the situation?”
Snake looked back at him like he was a fool. “Boy, you wanna close your eyes and follow the cattle right into the kill chute, don’t you? Anything’s better than facing the truth, I guess.”
“What truth are you talking about?”
“The fork in the river, Son. The parting of the ways.”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about!”
“Blood, boy. It don’t mean the same thing to everybody.”
“Huh?”
Snake spat and turned back toward the chopper, which looked like a gigantic metal insect that had risen out of the swamp. “You’ll find out soon enough. Mark my words, Son. I just hope I’m still around to say I told you so.”
Snake stepped from behind the wall and started toward the chopper and the bunkhouse.
“Where you going?” Sonny called. “Snake!”
Snake looked back and grinned. “Just bein’ friendly. I’m gonna make these boys feel at home, like Forrest said to.”
Then he began to trot toward the chopper, one hand raised in greeting.
CHAPTER 34
THE NOISE KAISER and I heard from the hotel bathroom was Dwight falling off the toilet. When we reached him, he was bruised and angry but basically no worse than before. After Kaiser and I lifted him back onto the toilet, I cleaned him up and wheeled him to the bed while Kaiser wiped up the vomit he’d left on the floor. Without the headboard to support him, I don’t think Stone could hold himself up, yet the unquenchable light still shines from his sunken eyes and yellow face.
Despite my internal distress, I sit in the desk chair and wait for Kaiser to take his seat on the sofa beneath the picture window. After he does, Stone begins speaking with slightly diminished volume. “Penn, I know why you’re still sitting here. You want to know what I know about your father. I’m going to tell you that. But you have to trust me about something. Without context, the information would be almost useless to you. To understand Tom’s involvement, you’ve got to understand and accept what happened in Dallas, and why.”
“You mean that Carlos Marcello killed Kennedy? What if I tell you I do accept that?”
A faint smile touches Stone’s lips. “You don’t really believe it. Think like the prosecutor you once were for a moment. Glenn Morehouse and Henry Sexton have given us a unique opportunity here. John Kennedy was shot forty-two years ago. Some members of my group have been working that case almost all that time. We’ve made real progress, but two years ago we hit a wall. Some of us have died in the interval since. I’ve been afraid I would die without knowing the truth, or worse, that it would never be known. But now we have a chance. Not only to discover the truth, but to prove it.”
“I understand, Dwight.”
“Do you? Because this opportunity is very fragile. If Tom is killed running from the police, the truth could die with him. If you push the Double Eagles too soon, or too hard, Forrest Knox could move to bury whatever evidence remains. That might mean killing some of his own family, and I don’t think he’d hesitate. We have to move quickly, but with the utmost care.”
Again the pressure to back off from the Double Eagles. “Just tell me what you need to, Dwight. I came here because of you, and I’m ready to listen.”
“It’s not easy to condense twenty years of investigation into an hour, but I’ll try, for both our sakes. First, I want to dispense with the existing conspiracy theories. To do that, you must stop thinking of the word ‘conspiracy’ as meaning a large number of people. Large conspiracies usually fail, and when they do succeed, they never stay secret for long.”
“Agreed.”
“Second, I want to explain a principle that a colleague of mine calls ‘Stone’s Razor.’ It’s a way we deal with coincidence.”
“All right.”
“Nearly every JFK conspiracy theory depends upon one critical and unacceptable coincidence: President Kennedy’s motorcade passing beneath the building where Lee Harvey Oswald worked. Oswald got that job randomly, through the friend of a friend of his wife, and only thirty-seven days before the assassination. Kennedy’s motorcade route was chosen by the Secret Service only seven days before the assassination.”
“And it wasn’t made public until three days prior,” Kaiser clarifies, “after being printed in the Dallas Times Herald on Tuesday, November nineteenth.”
“The point,” Stone continues, “is that Oswald getting the Book Depository job and the choice of motorcade route were causally unrelated. That’s been proved as conclusively as any fact in history. No one could have placed Oswald in that job in that building with the intent to kill JFK, because no one knew at the time he got the job what the motorcade route would be. Consequently, any conspiracy involving Lee Harvey Oswald that depends upon inspiration or planning prior to November fifteenth is de facto impossible.”
“Which is all of them, right?”
“Except Oliver Stone’s. Since he claimed that everyone from the CIA to the military-industrial complex was in it together—right up to LBJ—Oliver was claiming that they could have controlled the motorcade route and put Kennedy in Oswald’s sights.”
“Yeah, well . . . let’s come back to planet Earth.”
“How about halfway back?” Dwight says with a smile. “If I asked you to list the main conspiracy suspects in the assassination, you’d probably give the same ones most Americans would.”
The usual suspects, I think, recalling Kaiser’s list from last night outside City Hall. “The CIA, Cuban exiles, Castro, the Russians, the Mafia, and the military-industrial complex?”
“Right. And while the House Select Committee cleared the CIA, the Cubans—both pro– and anti-Castro—and the Mafia as organized groups in 1979, it did not rule out the possibility that individual members of those entities had carried out the hit in Dallas.”
“And your Working Group?”
“We picked up where the Select Committee left off. Let’s dispense with the CIA first. Most top-level agency people were relieved or even happy to hear JFK was dead, but they had no reason to kill him. Kennedy had never made good on his threat to splinter the agency in a million pieces, beyond firing Richard Bissell and Allen Dulles. Nor did the agency need to cover its attempts to assassinate Fidel Castro, as is often proposed. Both Kennedy brothers had been partners with the CIA in that effort since taking office. Robert Kennedy had personally signed off on Operation Mongoose, so the Kennedys stood to lose even more than the agency did by exposure. That whole theory is nonsensical.”
“Who else can you eliminate?”
“I won’t waste thirty seconds of breath on the ‘military-industrial complex.’ Contrary to popular belief, John Kennedy was no liberal saint, but a dedicated cold warrior. Therefore, defense corporations had no reason to kill him. That theory also violates the large-conspiracy rule. They never could have kept it secret.”
“And as for the Russians,” Kaiser offers, “by assassinating a sitting president, they would have risked global thermonuclear war. There’s zero chance they did that.”
“What about the Russians sending Oswald to do it?”
“Less than zero,” Stone declares, becoming more animated by the give-and-take of discussion. “Oswald had a neon paper trail behind him that led straight to Moscow. Besides, because of his defection to Russia, the KGB knew better than anyone how unstable Lee was.”
Stone uses Oswald’s first name as easily as a man who knew him all his short life. “And Castro?”
This time Stone’s answer is slow in coming. “That’s another kettle of fish. Castro knew that the CIA and the Mafia had been trying to kill him, and he had intel reports that those attempts had been sanctioned by the Kennedy brothers. In early ’63, Castro actually said publicly that elected officials who engaged in those types of activities could become targets of such activities themselves. In the very year of Kennedy’s assassination, he’d threatened to retaliate in kind.”
“Well, did he?”
“There’s no evidence that he did. Oswald probably hoped that killing JFK would make him a hero in Havana, and thus facilitate his entry to the country. But that’s all.”
Stone’s eyes and voice betray emotion when he speaks of Oswald and Castro, and I sense that we’re nearing the crux of his theory. “What’s the rest of it, Dwight?”
“Let’s cross off the Cuban exiles first, the men betrayed at the Bay of Pigs. They were shot to pieces on the beach or imprisoned because Kennedy wouldn’t send air support. A lot of them wanted to punish him for that, and they had the training and weapons needed to pull off Dealey Plaza. However, our considered opinion is that none did. Do I need to go into detail as to why?”
“No. So, where does that leave us?”
“La Cosa Nostra,” says Kaiser.
Stone nods. “From the Mafia, the Select Committee singled out Carlos Marcello, Santo Trafficante, Sam Giancana, Johnny Roselli, and Jimmy Hoffa as serious suspects. It recommended that all be investigated further, but I’m sorry to say that no law enforcement agency ever officially fulfilled that charge, including the Bureau.”
“Except your guys.”
“With a vengeance, I’m proud to say. In summary, each of those mobsters had a motive to want JFK dead, and each rejoiced at the news that he was dead. But”—Stone leans forward like a professor making a salient point—“just because you want someone dead doesn’t make you a murderer.”
“If it did, I’d be in jail myself.”
“Exactly.” Stone drums his fingers on his legal pad. “Of the mobsters, Sam Giancana had particular reason to hate Kennedy. ‘Momo’ had helped get JFK elected president in 1960, by pushing key wards in Chicago and West Virginia Kennedy’s way. Being persecuted by brother Bobby after that election must have pushed him close to violent retaliation. This was aggravated by the fact that Sam and JFK shared a mistress—Judith Exner—but Momo never acted on his hatred.”
“You sound pretty sure.”
“We had the Chicago Outfit under electronic surveillance for years before the mob even knew about planted microphones—both before and after the assassination. Sam G. and his crew bitched and ranted endlessly about both Kennedys, but there was never even a hint that they’d moved against them.”
“Jimmy Hoffa wanted Kennedy dead more than anyone else,” Kaiser says.
Stone concedes this with a nod. “Hoffa was heard many times to threaten both Kennedys, and he asked Sam G. and Marcello to whack JFK. But in my group’s opinion, that never came to anything either. Hoffa was a hothead, a loose cannon. If Momo or Marcello had moved against Kennedy, they would have done it for their own reasons, not as a favor to Hoffa. All testimony to the contrary by mob lawyer Frank Ragano was fabricated. Ragano made up those stories years later, trying to get a book deal.”
I have to fight the urge to ask him to skip ahead to my father. “So, that leaves Marcello and Roselli?”
“And Santo Trafficante. Johnny Roselli was the main link between the CIA and the Mafia during their attempts to kill Castro. He was close to both Giancana and Trafficante, but nothing ties him or them to Dallas and Dealey Plaza. Frank Ragano told a story about Trafficante ordering him to tell Marcello they’d screwed up by killing JFK—that they should have killed Bobby instead—but that was more bullshit. As a coda to that line of inquiry, Giancana was murdered in 1975, shortly before he was to testify before a Senate Select Committee investigating mob-CIA collusion in the JFK assassination. It sounds suspicious, I know, but Giancana was actually killed over a dispute about Iranian casino revenues. One year later, Roselli did testify before that committee, about the CIA-mob efforts to murder Castro. Days later he was found floating in an oil drum off Miami. Roselli knew a lot about his bosses, but nothing about the JFK assassination.”
“I guess we’re down to Marcello, then?”
“‘Uncle Carlos,’” Stone intones. “The king of New Orleans, and the most powerful don in the United States.”
His timbre sounds weirdly like affection, and reminds me of my mother’s use of that nickname. I think of my father and his time in New Orleans. If Marcello really was that powerful, and Dad was in a position to do him favors at the parish prison, how could a lowly medical extern have resisted?
“If the story I’m about to tell you sounds like it was written by Mario Puzo,” says Stone, “that’s because there’s a lot of Carlos Marcello in The Godfather.”
The old FBI man begins to speak in a soft but spellbinding baritone that reminds me of the agent I knew in another life. “In 1910, Carlos Marcello was born Calogero Minacori in Tunis. His parents were Sicilian, but Carlos himself never went to Sicily. He once famously said to another mobster who tried Sicilian on him: ‘I don’t talk dat shit, only English.’”
Kaiser chuckles from the sofa. “That sounds just like Carlos. I’ve heard the BRILAB tapes.”
Stone presses on like a man who knows he has only so much stamina remaining. “When Calogero was an infant, his parents emigrated to a plantation near Metairie, Louisiana. The boy changed his name while very young to better assimilate with the children in his new country. As a boy he hauled vegetables in the swamp parishes south of New Orleans, but he soon figured out that crime paid better. As a teenager, he ran an armed robbery gang that preyed on the surrounding towns. Carlos carried a sawed-off shotgun on a sling, and he killed anyone who got in his way or questioned his leadership. The bodies usually went into the nearby swamps, into the bellies of alligators.”
Kaiser gives me a pointed look. “Sound familiar?”
“At eighteen,” Stone continues, “Carlos was sentenced to nine years in Angola Prison for robbery and assault. The state let him out after five, and he went right back to his old ways. This is the period during which Brody Royal and his father came to know Carlos. At twenty-seven, Marcello was arrested with twenty-three pounds of marijuana in his possession. He got another stiff prison sentence and a seventy-five-thousand-dollar fine, but this time he was released after only ten months. Why? Because somehow, he had attracted the notice of Frank Costello, head of the Genovese crime family in New York.
“That connection was the making of him. After cutting a gambling deal with Huey Long, Costello chose Carlos to move illegal slot machines into New Orleans. Using his six brothers, local muscle, and the influence of the Long political machine, Carlos eventually forced one-armed bandits into every redneck honky-tonk, black juke joint, Cajun dive bar, and whorehouse from Grand Isle to Raceland—five thousand in all. Within ten years, he’d seized control of all gambling rackets in Louisiana.”
“He also developed an association with Meyer Lansky,” says Kaiser. “Through the Lansky connection—as reward for services we’re still not sure of—Marcello was awarded a percentage of the skim from the Outfit’s Vegas casino operations. And they don’t hand that out for nothing.”
Stone nods. “Carlos was also awarded an interest in the mob’s Havana casinos under Batista. He got that cut by providing muscle to Santo Trafficante on Florida real estate deals, a job that the Double Eagles would take on years later. Anyway . . . by 1947, Carlos had become not just a made man, but a bona fide member of the national Commissione, and one of the richest of all the bosses.”
I suddenly recall several images I once saw of Marcello, way back when I was investigating Ray Presley. The mobster known as “the Little Man” was short, but as thick and tough as a cypress stump. His face looked quick to anger, and several photographers had captured his chilling glare during the 1960s and ’70s.
“When Fidel Castro liberated Cuba in 1959,” Stone continues, “Carlos lost untold millions, just like Trafficante, Giancana, Lansky, and the other bosses. Hoping to take those casinos back, they helped fund training camps for the Cuban exiles prepping to retake the country in the Bay of Pigs invasion. That’s probably where Carlos first came into contact with Frank and Snake Knox, who worked as combat instructors at Carlos’s training camp near Morgan City.”
“Ping,” Kaiser says softly, imitating a submarine’s sonar.
“Despite the failed invasion,” Stone goes on, “Carlos was nearing the height of his power. By the midsixties his cash inflow would reach two billion dollars per annum. That’s more than twelve billion in today’s money.”
“Jesus.”
“Carlos owned trucking lines, shrimp fleets, untold amounts of real estate—much of it held by third parties who served as blind trustees for him. Interestingly, a lot of those were poor black families who felt complete loyalty to the old tomato salesman from Jefferson Parish.”
“He was a folk hero to those people,” says Kaiser. “Like Pablo Escobar to the Colombian poor. A benevolent dictator.”
I nod. “They do like their dictators in Louisiana.”
Stone raises a forefinger and points at me. “That’s something a lot of people miss. After Louis the Fourteenth and Napoleon, Louisiana never really assimilated into America, not fully. The law here is still based on the Napoleonic Code. They seceded from the Union in 1861, and in the 1930s they got Huey Long. After Huey was assassinated, they got Carlos Marcello. Carlos had learned the patronage system under the Kingfish, and he perpetuated it with cash in one hand and a gun in the other. He spread the wealth to every official in the state, from the governor and senators down to the lowest justice of the peace, and nobody—but nobody—bucked him.”
