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We are behind, and below, the scenes of JFK's presidential election, the Bay of Pigs, the assassination--in the underworld that connects Miami, Los Angeles, Chicago, D.C. . . .
Where the CIA, the Mob, J. Edgar Hoover, Howard Hughes, Jimmy Hoffa, Cuban political exiles, and various loose cannons conspire in a covert anarchy . . .
Where the right drugs, the right amount of cash, the right murder, buys a moment of a man's loyalty . . .
Where three renegade law-enforcement officers--a former L.A. cop and two FBI agents--are shaping events with the virulence of their greed and hatred, riding full-blast shotgun into history. . . .
James Ellroy's trademark nothing-spared rendering of reality, blistering language, and relentless narrative pace are here in electrifying abundance, put to work in a novel as shocking and daring as anything he's written: a secret history that zeroes in on a time still shrouded in secrets and blows it wide open.
President” for the first time. Jack’s first presidential decree: “Find me some girls for later tonight.” Kemper rustled up two Georgetown coeds. President Jack told him to stash the girls away for late quickies. Kemper stashed them in White House guest rooms. Jack caught him yawning and splashing water on his face. It was 3:00 a.m., with Inaugural galas set to run past dawn. Jack suggested a pick-me-up. They walked into the Oval Office and saw a doctor preparing vials and hypodermics. The
the Bay of Pigs.” It was NEW news. Stanton never told him that Langley picked a site. Kemper faked bewilderment. “I don’t see how I can help you. You know I don’t know anybody in the CIA.” Jack came on the line. “Bobby didn’t know the thing was this far advanced, Kemper. Allen Dulles briefed us on it before I took office, but we haven’t discussed it since then. My advisors are split down the middle on the damn thing.” Kemper slipped on his holster. Bobby said, “What we need is an independent
and Sam could force Boyd to disband his hit squad. Delsol examined his arms. His tattoos were scorched into odd smudges. Pete said, “There’s more.” “No. There isn’t.” Pete sighed. “There’s your part. You were recruited because the pro-Castro guys knew the Cadre killed your cousin, and they figured you were vulnerable. You’ve got a part in this, and it’s got something to do with heroin, and if you don’t tell me, I’m going to start hurting you again.” “Pedro …” Pete squatted in front of the
was one hour AWOL. Pete was missing for three days. He got the phone tip on Néstor four days ago. The tipster was a freelance exile gunman. He gave Guy Banister a note to relay to Pete. Guy called and said he delivered it. He said he found Pete at the Federal detention jail. He dropped hints that more FBI raids were coming. A storm browned out their phone setup two days ago. Pete couldn’t call Sun Valley. Kemper drove to a pay phone off the Interstate last night. He called Pete’s apartment
burned; the beer tickled. Two men walked up to his table and grabbed him. They jerked him upright. They clamped down on his elbows. They steered him back to an enclosed phone bank. It was swift and sure—no civilian patrons caught it. The men pinned his arms back. Chick Leahy stepped out of a shadow and got right up in his face. Littell felt his knees go. The men propped him up on his toes. Leahy said, “Your message to Kemper Boyd was intercepted. You could have violated his cover on the