Well, my two best agents made it back to the Ice Palace, today. The good news is that we got all the Thai food we can handle. The bad news is that my connection is out of Claymores.
Whoever would have thought that lunatic in Queens needed them all for his one-man war on the mob?
I mean, my connection doesn't ask and doesn't tell, which is one thing I can really appreciate. But it's not hard to see my boys coming back empty handed and make the connection to the massive explosions down in Little Italy, now is it?
Of course, I should be grateful. The fact that he's out there, kicking them in the jimmy, means it's one less battle I have to engage in.
It's also one less headache I have to deal with, trying to reconcile one side of this spy business with the other.
Let's just lay it out on the line, son. The American intelligence community has had a healthy relationship with American organized crime since there's been an intelligence community to speak of. They helped us root out spies and saboteurs in World War II. They got us behind communist lines in the cowboy days of the early Cold War, when we still had some freedom to maneuver. They helped us funnel money and guns to people who needed them, and make sure those funnels vanished in the night like thieves.
And for that, we owe them.
But on the other hand, let's be honest. They're crooks and scum. Some of them would sell their own grandmothers out to some nasty pimp if they thought there was a profit to be made, and some of them would buy her, but all of them would look the other way and not tell anyone because they're all brothers, at least until someone needs a whacking.
You can probably see where this is going, but let me lay out another line for you. You remember that one day in November, 1963? The one where I saved President Kennedy from being the second President assassinated in the 20th century?
Well, no one ever dug too deep into that whole thing. They were just glad I was there, and turned that book depository into a smoking ruin after the first shot hit that secret service agent I threw into its path.
(Well, okay, the secret service agent wasn't. But that's their job. This is mine.)
There's reasons that all went away, though. It has to do with what a certain brainwashed individual was doing in the window with a gun, and what a few other people, who were not brainwashed, were doing in the grassy knoll, ahead of the motorcade.
They were supposed to shoot after the first shot hit. It didn't, so neither did they, which is why Jackie-boy didn't die that day.
Same couldn't be said for them, though. They thought they were going to be evaced out by the same people who brought them there. They each got two in the skull, instead.
You can probably guess why.
Of course, that doesn't stop yours truly from looking into it. But the real story is why I was there, in Dallas, in the first place. I knew something was coming, I just didn't know exactly what.
But when I saw the rifle poking out of the window I knew that my intel was good. After that it was just reflexes and the willingness to throw a pawn to save the king and queen.
So what happened?
Well, consider that Kennedy's family had significant ties to organized crime.
Consider that the Cuban Mob was working with us to try and liberate Cuba.
Consider that, when Kennedy came into office, the plan for the liberation was sitting on his desk, approved by his predecessor.
Consider that, unlike a lot of modern Democrats, Kennedy genuinely hated Communists.
Also consider that, like a lot of politicians, Kennedy never met a promise he didn't feel bad about not keeping.
And then remember that there's a reason why Cuba is still a Communist dictatorship. The Soviets might not have gotten missiles there, during the crisis, but putting some of the People's Protectors on the ground was as simple as arranging alternate identities and putting them on a boat for Havana.
So that, plus the fact that the guys we arranged to go cause a revolution had the worst plan in the world, coupled with the worst luck, and then added onto the sheer !@#$ cake of running right into Red Star, himself...
Well, you can imagine some poor handler in Southern Florida screaming into his short wave and begging for an air strike. And you can imagine Kennedy sitting at his desk, taking this call, and realizing that he's still got time to pull out of this pooch screw before his !@#$ gets covered in dog !@#$.
And you can imagine the Cuban Mob not being happy about that. Not one damn bit.
Was assassinating the President an extreme way to express their displeasure? It damn well was, son. It shouldn't have happened, either. Someone overreacted and made a call they shouldn't have, and by the time he realized he'd made a mistake it was too late to call up and say stop, never mind.
The wrong people had the ball in play, and they weren't going to let it go. Which is why, when you want someone dead for making a mistake, you don't have the people who were wronged go do it. Not only does it make two trails in one leading back to you, but they're already angry and are going to make mistakes.
Which is how I found them. Which is why there was not a second attempt on the President's life. Which is why the Company still has a bit of a grudge against The COMPANY for getting rid of all their handy anti-Castro people in little Havana.
Which is also why John F. Kennedy lived to lose the 1964 election to one Richard M. Nixon, and why the rest of the 60's and early 70's alternated between being so awesome and being so !@#$ up. Because I knew how to listen, and how to throw a grown man in the air towards a speeding bullet.
I still send him a card on the day. I'm told he rips them up and throws them into his bedpan. Can't blame him.
And I can't blame that guy in Queens, either. Which is why I look the other way when people tell me someone should do something before all our useful people get destroyed. Who knows when we might need the mob again?
I always say "They're cockroaches. Cockroaches breed. Cockroaches will outlast us all."
Ain't that the sad truth.
(SPYGOD is listening to The Night Has a Thousand Eyes (Bobby Vee) and drinking La Tropical)