Kirpaski said, “Yeah, and I’m also gonna ‘see’ this cocktail waitress I met when I went down for the convention. But you know what? I’m not gonna tell my wife she’s on the menu.”
Jack motioned Kemper in close. Littell caught static-laced whispers:
“I’m flying to L.A. when this snow lets up.”/”Call Darleen Shoftel–I’m sure she’d love to meet you.”
Kirpaski said, “I’m hungry.”
Robert Kennedy packed his briefcase. “Come on, Roland. You can join the family for supper at my house. Try not to say ‘fuck’ around my children, though. They’ll learn the concept soon enough.”
The men filed out a back door. Littell hugged the glass for one last look at Bobby.
7
(Los Angeles, 12/9/58)
Darleen Shoftel faked a mean climax. Darleen Shoftel had whore pals over for shop talk.
Darleen was a bigggg name dropper.
She said Franchot Tone dug bondage. She called Dick Contino a champion muff diver. She dubbed B-movie man Steve Cochran “Mr. King Size.”
Phone calls came in and went out. Darleen talked to tricks, hooker chums and Mom in Vincennes, Indiana.
Darleen loved to talk. Darleen said nothing to explain why two Feds wired her crib.
They attached the Fed apparatus four days ago. 1541 North Alta Vista was miked up floor to rafters.
Fred Turentine piggybacked the Boyd/Littell setup. He heard everything the FBI heard. The Feds ranted a listening-post house down the block; Freddy monitored his hookups from a van parked next door and kept Pete supplied with tape copies.
And Pete smelled money and called Jimmy Hoffa–maybe a bit premature.
Jimmy said, “You got a good sense of smell. Come down to Miami on Thursday and tell me what you got. If you got nothing, we can go out on my boat and shoot sharks.”
Thursday was tomorrow. Shark shooting was strictly for geeks. Freddy’s pay was two hundred a day–steep for a crash course in extraneous sex jive.
Pete moped around the watchdog house. Pete savored the hints he dropped on Mr. Hughes: I know you lent Dick Nixon’s brother some coin. Pete kept playing the piggyback tapes out of sheer boredom.
He hit Play. Darleen moaned and groaned. Bedsprings creaked; something headboard-like slammed something wall-like. Dig it: Darleen with a big fat porker in the saddle.
The phone rang–Pete grabbed it fast.
“Who’s this?”
“It’s Fred. Get over here now–we just hit paydirt.”
o o o
The van was crammed with contraptions and gadgets. Pete banged his knees climbing in.
Freddy looked all hopped up. His zipper was down, like he’d been choking the chicken.
He said, “I recognized that Boston accent immediately, and I called you the second they started screwing. Listen, this is live.”
Pete put on headphones. Darleen Shoftel spoke, loud and clear.
“…you’re a bigger hero than your brother. I read about you in Time magazine. Your PT boat got rammed by the Japs or something.”
“I’m a better swimmer than Bobby, that’s certainly true.” 3-cherry jackpot: Gail Hendee’s old squeeze, Jack the K.
Darleen: “I saw your brother’s picture in Newsweek magazine. Doesn’t he have like four thousand kids?”
Jack: “At least three thousand, with new ones popping up all the time. When you visit his house the little shits attach themselves to your ankles. My wife finds Bobby’s need to breed vulgar.”
Darleen: “‘Need to breed’–that’s cute.”
Jack: “Bobby’s a true Catholic. He needs to have children and punish the men that he hates. If his hate instincts weren’t so unerring, he’d be a colossal pain in the ass.”
Pete clamped his headset down. Jack Kennedy talked, postfuck languid:
“I don’t hate like Bobby does. Bobby hates with a fury. Bobby hates Jimmy Hoffa very powerfully and simply, which is why he’ll win in the end. I was in Washington with him yesterday. He was taking a deposition from a Teamster man who’d become disgusted with Hoffa and had decided to inform on him. Here’s this dumb brave Polack, Roland something from Chicago, and Bobby takes him home for dinner with his family. You see, uh…”
“Darleen.”
“Right, Darleen. You see, Darleen, Bobby’s more heroic than I am because he’s truly passionate and generous.”
Gadgets blinked. Tape spun. They hit the royal flush/Irish Sweepstakes jackpot–Jimmy Hoffa would SHIT when he heard it.