“This is irregular, but I don’t see why we can’t do it. What’s your message?”
Littell spoke slowly. “Have circumstantial and suppositional– underline those two words–evidence that J.H. hired our old oversized French confrere to eliminate Committee witness R.K. Our confrere leaves Miami late tonight, American flight 55. Call me in Chicago for details. Urge that you inform Robert K. immediately. Sign it W.J.L.”
The agent repeated the message. Littell heard Mary Kirpaski sobbing just outside the kitchen door.
o o o
Helen’s flight was late. Littell waited in a cocktail lounge near the gate.
He rechecked the phone call list. His instinct held firm: Pete Bondurant killed Roland Kirpaski.
Kemper mentioned a dead witness named Gretzler. If he could connect the man to Bondurant, TWO murder charges might fly.
Littell sipped rye and beer. He kept checking the back wall mirror to gauge his appearance.
His work clothes looked wrong. His glasses and thinning hair didn’t jibe with them.
The rye 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 incursion. Mr. Hoover does not want to see Robert Kennedy aided, and Peter Bondurant is a valued colleague of Howard Hughes, who is a great friend of Mr. Hoover and the Bureau. Do you know what fully coded messages are, Mr. Littell?”
Littell blinked. His glasses fell off. Everything went blurry.
Leahy jabbed his chest, hard. “You’re off the THP and back on the Red Squad as of now. And I strongly urge you not to protest.”
One man grabbed his notebook. The other man said, “You reek of liquor.”
They elbowed him aside and walked out. The whole thing took thirty seconds.
His arms hurt. His glasses were scratched and dented. He couldn’t quite breathe or stay balanced on his feet.
He swerved back to his table. He choked down rye and beer and leveled his shakes out.
His glasses fit crooked. He checked out his new mirror image: the world’s most ineffectual workingman.
An intercom boomed, “United flight 84 from New Orleans is now arriving.”
Littell finished his drinks and chased them with two Clorets. He walked over to the gate and bucked passengers up to the jetway.
Helen saw him and dropped her bags. Her hug almost knocked him down.
People stepped around them. Littell said, “Hey, let me see you.”
Helen looked up. Her head grazed his chin–she’d grown tall.
“You look wonderful.”
“It’s Max Factor number-four blush. It does wonders for my scars.”
“What scars?”
“Very funny. And what are you now, a lumberjack?”
“I was. For a few days, at least.”
“Susan says Mr. Hoover’s finally letting you chase gangsters.”
A man kicked Helen’s garment bag and glared at them. Littell said, “Come on, I’ll buy you dinner.”
o o o
They had steaks at the Stockyard Inn. Helen talked a blue streak and got tipsy on red wine.
She’d gone from coltish to rangy; her face had settled in strong. She’d quit smoking–she said she knew it was fake sophistication.
She always wore her hair in a bun to flaunt her scars. She wore it down now–it rendered her disfigurement matter-of-fact.
A waiter pushed the dessert cart by. Helen ordered pecan pie; Littell ordered brandy.
“Ward, you’re letting me do all the talking.”
“I was waiting to summarize.”
“Summarize what?”
“You at age twenty-one.”
Helen groaned. “I was starting to feel mature.”
Littell smiled. “I was going to say that you’ve become poised, but not at the expense of your exuberance. You used to trip over your words when you wanted to make a point, but now you think before you talk.”
“Now people just trip over my luggage when I’m excited about meeting a man.”
“A man? You mean a friend twenty-four years your senior who watched you grow up?”