Pete stuck his eyebrow back in place. “Charge me or release me. You know who I am and who I know.”
“We know you know Jimmy Hoffa. We know you’re pals with Mr. Rogers, Mr. Machado and some other Tiger Kab drivers.”
Pete said, “Charge me or release me.” The cop tossed cigarettes and matches on his lap.
Cop #2 leaned in close. “You probably think Jimmy Hoffa’s bought off every policeman in this town, but son, I’m here to tell you that simply ain’t the case.”
“Charge me or release me.”
“Son, you are trying my patience.”
“I’m not your son, you cracker faggot.”
“Boy, that kind of talk will get your face slapped.”
“If you slap me, I’ll go for your eyes. Don’t make me prove it.”
Cop #3 came on soft. “Whoa, now, whoa. Mr. Bondurant, you know we can hold you for seventy-two hours without charging you. You know you’ve probably got a concussion and could use some medical attention. Now, why don’t you–”
“Give me my phone call, then charge me or release me.”
The senior cop laced his hands behind his head. “We let your friend Rogers make a call. He fed the jailer some cock-and-bull story about having government connections and called a Mr. Stanton. Now, who are you gonna call–Jimmy Hoffa? You think Uncle Jimmy’s gonna go your bail on a double-homicide charge and maybe engender all kinds of bad publicity that he doesn’t need?”
An A-bomb blast hit his neck. Pete almost blacked out.
Cop #2 sighed. “This boy’s too woozy to cooperate. Let’s let him rest up a bit.”
o o o
He passed out, woke up, passed out. His headache subsided from A-bomb to nitroglycerine.
He read wall scratchings. He swiveled his neck to stay limber. He broke the world’s record for holding a piss.
He broke down the situation.
Fulo cracks or Fulo doesn’t crack. Chuck cracks or Chuck doesn’t. Jimmy buys them bail or lets them swing. Maybe the DA gets smart: spic-on-spic homicides rate bubkes.
He could call Mr. Hughes. Mr. Hughes could nudge Mr. Hoover–which meant case fucking closed.
He told Hughes he’d be gone three days. Hughes agreed to the trip, no questions asked. Hughes agreed because the Kennedy shakedown backfired. Joe and Bobby shrunk his balls down to peanut size.
And Ward J. Littell slapped him.
Which decreed the cocksucker’s death sentence.
Gail was gone. The Jack K. gig went pffftt. Hoffa’s Kennedy hate sizzled–hot, hot, hot. Hughes was still gossip/smear crazed and hot to find a new Hush-Hush stringer.
Pete read wall musings. The Academy Award winner: “Miami PD Sucks Rhino Dick.”
Two men walked in and pulled chairs up. A jailer unshackled his legs and walked out fast.
Pete stood up and stretched. The interrogation room dipped and swayed.
The younger man said, “I’m John Stanton, and this is Guy Banister. Mr. Banister is retired FBI, and he was assistant superintendent of the New Orleans Police for a spell.”
Stanton was slight and sandy-haired. Banister was big and booze-flushed.
Pete lit a cigarette. Inhaling torqued his headache. “I’m listening.”
Banister grinned. “I remember that civil rights trouble of yours. Kemper Boyd and Ward Littell arrested you, didn’t they?”
“You know they did.”
“I used to be the Chicago SAC, and I always thought Littell was a weak sister.”
Stanton straddled his chair. “But Kemper Boyd’s another matter. You know, Pete, he went by the Tiger stand and showed your mug shot around. One of the men pulled a knife, and Boyd disarmed him in a rather spectacular fashion.”
Pete said, “Boyd’s a stylish guy. And this is starting to play like some kind of audition, so I’ll tell you that I’d recommend him for just about any kind of law-enforcement work.”
Stanton smiled. “You’re not a bad audition prospect yourself.”
Banister smiled. “You’re a licensed private investigator. You’re a former deputy sheriff. You’re Howard Hughes’ man, and you know Jimmy Hoffa, Fulo Machado and Chuck Rogers. Those are stylish credentials.”
Pete stubbed his cigarette out on the wall. “The CIA’s not so bad, as credentials go. That’s who you are, right?”
Stanton stood up. “You’re free to go. No charges will be filed on you, Rogers or Machado.”