Pete sent the girls home at midnight. Lockhart burned a Yuletide cross out in the boonies. Pete got an urge to hit Cuba and kill Commies.
He called Fulo in Miami. Fulo dug, the idea. Fulo said, I’ll round up some guys and drive down.
Chuck Rogers flew a load of dope in. Pete gassed up the lead speedboat.
Lockhart cruised by with some moonshine. Pete and Chuck traded chugs. Nobody smoked–the shit might ignite.
They sat on the dock. Floodlights lit up the whole campsite.
A trainee screamed in his sleep. Embers blew down off the cross. Pete remembered Xmas ‘45: The L.A. Sheriff’s signed him on fresh out of the Marine Corps.
Fulo’s car dipsy-doodled across the runway. Chuck stacked Tonuny guns and ammo by the dock moorings.
Dougie Frank said, “Can I go?”
Pete said, “Sure.”
Delsol, Obregón and Fulo piled out of the Chevy. They walked sway-bellied–blitzed by too much beer and turkey.
They waddled over to the dock. Tomás Obregón wore shades–at 2:00 a.m. Shades and long sleeves–on a half-assed balmy night.
A dog barked out in the sticks. Chuck Rogers mimicked hound yelps like this late-nite cracker deejay he grooved on. Everybody traded holiday back slaps.
Pete slapped Obregón’s shades off. The fuck had dope-pinned eyes–floodlight glare nailed them clean.
Obregón froze. Rogers threw a choke hold on him.
Nobody talked. Nobody had to–the picture spread rápidamente.
Obregón squirmed. Fulo jerked his sleeves up. Skin-pop tracks ran down his arms, red and ugly.
Everybody looked at Delsol–Obregón’s fucking cousin. The picture spread: Let him do it.
Chuck let Obregón go. Pete handed his gun to Delsol.
Obregón trembled and almost teetered off the dock. Delsol shot him six times in the chest.
He spun into the water. Steam hissed out his exit wounds.
Fulo dove in and scalped him.
Delsol looked away.
38
(Hyannis Port, 12/25/59)
A Christmas tree grazed the ceiling. Spray-on snowflakes dusted a huge pile of gifts.
Kemper sipped eggnog. Jack said, “Holidays make you sad, I can tell.”
“Not exactly.”
“My parents overdid having children, but yours should have had the foresight to give you a sibling or two.”
“I had a younger brother. He died in a hunting accident.”
“I didn’t know that.”
“My father and I were stalking deer near our summer place. We kept getting glimpses, and kept firing through brush. One of the glimpses was Compton Wickwire Boyd, age eight. He was wearing a tan jacket and a hat with white ear flaps. It was October 19, 1934.”
Jack looked away. “Kemper, I’m sorry.”
“I shouldn’t have mentioned it. You said you wanted to talk, and I have to leave for New York in an hour. That story is a guaranteed conversation-stopper.”
The den was overheated. Jack inched his chair away from the fireplace.
“You’re meeting Laura?”
“Yes. My daughter’s having Christmas dinner with some friends in South Bend, then going on a ski trip. She’ll be joining Laura and I in New York.”
Pete’s ring was buffed and polished. He was set to pop the question tonight.
“You and Laura were a hell of a shock.”
“But you’re getting used to it?”
“I think everyone is, to one degree or another.”
“You’re nervous, Jack.”
“I’m announcing in eight days. Obstacles keep popping up in my mind, and I keep wondering how to deal with them.”
“For instance?”
“West Virginia. What do I say to a goal miner who says, ‘Son, I heard your daddy’s one of the richest men in America, and you never had to work a day in your life?’”
Kemper smiled. “You say, ‘That’s true.’ And a grizzled old character actor that we plant in the crowd says, ‘And son, you ain’t missed a damn thing.’”
Jack roared. Kemper snapped to a connection: Giancana and Trafficante ran big blocks of West Virginia.
“I know some people down there who might be able to help you.”
“Then indebt me to them in unconscionable ways, so I can embrace my genetic fate as a corrupt Irish politician.”
Kemper laughed. “You’re still nervous. And you said you wanted to talk to me, which implied a serious discussion.”
Jack rocked his chair back and brushed fake snow off his sweater. “We’ve been thinking of Mr. Hoover. We were thinking he knows the story of Laura’s parentage.”