Claire said, “My Dad’s proposing to his mistress tonight. Let’s hear it for my Dad and my nifty new mom, who’s only nine and a half years older than me.”
Littell almost gagged. Social climber Kemper as secret Kennedy in-law–
Susan said, “Claire, really. ‘Mistress’ and ‘nifty’ in the same sentence?”
Claire made cat claws. “You forgot to mention the age difference. How could you? We both know that age gaps are your pet peeve.”
Helen groaned. Susan pushed her plate aside and lit a cigarette.
Littell filled his glass. Claire said, “Ward baby, assess the three of us as attorneys.”
Littell smiled. “It’s not hard. Susan prosecutes misdemeanors, Helen defends wayward FBI men, and Claire goes into corporate law to finance her father’s expensive tastes in his old age.”
Helen and Claire laughed. Susan said, “I don’t appreciate being defined by pettiness.”
Littell gulped wine. “You can join the Bureau, Susie. I’ll be retiring in a year and twenty-one days, and you can take my place and torment pathetic leftists for Mr. Hoover.”
“I wouldn’t characterize Communists as pathetic, Father. And I don’t think you could support your bar tab on a twenty-year pension.”
Claire flinched. Helen said, “Susan, please.”
Littell grabbed the bottle. “Maybe I’ll go to work for John F. Kennedy. Maybe he’ll be elected President. His brother hates organized crime more than Communists, so maybe it runs in the family.”
Susan said, “I can’t believe you place common hoodlums in the same league as a political system that has enslaved half the world. I can’t believe that you could be hoodwinked by a fatuous liberal politician whose father intends to buy him the presidency.”
“Kemper Boyd likes him.”
“Excuse me, Father, and excuse me, Claire, but Kemper Boyd worships money, and we all know that John F Kennedy has plenty of that.”
Claire ran out of the room. Littell flat-guzzled wine.
“Communists don’t castrate innocent men. Communists don’t hook up car batteries to people’s genitals and electrocute them. Communists don’t drop TV sets into bathtubs or–”
Helen ran out. Susan said, “Father, goddamn you for your weakness.”
o o o
He called in accumulated sick leave and holed up through New Year’s. The A&P delivered food and liquor.
Law school finals kept Helen away. They talked on the phone–mostly petty chitchat and sighs. He heard occasional clicks on the line and wrote them off to nerves.
Kemper didn’t call or write. The man was ignoring him.
He read Bobby Kennedy’s book about the Hoffa wars. The story thrilled him. Kemper Boyd did not appear in the text.
He watched the Rose Bowl and Cotton Bowl on TV. He eulogized Icepick Tony Iannone–dead one year ago exactly.
Exactly four rye-and-beers induced euphoria. He fantasized an exact form of courage: the will to move on Jules Schiffrin and the Fund books.
More liquor killed the notion. To moye meant to sacrifice lives. His courage was weakness pushed into grandiosity.
He watched John Kennedy announce his Presidential candidacy. The Senate Caucus Room was packed with his supporters.
Cameras cut to a picket line outside. Teamsters chanted: “Hey, hey, ho, ho, Kennedy says ‘Labor NO!’”
A reporter spoke voice-over: “A Florida grand jury has Teamster president James R. Hoffa under close scrutiny. He is suspected of feluny land fraud in matters pertaining to the Teamsters’ Sun Valley development.”
An insert shot caught Hoffa laughing off Sun Valley.
Littell juxtaposed words:
Pete, kill some men for me, will ya?
Father, goddamn you for your weakness.
40
(Tampa, 2/1/60)
Jack Ruby said, “I am desperate. That well-known indigent Sal D. owed me a bundle when he died, and the IRS is climbing up my you-know-what for back payments I ain’t got. I’m overextended on my club, Sam already turned me down, and you know I am a great friend to the Cuban Cause. A pal and me brought strippers down to entertain the boys in Blessington, which was strictly voluntary on my part and has nothing to do with the request I just made.”
Santo Junior sat at his desk. Ruby stood in front of it. Three fat German shepherds drooped off the couch.
Pete watched Ruby grovel. The office stunk: Santo gave his dogs free run of the furniture.