Pete left him a message: “10:00 tonight, the Luau Lounge–urgent.”
o o o
Boyd took it casual. He said, “I know Ward’s been chasing the Fund,” like he was too bored to breathe.
Pete blew smoke rings. Boyd’s tone pissed him off–he drove eighty miles for a display of fucking ennui.
“It doesn’t seem to bother you.”
“I’m a bit overextended on Littell, but other than that, I don’t think it’s anything to be concerned about. Do you feel like divulging your source?”
“No. He doesn’t know Littell’s name, and I’ve got him cowed pretty good.”
A tiki torch lit their table. Boyd flickered in and out of this weird little glow.
“I don’t see how this concerns you, Pete.”
“It concerns Jimmy Hoffa. He’s tied to us on the Cuban thing, and Jimmy is the fucking Pension Fund.”
Boyd drummed the table. “Littell is fixated on the Chicago Mob and the Fund. It doesn’t touch on our Cuban work, and I don’t think we owe Jimmy a warning. And I don’t want you to talk to Lenny Sands about this. He’s not conversant on the topic, and you don’t need to trouble him with it.”
It was vintage Boyd: “need-to-know basis” straight down the line.
“We don’t have to warn Jimmy, but I’ll say this loud and clear. Jimmy hired me to clip Anton Gretzler, and I don’t want Littell to burn me for it. He’s already made me for the job, and he’s just crazy enough to go public with it, Mr. Hoover or no Mr. Hoover.”
Boyd twirled his martini stick. “You clipped Roland Kirpaski, too.”
“No. Jimmy clipped him himself.”
Boyd whistled–très, très casual.
Pete got up in his face. “You cut Littell too much slack. You make fucking allowances for him that you shouldn’t.”
“We both lost brothers, Pete. Let it go at that.”
The line didn’t compute. Boyd talked on these weird levels sometimes.
Pete leaned back. “Are you watchdogging Littell? How tight a leash are you keeping on him?”
“I haven’t been in touch with him in months. I’ve been distancing myself from him and Mr. Hoover.”
“Why?”
“Just an instinct.”
“Like an instinct for survival?”
“More of a homing instinct. You move away from some people, and you move toward the people of the moment.”
“Like the Kennedys.”
“Yes.”
Pete laughed. “I’ve hardly seen you since Jack hit the trail.”
“You won’t be seeing me at all until after the election. Stanton knows I can’t be dividing my time.”
“He should know. He hired you to get next to the Kennedys.”
“He won’t regret it.”
“I don’t. It means I get to run the Cadre solo.”
“Can you handle it?”
“Can niggers dance?”
“They surely can.”
Pete sipped his beer. It was flat–he forgot he ordered it.
“You said ‘election’ like you think the job’s going through to November.”
“I’m reasonably certain it will. Jack’s ahead in New Hampshire and Wisconsin, and if we get past West Virginia I think he’ll go all the way.”
“Then I hope he’s anti-Castro.”
“He is. He’s not as voluble as Richard Nixon, but then Dick’s a Red-baiter from way back.”
“President Jack. Jesus Christ.”
Boyd signaled a waiter. A fresh martini hit the table quick.
“It’s seduction, Pete. He’ll back the country into a corner with his charm, like it’s a woman. When America sees that it’s a choice between Jack and twitchy old Dick Nixon, who do you think they’ll get between the sheets with?”
Pete raised his beer. “Viva La Causa. Viva Bad-Back Jack.”
They clinked glasses. Boyd said, “He’ll get behind the Cause. And if the invasion goes, we want it to be in his administration.”
Pete lit a cigarette. “I’m not worried about that. Put Littell aside, and there’s only one thing to be worried about.”
“You’re concerned that the Agency at large will find out about our Cadre business.”
“That’s right.”
Boyd said, “I want them to find out. In fact, I’m going to inform them some time before November. It’s inevitable that they will find out, and by the time they do my Kennedy connection will make me too valuable to dismiss. The Cadre will have recruited too many good men and have made too much money, and as far as morality goes, how does selling heroin to Negroes rate when compared to illegally invading an island?”