It was Kemper Boyd liquor. An old pal hijacked a Schenley’s truck and sold him the contents.
The street was packed. The sidewalks were packed. Peter Lawford was lobbing tie tacks at a gaggle of nuns.
Kemper mingled and watched the rostrum. He saw non-sequitur faces a few yards apart: Lenny Sands and a prototype Mob guy.
The Mob guy flashed Lenny a thumbs-up. Lenny flashed him two thumbs back.
Lenny was off the campaign payroll. Lenny had no official duties here.
The Mob man veered right. Lenny pushed his way left and ducked down an alley lined with trash cans.
Kemper followed him. Stray elbows and knees slowed him down.
High-school kids jostled him across the sidewalk. Lenny was midway down the alley, huddled with two cops.
The crowd noise leveled out. Kemper crouched behind a trash can and eavesdropped.
Lenny fanned a cash roll. A cop plucked bills off of it. His buddy said, “For two hundred extra we can stall the Humphrey bus and bring in some boys to shout him down.”
Lenny said, “Do it. And this is strictly on Mr. G., so don’t mention it to anybody with the campaign.”
The cops grabbed the whole roll and squeezed through an alleyway door. Lenny leaned against the wall and lit a cigarette.
Kemper walked up to him. Hipster Lenny said, “So?”
“So, tell me about it.”
“What’s to tell?”
“Fill in the blanks for me, then.”
“What’s to fill in? We’re both Kennedy guys.”
Lenny could maneuver. Lenny could outfrost any cool cat on earth.
“Giancana put money into Wisconsin, too. Is that right? You couldn’t have performed the way you did on what Bobby gave you.”
Lenny shrugged. “Sam and Hesh Ryskind.”
“Who told them to? You?”
“My advice don’t rate that high. You know that.”
“Spill, Lenny. You’re playing coy, and it’s starting to annoy me.”
Lenny stubbed his cigarette on the wall. “Sinatra was bragging up his influence with Jack. He was saying Jack as President wouldn’t be the same Jack that sat on the McClellan Committee, if you catch my meaning.”
“And Giancana bought the whole package?”
“No. I think you gave Frank a big fucking assist. Everybody’s real impressed with what you’ve been doing on the Cuba front, so they figured if you like Jack he can’t be all bad.”
Kemper smiled. “I don’t want Bobby and Jack to find out about this.”
“Nobody does.”
“Until the debt gets called in?”
“Sam don’t believe in frivolous reminders. And in case you’re thinking of reminding me, I’ll tell you now. I haven’t come up with bubkes on the Pension Fund.”
Kemper heard footscrapes. He saw Teamsters left and Teamsters right-chain swingers crouched at both ends of the alley.
They had their sights on Lenny. Tiny Lenny, Jewish Lenny, Kennedy toady Lenny–
Lenny didn’t see them. Pissy Lenny was entrenched in his cool cat/tough guy act.
Kemper said, “I’ll be in touch.”
Lenny said, “See you in shul.”
Kemper backed through the alleyway door and double-locked it behind him. He heard shouts, chain rattles and thuds–the classic labor-goon two-way press.
Lenny never yelled or screamed. Kemper timed the beating at a minute and six seconds.
44
(Chicago, 5/10/60)
The work was driving Littell schizophrenic. He had to satisfy the Bureau and his conscience.
Chick Leahy hated Mal Chamales. HUAC had linked Mal to sixteen Commie front groups. Leaky’s FBI mentor was former Chicago SAC Guy Banister.
Banister hated Mal. Mal’s Red Squad sheet was eighty pages long.
He liked Mal. They had coffee every so often. Mal spent ‘46 to ‘48 in Lewisburg–Banister built up a sedition profile and talked the U.S. Attorney into an indictment.
Leaky called him this morning. He said, “I want lockstep surveillance on Mal Chamales, Ward. I want you to go to every meeting he goes to and catch him making inflammatory remarks that we can use.”
Littell called Chamales and warned him. Mal said, “I’m addressing an SLP group this afternoon. Let’s just pretend we don’t know each other.” –
Littell mixed a rye and soda. It was 5:40–he had time to work before the national news.
He padded his report with useless details. He omitted Mal’s anti-Bureau tirade. He closed with noncommital remarks.