A cracker called him a “nigger lover.” He judo-chopped him into a bowl of grits.
Shots zinged his door last night. A colored man told him the Klan torched a cross down the block.
Kemper finished the Bowen brief. He did it catch-up fast–he had to meet John Stanton in Miami in three hours.
Phone calls blitzed his morning and put him off-schedule. Bobby called for a deposition update; Littell called to drop his latest A-bomb.
Ward delivered the Fund books to Carlos Marcello. Pete Bondurant observed the transaction. Marcello seemed to buy Ward’s convoluted cover story.
Ward said, “I made copies, Kemper. And the depositions on your incursion and Joe Kennedy’s malfeasance remain fail-safed. And I’d appreciate it if you advised Le Grand Pierre not to kill me.”
He called Pete immediately. He said, “Don’t kill Littell or tell Carlos his story is bullshit.” Pete said, “Credit me with some brains. I’ve been playing this game as long as you.”
Littell finessed them. It was no severe boss–the books were always a moneymaking longshot.
Kemper oiled his .45. Bobby knew he carried it–and baughed it off as pretentious.
He wore it to the Inaugural. He found Bobby on the parade route and told him he cut Laura off clean.
He found Jack at a White House reception. He called him “Mr. President” for the first time. Jack’s first presidential decree: “Find me some girls for later tonight.”
Kemper rustled up two Georgetown coeds. President Jack told him to stash the girls away for late quickies.
Kemper stashed them in White House guest rooms. Jack caught him yawning and splashing water on his face.
It was 3:00 a.m., with Inaugural galas set to run past dawn.
Jack suggested a pick-me-up. They walked into the Oval Office and saw a doctor preparing vials and hypodermics.
The President rolled up one sleeve. The doctor injected him. John F. Kennedy booked positively orgasmic. Kemper robbed up one sleeve. The doctor injected him. A rocket payload hit his system.
The ride lasted twenty-four hours. The time and place cohered around it.
Jack’s ascent became his. That simple truth felt spelbbindingby articulate. The time and place were beholden to one Kemper Cathcart Boyd. In that sense, he and Jack were indistinguishable.
He picked up one of Jack’s obd flames and made love to her at the Willard. He described the Moment to senators and cab drivers. Judy Garland showed him how to dance the Twist.
The ride sputtered out and left him wanting more. He knew that more would only vulgarize the Moment.
The phone rang. Kemper cinched his overnight bag and picked up.
“This is Boyd.”
“It’s Bob, Kemper. I’ve got the President here with me.”
“Does he want me to repeat that update I gave you?”
“No. We need you to help us sort out a communications glitch.”
“Pertaining to?”
“Cuba. I realize that you’re only informally acquainted with some recent developments, but I still think you’re the best man for this.”
“For what? What are we talking about?”
Bobby came off exasperated. “The projected exile invasion, which you may or may not have heard about. Richard Bissell just dropped by my office and said the CIA’s chomping at the bit, and their Cubans are just a bit beyond restless. They’ve got the key landing site picked out. It’s some place called Playa Giron, or the Bay of Pigs.”
It was NEW news. Stanton never told him that Langley picked a site.
Kemper faked bewilderment. “I don’t see how I can help you. You know I don’t know anybody in the CIA.”
Jack came on the line. “Bobby didn’t know the thing was this far advanced, Kemper. Allen Dulles briefed us on it before I took office, but we haven’t discussed it since then. My advisors are split down the middle on the damn thing.”
Kemper slipped on his holster. Bobby said, “What we need is an independent assessment of the exiles’ readiness.”
Kemper laughed. “Because if the invasion fails and it becomes known that you backed the so-called ‘rebels,’ you’ll be fucked in the court of world opinion.”
Bobby said, “Vividly put.”
Jack said, “And to the point. And I should have taken Bobby into my confidence on this a few weeks ago, but he’s been so goddamned busy chasing gangsters. Kemper…”