Hoffa said, “Lines come and go. And as far as Cuba goes, I think Carlos is the only Outfit guy who still gives a shit. I think Santo, Mo and the others are pissed off and bored with the whole notion of that rinky-dink goddamn island.”
Littell straightened his necktie. “Good. Because I’m bored with everything except keeping you and Carlos one step ahead of Bobby Kennedy.”
Hoffa smiled. “You used to like Bobby. I heard you used to really admire him.”
“Lines come and go, Jimmy. You said so yourself.”
Hoffa dropped the paperweight. “This is true. It is also fucking true that I need an edge on Bobby. And you fucking pulled the plug on that Kennedy wire job that Pete Bondurant was working for me back in ‘58.”
Littell forced a wince into a smile. “I didn’t know you knew that.”
“That is obvious. It should also be fucking obvious that I forgive you.”
“And obvious that you want to try it again.”
“This is true.”
“Call Pete, Jimmy. I don’t have much use for him, but he’s the best shakedown man alive.”
Hoffa leaned across the desk. His trouser legs slid up and showed off cheap white sweat socks.
“I want you in on it, too.”
75
(Los Angeles, 2/4/62)
Pete rubbed his neck. It was all kinked and knotted–he flew out in a coach seat made for midgets.
“I jump when you say ‘jump,’ Jimmy, but coast-to-coast for coffee and pastry is pushing it.”
“I think L.A.’s the place to set this up.”
“Set what up?”
Hoffa dabbed eclair cream off his necktie. “You’ll see soon enough.”
Pete heard noise in the kitchen. “Who’s that poking around?”
“It’s Ward Littell. Sit down, Pete. You’re’ making me nervous.”
Pete dropped his garment bag. The house stunk of cigars– Hoffa let visiting Teamsters use it for stag nights.
“Littell, shit. This is grief I don’t need.”
“Come on. Ancient history’s ancient history.”
Recent history: your lawyer stole your Fund books–
Littell walked in. Hoffa put his hands up, peacemaker-style. “Be nice, you guys. I wouldn’t put the two of you in the same room unless it was good.”
Pete rubbed his eyes. “I’m a busy guy, and I flew overnight for this little breakfast klatch. Give me one good reason why I should take on additional fucking work, or I’m heading back to the airport.”
Hoffa said, “Tell him, Ward.”
Littell warmed his hands on a coffee cup. “Bobby Kennedy’s coming down unacceptably hard on Jimmy. We want to work up a derogatory tape profile on Jack and use it as a wedge to get him to call off Bobby. if I hadn’t interfered, the Shoftel operation might have worked. I think we should do it again, and I think we should recruit a woman that Jack would find interesting enough to sustain an affair with.”
Pete rolled his eyes. “You want to shake down the President of the United States?”
“Yes.”
“You, me and Jimmy?”
“You, me, Fred Turentine and the woman we bring in.”
“And you’re going at this like you think we can trust each other.”
Littell smiled. “We both hate Jack Kennedy. And I think we’ve got enough dirt on each other to buttress a non-aggression pact.”
Pete popped some prickly little goose bumps. “We can’t tell Kemper about this. He’d rat us in a second.”
“I agree. Kemper has to stay out of the loop on this one.”
Hoffa belched. “I’m watching you two humps stare at each other, and I’m starting to feel like I’m out of the fucking loop, even though I’m financing the fucking loop.”
Littell said, “Lenny Sands.”
Hoffa sprayed eclair crumbs. “What the fuck does Jewboy Lenny have to do with fucking anything?”
Pete looked at Littell. Littell looked at Pete. Their brainwaves meshed somewhere over the pastry tray.
Hoffa looked dead flummoxed. His eyes went out of focus somewhere near the planet Mars. Pete steered Littell to the kitchen and shut the door.
“You’re thinking Lenny’s this big Hollywood insider. You’re thinking he might know some women we could use as bait.”
“Right. And if he doesn’t come through, at least we’re here in Los Angeles.”
“Which is the best place on earth to find shakedown-type women.”
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