“In his way, yes.”
“Now you’re euphemizing. I remember Joe and I were yakking once, about how we fucked Howard Hughes on a deal thirty years ago. Bobby objected to the word ‘fuck’ because his kids were in the next room. They couldn’t even hear, but–”
Bobby signaled. Kemper caught the gesture and nodded.
“Excuse me, Mr. Schiffrin.”
“Go. Your boss beckons. Nine kids Joe had, so one shitbird isn’t such a bad average.”
Kemper walked over. Bobby steered him straight into the cloakroom. Fur coats and evening capes brushed up against them.
“Jack said you wanted to see me.”
“I did. I need you to collate some evidence briefs and write out a summary of everything the Committee’s done, so that we can send out a standardized report to all the grand juries who’ll be taking over for us. I realize that paperwork isn’t your style, but this is imperative.”
“I’ll start in the morning.”
“Good.”
Kemper cleared his throat. “Bob, there’s something I wanted to run by you.”
“What?”
“I have a close friend. He’s an agent in the Chicago office. I can’t tell you his name just yet, but he’s a very capable and intelligent man.”
Bobby wiped snow off his topcoat. “Kemper, you’re leading me. I realize that you’re used to having your way with people, but please get to the point.”
“The point is he was transferred off the Top Hoodlum Program against his will. He hates Mr. Hoover and Mr. Hoover’s ‘There is no Mob’ stance, and he wants to conduit anti-Mob intelligence through me to you. He understands the risks, and he’s willing to take them. And for what it’s worth, he’s an ex–Jesuit seminarian.”
Bobby hung his coat up. “Can we trust him?”
“Absolutely.”
“He wouldn’t be a conduit to Hoover?”
Kemper laughed. “Hardly.”
Bobby looked at him. Bobby gave him his witness-intimidation stare.
“All right. But I want you to tell the man not to do anything illegal. I don’t want a zealot out there wiretapping and God knows what else because he thinks I’ll back him up on it.”
“I’ll tell him. Now, what areas do you–?”
“Tell him I’m interested in the possibility that secret Pension Fund books exist. Tell him that if they do, it’s likely that the Chicago Mob administers them. Have him work off that supposition, and see if he can come up with any general Hoffa intelligence while he’s at it.”
Guests filed past the cloakroom. A woman trailed her mink coat on the floor. Dean Acheson almost tripped over it.
Bobby winced. Kemper saw his eyes slip out of focus.
“What is it?”
“It’s nothing.”
“Is there anything else you’d–?”
“No, there isn’t. Now, if you’ll excuse me…”
Kemper smiled and walked back to the party. The main room was crowded now–maneuvering was a chore.
The mink woman had heads turning.
She made a butler pet her coat. She insisted that Leonard Bernstein try it on. She mambo-stepped through the crowd and snatched Joe Kennedy’s drink.
Joe gave her a small, gift-wrapped box. The woman tucked it in her purse. Three Kennedy sisters walked off in a huff.
Peter Lawford ogled the woman. Bennett Cerf slid by and peeked down her dress. Vladimir Horowitz waved her over to the piano.
Kemper took a private elevator down to the lobby. He picked up a courtesy phone and badgered the switchboard girl for a straight patch to Chicago.
She put him through. Helen answered on the second ring.
“Hello?”
“It’s me, sweetheart. The one you used to have a crush on.”
“Kemper! What are you doing with that syrupy southern accent!”
“I’m engaged in subterfuge.”
“Well, I’m engaged in law school and looking for an apartment, and it is so difficult!”
“All good things are. Ask your middle-aged boyfriend, he’ll tell you.”
Helen whispered. “Ward’s been moody and secretive lately. Will you try to–?”
Littell came on the line. “Kemper, hi.”
Helen blew kisses and put her extension down. Kemper said, “Hello, son.”
“Hello yourself. I hate to be abrupt, but have you–?”
“Yes, I have.”
“And?”
“And Bobby said yes. He said he wants you to work for us sub rosa, and he wants you to follow up on that lead Roland Kirpaski gave us, and try to determine if there really are secret Pension Fund books hiding untold zillions of dollars.”
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