Lockhart did a Stepin Fetchit shuffle. “Thank you, massah! If you was pro-Klan like a real white man, I’d kiss the hem of your sheet!”
Pete kicked him in the balls.
He went down–but didn’t yelp or whimper. He cocked his gun–but didn’t fire.
The man got passing marks overall.
34
(New York City, 9/29/59)
The cab crawled uptown. Kemper balanced paperwork on his briefcase.
A graph showed primary-election states divided by county. Intersecting columns listed his law-enforcement contacts.
He checkmarked the presumed Democrats. He crossed out the presumed GOP hardcases.
It was boring work. Joe should simply buy Jack the White House.
Traffic slogged. The cabbie rode his horn. Kemper played a game of Devil’s Advocate–dissembling practice never hurt.
Bobby questioned his constant Florida sojourns. His response verged on indignation.
“I’m in charge of forwarding McClellan Committee evidence, aren’t I? Well, the Sun Valley case sticks in my craw, and Florida’s a state that Jack needs to carry in the general election. I’ve been down there talking to some disaffected Teamsters.”
The cab passed through slums. Ward Littell crashed his thoughts.
They hadn’t talked or corresponded in a month. The D’Onofrio killing made a brief news splash and stayed unsolved. Ward didn’t call or write to comment.
He should contact Ward. He should find out if Mad Sal’s death derived from his work as Ward’s informant.
The driver stopped at the St. Regis. Kemper paid him and quick-walked to the desk.
A clerk hovered. Kemper said, “Would you buzz my suite and ask Miss Hughes to come down?”
The clerk slipped on a headset and punched his switchboard. Kemper checked his watch–they were running way late for dinner.
“She’s on the phone, Mr. Boyd. There’s a conversation in progress.”
Kemper smiled. “It’s probably Miss Hughes and my daughter. They talk for hours at hotel rates.”
“It’s Miss Hughes and a man, actually.”
Kemper caught himself clenching. “Let me have your headset, would you?”
“Wellllll…”
Kemper slipped him ten dollars.
“Wellllll…”
Kemper went to fifty. The clerk palmed it and handed him his earphones.
Kemper slipped them on. Lenny Sands was talking, very highpitched and fey.
“…As terrible as he was he’s dead, and he worked for the drunk just like me. There’s the drunk and the brute, and now the brute has me writing these preposterous articles about Cuba. I can’t name names, but Laura, my God…”
“You don’t mean my friend Kemper Boyd?”
“He’s not the one I’m afraid of. It’s the brute and the drunk. You never know what the drunk will do, and I haven’t heard from him since Sal was killed, which is driving me absolutely stark raving..
It was compartmental turbulence. It would have to be contained.
35
(Chicago, 10/1/59)
Waves pushed litter up on the shore. Paper cups and cruise-boat programs shredded at his feet.
Littell kicked them out of his way. He passed the spot where he dumped the Montrose B&E swag.
Garbage then, garbage now.
He had three dead men to light candles for. Jack Ruby seemed to be safe–he called the Carousel Club once a week to hear his voice.
Sal resisted torture. Sal never said “Littell” or “Ruby.” Kabikoff knew him only as a cop in a ski mask.
“Mad Sal” and “Sid the Yid”–the nomenclature used to amuse him. Bobby Kennedy allegedly loved Mob nicknames.
He was sloughing off his Phantom reports. He was sloughing off his Red Squad work. He told SAC Leahy that God and Jesus Christ were leftists.
He cut Helen down to one night a week. He quit calling Lenny Sands. He had two constant companions: Old Overholt and Pabst Blue Ribbon.
A sodden magazine washed in. He saw a picture of Jack Kennedy and Jackie.
Kemper said the senator had hound blood. Kemper said Bobby held his marriage vows sacred.
Fat Sid said their dad knew Jules Schiffrin. Schiffrin kept the real Pension Fund books–liquor couldn’t numb that one fact.
Littell cut over to Lake Shore Drive. His feet ached and his trouser cuffs spilled sand.
It was dusk. He’d been walking due south for hours.
His bearings clicked in. He saw that he was three blocks away from a real live destination.
He walked over and knocked on Lenny Sands’ door. Lenny opened up and just stood there.