“ ‘Affiliations’? Plural?”
Stanton stepped out on the balcony. Kemper followed him up to the railing.
“You ‘retired’ from the FBI rather precipitously. You were close to Mr. Hoover, who hates and fears the Kennedy brothers. Post hoc, propter ergo hoc. You were an FBI agent on Tuesday, a prospective pimp for Jack Kennedy on Wednesday, and a McClellan Committee investigator on Thursday. I can follow logical—”
“What’s the standard pay rate for CIA contract recruits?”
“Eight-fifty a month.”
“But my ‘affiliations’ make me a special case?”
“Yes. We know you’re getting close to the Kennedys, and we think Jack Kennedy might be elected President next year. If the Castro problem extends, we’ll need someone to help influence his Cuban policy.”
“As a lobbyist?”
“No. As a very subtle agent provocateur.”
Kemper checked the view. Lights seemed to shimmer way past Cuba.
“I’ll consider your offer.”
18
(Chicago, 1/14/59)
Littell ran into the morgue. Kemper called him from the airport and said MEET ME THERE NOW.
He called half an hour ago. He didn’t elaborate. He said just those four words and slammed the phone down.
A row of autopsy rooms extended off the foyer. Sheet-covered gurneys blocked the hallway.
Littell pushed through them. Kemper stood by the far wall, next to a row of freezer slabs.
Littell caught his breath. “What the fuck is—?”
Kemper pulled a slab out. The tray held a male Caucasian dead body.
The boy was torture slashed and cigarette burned. His penis was severed and stuffed in his mouth.
Littell recognized him: the kid in Icepick Tony’s nude snapshot.
Kemper grabbed his neck and forced him down close. “This is on you, Ward. You should have destroyed every bit of evidence pointing to Iannone’s known associates before you tipped off those Mob guys. Guilty or not, they had to kill someone, so they decided to kill the boy in the picture you left for them to see.”
Littell jerked backward. He smelled stomach bile and blood and forensic dental abrasive.
Kemper shoved him down closer.
“You’re working for Bobby Kennedy, and I set it up, and Mr. Hoover will destroy me if he finds out. You’re damn lucky I decided to check some missing-persons reports, and you had damn well better convince me you won’t fuck up like this again.”
Littell closed his eyes. Tears spilled out. Kemper shoved him in cheek to cheek with the dead boy.
“Meet me at Lenny Sands’ apartment at ten. We’ll shore things up.”
Work didn’t help.
He tailed Commies and wrote out a surveillance log. His hands shook; his printing was near-illegible.
Helen didn’t help.
He called her just to hear her voice. Her law school chitchat brought him close to screaming.
Court Meade didn’t help.
They met for coffee and exchanged reports. Court told him he looked lousy. Court said his report looked threadbare—like he wasn’t spending much time at the listening post.
He couldn’t say, I’m slacking off because I found a snitch. He couldn’t say, I fucked up and got a boy killed.
Church helped a little.
He lit a candle for the dead boy. He prayed for competence and courage. He cleaned up in the bathroom and remembered something Lenny said: Sal D. was recruiting junketeers at Saint Vibiana’s this evening.
A tavern stop helped.
Soup and crackers settled his stomach. Three rye-and-beers cleared his head.
Sal and Lenny had the Saint Vib’s rec hall all to themselves. A dozen K of C men took in their pitch.
The group sat at a clump of bingo tables near the stage. The Knights looked like drunks and wife beaters.
Littell loitered outside a fire exit. He cracked the door to watch and listen.
Sal said, “We leave in two days. Lots of my regulars couldn’t get away from their jobs, so I’m lowering my price to nine-fifty, airfare included. First we go to Lake Tahoe, then Vegas and Gardena, outside L.A. Sinatra’s playing the Cal-Neva Lodge in Tahoe, and you’ll be front row center to catch his show. Now, Lenny Sands, formerly Lenny Sanducci, and a Vegas star in his own right, will give you a Sinatra that out-Sinatras Sinatra. Go, Lenny! Go, paisan!”
Lenny blew smoke rings Sinatra-style. The K of C men clapped. Lenny flicked his cigarette above their heads and glared at them.
“Don’t applaud until I finish! What kind of Rat Pack Auxiliary are you! Dino, go get me a couple of blondes! Sammy, go get me a case of gin and ten cartons of cigarettes or I’ll put your other eye out! Hop to it, Sammy! When the Chicago Knights of Columbus Chapter 384 snaps its fingers, Frank Sinatra jumps!”
The Knights haw-haw-hawed. A nun pushed a broom by the group and never looked up. Lenny sang, “Fly me to the Coast with Big Sal’s junket tour! He’s the swingin’ gambling junket king, so dig his sweet allure! In other words, Vegas beware!”
The Knights applauded. Sal dumped a paper bag out on a table in front of them.
They sifted through the clutter and grabbed knickknacks. Littell saw poker chips, French ticklers, and Playboy rabbit key chains.
Lenny held up a novelty pen shaped like a penis. “Which one of you big-dick gavones wants to be the first one to sign up?”
A line formed. Littell felt his stomach turn over.
He walked to the curb and vomited. The rye and beer burned his throat. He hunched over and puked himself dry.
Some junket men walked past him twirling key chains. A few laughed at him.
Littell braced himself against a lamppost. He saw Sal and Lenny in the rec hall doorway.
Sal backed Lenny into the wall and jabbed at his chest. Lenny mimed a single word: “Okay.”
The door stood ajar. Littell pushed it all the way open.
Kemper was going through Lenny’s address book. He’d turned on all the living-room lights.
“Easy, son.”
Littell shut the door. “Who let you in?”
“I taught you how to B&E, remember?”
Littell shook his head. “I want him to trust me. Another man showing up like this might frighten him.”
Kemper said, “You need to frighten him. Don’t underestimate him just because he’s queer.”
“I saw what he did to Iannone.”
“He panicked, Ward. If he panics again, we could get hurt. I want to establish a certain tone tonight.”
Littell heard footsteps outside the door. There was no time to kill the lights for surprise.
Lenny walked in. He did a broad stage actor’s double-take.
“Who’s he?”
“This is Mr. Boyd. He’s a friend of mine.”
“And you were in the neighborhood, so you thought you’d break in and ask me a few questions.”
“Let’s not go at things this way.”
“What way? You said we’d talk on the phone, and you told me you were in this by yourself.”
“Lenny—”
Kemper said, “I did have a question.”
Lenny hooked his thumbs through his belt loops. “Then ask it. And help yourself to a drink. Mr. Littell always does.”
Kemper looked amused. “I glanced through your address book, Lenny.”
“I’m not surprised. Mr. Littell always does that, too.”
“You know Jack Kennedy and a lot of Hollywood people.”
“Yes. And I know you and Mr. Littell, which proves I’m not immune to slumming.”
“Who’s this woman Laura Hughes? This address of hers—881 Fifth Avenue—interests me.”
“Laura interests lots of men.”
“You’re trembling, Lenny. Your whole manner just changed.”
Littell said, “What are you talk—?”
Kemper cut him off. “Is she in her early thirties? Tall, brunette, freckles?”
> “That sounds like Laura, yes.”
“I saw Joe Kennedy give her a diamond broach and at least fifty thousand dollars. That looks to me like he’s sleeping with her.”
Lenny laughed. His smile said, Oh, you heathen.
Kemper said, “Tell me about her.”
“No. She’s got nothing to do with the Teamsters’ Pension Fund or anything illegal.”
“You’re reverting, Lenny. You’re not coming off like the hard boy that took out Tony Iannone. You’re starting to sound like a little fairy with a squeaky voice.”
Lenny went instant baritone. “Is this better, Mr. Boyd?”
“Save the wit for your lounge engagements. Who is she?”
“I don’t have to tell you that.”
Kemper smiled. “You’re a homosexual and a murderer. You have no rights. You’re a Federal informant, and the Chicago FBI owns you.”
Littell felt queasy. His heartbeat did funny little things.
Kemper said, “Who is she?”
Lenny came on hard butch. “This is not FBI-approved. If it was there’d be stenographers and paperwork. This is some sort of private thing with you two. And I won’t say a goddamned thing that might hurt Jack Kennedy.”
Kemper pulled out a morgue glossy and forced it on Lenny. Littell saw the dead boy with his mouth stuffed full.
Lenny shuddered. Lenny put on an instant rough-trade face.
“So? So this is supposed to scare me?”
“Giancana did this, Lenny. He thought this man killed Tony Iannone. One word from us, and this will be you.”
Littell grabbed the snapshot. “Let’s hold back a second. You’ve made your point.”
Kemper steered him into the dining room. Kemper pressed him into a cabinet with his fingertips.
“Don’t ever contradict me in front of a suspect.”
“Kemper …”
“Hit him.”
“Kemper—”
“Hit him. Make him afraid of you.”
Littell said, “I can’t. Goddamnit, don’t do this to me.”
“Hit him, or I’ll call Giancana and rat him off right now.”
“No. Come on … please.”
Kemper handed him brass knuckles. Kemper made him lace his fingers in.
“Hit him, Ward. Hit him, or I’ll let Giancana kill him.”
Littell trembled. Kemper slapped him. Littell stumbled over to Lenny and weaved in front of him.
Lenny smiled this preposterous pseudo-tough-guy smile. Littell balled his fist and hit him.
Lenny clipped an end table and went down spitting teeth. Kemper threw a sofa cushion at him.
“Who’s Laura Hughes? Tell me in detail.”
Littell dropped the knucks. His hand throbbed and went numb.
“I said, ‘Who’s Laura Hughes?’ ”
Lenny nuzzled the cushion. Lenny spat out a chunk of gold bridgework.
“I said, ‘Who’s Laura Hughes?’ ”
Lenny coughed and cleared his throat. Lenny took a big let’s-get-this-over-with breath.
He said, “She’s Joe Kennedy’s daughter. Her mother’s Gloria Swanson.”
Littell shut his eyes. The Q&A made absolutely no—
Kemper said, “Keep going.”
“How far? I’m the only one outside the family who knows.”
Kemper said, “Keep going.”
Lenny took another breath. His lip was split up to his nostrils.
“Mr. Kennedy supports Laura. Laura loves him and hates him. Gloria Swanson hates Mr. Kennedy because he cheated her out of lots of money when he was a movie producer. She disowned Laura years ago, and that’s all the ‘keep going’ I’ve got, goddamn you.”
Littell opened his eyes. Lenny picked up the end table and flopped into a chair.
Kemper twirled the knucks on one finger. “Where did she get the name Hughes?”
“From Howard Hughes. Mr. Kennedy hates Hughes, so Laura took the name to annoy him.”
Littell closed his eyes. He started seeing things he wasn’t conjuring up.
“Ask Mr. Sands a question, Ward.”
An image flickered out—Lenny with his phallus-shaped pen.
“Ward, open your eyes and ask Mr. Sands a—”
Littell opened his eyes and took his glasses off. The room went soft and blurry.
“I saw you arguing with Mad Sal outside the church. What was that about?”
Lenny worked a tooth loose. “I tried to quit the junket gig.”
“Why?”
“Because Sal’s poison. Because he’s poison like you are.”
He sounded I’m-a-snitch-now resigned.
“But he didn’t let you quit?”
“No. I told him I’d work with him for six months tops, if he’s still …”
Kemper twirled his knucks. “If he’s still what?”
“Still fucking alive.”
He sounded calm. He sounded like an actor who just figured out his role.
“Why wouldn’t he be?”
“Because he’s a degenerate gambler. Because he owes Sam G. twelve grand, and a contract’s going out if he doesn’t pay it back.”
Littell put his glasses on. “I want you to stick with Sal, and let me worry about his debts.”
Lenny wiped his mouth on the cushion. That one knuck shot cut him a brand-new harelip.
Kemper said, “Answer Mr. Littell.”
Lenny said, “Oh yes, yes, Mr. Littell, sir”—arch-ugly-faggot inflected.
Kemper slipped the knucks into his waistband. “Don’t tell Laura Hughes about this. And don’t tell anybody about our arrangement.”
Lenny stood up, knock-kneed. “I wouldn’t dream of it.”
Kemper winked. “You’ve got panache, son. And I know a magazine man in L.A. who could use an insider like you.”
Lenny pushed his lip flaps together. Littell sent up a prayer: Please let me sleep through this night with no dreams.
DOCUMENT INSERT: 1/16/59. Official FBI telephone call transcript: “Recorded at the Director’s Request”/“Classified Confidential 1-A: Director’s Eyes Only.” Speaking: Director Hoover, Special Agent Kemper Boyd.
JEH: Good morning, Mr. Boyd.
KB: Sir, good morning.
JEH: We have an excellent connection. Are you nearby?
KB: I’m at a restaurant on Northeast “I” Street.
JEH: I see. The Committee offices are close by, so I imagine you’re hard at work for Little Brother.
KB: I am, Sir. At least cosmetically.
JEH: Update me, please.
KB: I convinced Little Brother to send me back to Miami. I told him that I could depose some Sun Valley land fraud witnesses, and in fact I did bring back some inconclusive depositions.
JEH: Continue.
KB: My real motive in traveling to Florida was to accrue information for you on the Gretzler and Kirpaski matters. You’ll be pleased to know that I checked in with both the Miami and Lake Weir Police Departments and learned that both cases have been moved to open file status. I consider that a tacit admission that both homicides will remain unsolved.
JEH: Excellent. Now update me on the brothers.
KB: The Committee’s labor racketeering mandate expires in ninety days. The paperwork forwarding process is now in the compilation stage, and I’ll be sending you carbons of every piece of salient memoranda sent to our target grand juries. And, again, Sir, my opinion is that Jimmy Hoffa is legally inviolate at this time.
JEH: Continue.
KB: Big Brother has been calling legitimate labor leaders allied with the Democratic Party, to assure them that the trouble that Little Brother has stirred up with Hoffa does not mean that he is anti-labor overall. My understanding is that he will announce his candidacy in early January of next year.
JEH: And you remain certain that the brothers do not suspect the Bureau of collusion in the Darleen Shoftel matter?
KB: I’m certain, Sir. Pete Bondurant’s girlfriend informed Little Brother of the Hu
sh-Hush piece, and Ward Littell exposed both our primary bug and Bondurant’s secondary bug independent of her.
JEH: I heard the Brothers’ father made Howard Hughes eat crow.
KB: That’s true, Sir.
JEH: Hush-Hush has been lackluster lately. The advance peeks that Mr. Hughes has been sending me have been quite tame.
KB: I’ve been staying in touch with Pete Bondurant on general principles, and I think I’ve found him a Hollywood-connected man he could use as a stringer.
JEH: If my bedtime reading improves, I’ll know you’ve succeeded.
KB: Yes, Sir.
JEH: We have Ward Littell to thank for that entire Big Brother snafu.
KB: I passed through Chicago and saw Littell two days ago, Sir.
JEH: Continue.
KB: I had initially thought that his THP expulsion might push him toward taking anti-Mob actions on his own, so I decided to check up on him.
JEH: And?
KB: And my concerns were groundless. Littell seems to be suffering his Red Squad work in silence, and the only change of habit that I could detect was that he’s begun an affair with Tom Agee’s daughter Helen.
JEH: An affair of a sexual nature?
KB: Yes, Sir.
JEH: Is the girl of age?
KB: She’s twenty-one, Sir.
JEH: I want you to keep an eye on Littell.
KB: I will, Sir. And while I have you, could I bring up a tangential matter?
JEH: Certainly.
KB: It involves the Cuban political situation.
JEH: Continue.
KB: In the course of my Florida visits I’ve met several pro-Batista and pro-Castro Cuban refugees. Now, apparently Castro is going Communist. I’ve learned that undesirables of varying political stripes will be expelled from Cuba and granted asylum in the U.S., with most of them settling in Miami. Would you like information on them?
JEH: Do you have an information source?
KB: Yes, Sir.
JEH: But you’d rather not reveal it?
KB: Yes, Sir.