He EXTRAPOLATED:
The odd numbers were loan investment profits, tallied in over and above payback interest.
Eyestrain made him stop. Three quick shots of scotch refueled him.
He got a brainstorm:
Look for Hoffa’s Sun Valley skim money.
He scanned columns with a pencil. He linked the dots: mid ’56 to mid ’57 and ten symbols to spell “Jimmy Hoffa.”
He found 1.2 and 1.8—hypothetically Bobby Kennedy’s “spooky” three million. He found five symbols, six, and five in a perfectly intersecting column.
5, 6, 5 = James Riddle Hoffa.
Hoffa laughed off the Sun Valley charges. With valid assurance: his chicanery was very well cloaked.
Littell skimmed the books and picked out odd totals. Tiny zeros extended—the Fund was billionaire rich.
Double vision set in. He corrected it with a magnifying glass.
He quick-scanned the books again. Identical numbers kept recurring—in four-figure brackets.
[1408]—over and over.
Littell went through the brown books page by page. He found twenty-one 1408s—including two next to the Spooky Three Million. Quick addition gave him a total: forty-nine million dollars lent out or borrowed. Mr. 1408 was well-heeled either way.
He checked the black book initial column. It was alphabetically arranged and entered in Jules Schiffrin’s neat block printing.
It was 9:00 a.m. He had five hours of study in.
The “Loan %” subhead tweaked him. He saw “B-E” straight down the graph—the number/letter code decoded to 25%.
He EXTRAPOLATED:
The initials tagged Pension Fund lenders—repaid at a fat but not brutal rate.
He checked the “Transfer #” column. The listings were strictly uniform: initials and six digits, no more.
He EXTRAPOLATED:
The initials were bank account numbers—repaid mobster money laundered clean. Said initials all ended in B—most likely short for the word “branch.”
Littell copied over letters on a scratch pad.
BOABHB = Bank of America, Beverly Hills branch. HSALMBB = Home Savings & Loan, Miami Beach branch.
It worked.
He was able to form known bank names out of every set of letters.
He jumped columns tracing 1408. Right there on the money: JPK, SR/SFNBB/811512404.
SFN meant Security-First National. BB could mean Buffalo branch, Boston branch, or other B-city branches.
The SR probably denoted a “Senior.” Why the added designation?
Just above JPK, SR: JPK [1693] BOADB. The man was a piker compared to 1408: he lent the Fund a paltry $6.4 million.
The added SR was simply to distinguish the lender from someone with the same initials.
JPK, SR [1408] SFNBB/811512404. One filthy-rich money-lending—
Stop.
Stop right there.
JPK, SR.
Joseph P. Kennedy, Senior.
BB for Boston branch.
August ’59—Sid Kabikoff talking to Mad Sal:
“I knew Jules way back when”/“when he was SELLING DOPE and USING THE PROFITS to finance movies with RKO back when JOE KENNEDY owned it.”
Stop. Make the call. Impersonate a Bureau hard-on and confirm it or refute it.
Littell dialed O. He dripped sweat all over the telephone.
An operator came on. “What number, please?”
“I want the Security-First National Bank, in Boston, Massachusetts.”
“One moment, sir. Til look the number up and connect you.”
Littell held the line. Adrenaline hit: he went dizzy and parched.
A man answered. “Security-First National.”
“This is Special Agent Johnson, FBI. Let me speak to the manager, please.”
“Please hold. I’ll transfer you.”
Littell heard connection clicks. A man said, “This is Mr. Carmody. May I help you?”
“Th-this is Special Agent Johnson, FBI. I have an account number at your bank here, and I need to know who it belongs to.”
“Is this an official request? It’s a Sunday, and I’m here overseeing our monthly inventory—”
“This is an official request. I can get a bank writ, but I’d rather not put you to the trouble of an in-person visit.”
“I see. Well … I guess.…”
Littell came on firm. “The number is 811512404.”
The man sighed. “Well, uh, the 404 listings denote safe-deposit-box storage accounts, so if you’re interested in balance figures, I’m afraid—”
“How many storage boxes are rented out to that account number?”
“Well, that account is quite familiar to me, because of its size. You see—”
“How many boxes?”
“An entire vault now of ninety.”
“Can valuables be transferred directly into that vault from outside sources?”
“Certainly. They could be placed in the boxes sight unseen, by second parties with access to the account holder’s password.”
Ninety stash boxes. Millions in Mob-laundered CASH—
“Who does that account number belong to?”
“Well …”
“Shall I get a writ?”
“Well, I …”
Littell almost shouted it. “Is the account holder Joseph P. Kennedy Sr.?”
“Well … uh … yes.”
“The senator’s father?”
“Yes, the senator’s—”
The phone slipped out of his hand. Littell kicked it across the room.
The black book. Mr. 1408, millionaire loan shark.
He went back over the numbers and confirmed it. He triple-checked every digit until his vision blurred.
Yes: Joe Kennedy lent the Fund Sun Valley seed money. Yes: The Fund lent the money out to James Riddle Hoffa.
Sun Valley constituted felony land fraud. Sun Valley spawned two Pete Bondurant killings: Anton Gretzler and Roland Kirpaski.
Littell tracked 1408s across paper. He saw continuous commas—and no cash-out bottom-line one-time profit.
Joe only took interest out. Joe’s base loan sums stayed liquid inside the Fund.
Growing.
Laundered, hidden, obfuscated, tax-sheltered and funneled—
disbursed to labor thugs, dope pushers, shylocks and mobbed-up fascist dictators.
The all-code books contained specifics. He could crack the code and know exactly where the money went.
My secrets, Bobby—I’ll never let you hate your father.
Littell went eight drinks over his limit. He passed out shouting numbers.
54
(Hyannis Port, 11/8/60)
Jack stood a million votes up and way ahead in the electoral. Nixon gouged at his lead—the Midwest looked problematic.
Kemper watched three TVs and juggled four phones. His motel room was one big cable socket—the Secret Service demanded multiple lines in and out.
The red phone was his personal line. The two white phones hooked in direct to the Kennedy compound. The blue phone linked the Secret Service to the almost-President-elect.
It was 11:35 p.m.
CBS called Illinois tight. NBC said “Cliffhanger!” ABC said Jack would win, with 51% of the vote.
Kemper checked the window. Secret Service men mingled outside—they’d booked up the entire motel complex.
White phone #2 rang. It was Bobby, with complaints.
A journalist pole-vaulted into the compound. A hot rod sporting Nixon banners plowed the main house lawn.
Kemper called two off-duty cops and sent them over. He told them to beat up all trespassers and impound their vehicles.
The red phone rang. It was Santo Junior, with Mob scuttlebutt.
He said, Illinois looks dicey. He said, Sam G. threw some weight to help Jack.
Lenny Sands was out stuffing ballot boxes. He had a hundred aldermen helping him. Jack should blitz Cook County and eke out a statewide win by
a nun’s-cunt-hair margin.
Kemper hung up. The red phone rang again. It was Pete, with more secondhand gossip.
He said Mr. Hoover called Mr. Hughes. Mr. Hughes told Pete that Marilyn Monroe was quite naughty.
The Feds had her hot-wired. During the past two weeks she banged disc jockey Allan Freed, Billy Eckstine, Freddy Otash, Rin Tin Tin’s trainer, Jon “Ramar of the Jungle” Hall, her pool cleaner, two pizza delivery boys, talk-show man Tom Duggan and her maid’s husband—but no Senator John F. Kennedy.
Kemper laughed and hung up. CBS judged the race “too close to call.”
ABC retracted its prediction. The race was now “too close to call.”
White phone #1 rang.
Kemper picked up. “Bob?”
“It’s me. I just called to say we’re way ahead in the electoral, and Illinois and Michigan should put us over. The Hughes loan thing helped, Kemper. Your ‘unnamed source’ should know that it was a factor.”
“You don’t sound too elated.”
“I won’t believe it until it’s final. And a friend of Dad’s just died. He was younger than him, so he’s taking it hard.”
“Anybody I know?”
“Jules Schiffrin. I think you met him a few years ago. He had a heart attack in Wisconsin. He came home and found his house burglarized, and just keeled over. A friend of Dad’s in Lake Geneva called—”
“Lake Geneva?”
“Right. North of Chicago. Kemper …”
The Littell assault location. Schiffrin: a Chicago-based gonif type.
“Kemper …”
“I’m sorry. I was distracted.”
“I was going to say something …”
“About Laura?”
“How did you know that?”
“You never come off hesitant unless it’s about Laura.”
Bobby cleared his throat. “Call her. Tell her we’d appreciate it if she didn’t contact the family for a while. I’m sure she’ll understand.”
Court Meade said Littell vanished. It was circumstantial, but—
“Kemper, are you listening to me?”
“Yes.”
“Call Laura. Be kind, but be firm.”
“I’ll do it.”
Bobby hung up. Kemper placed a red phone call through the switchboard: Chicago, BL8-4908.
It went through. He heard two rings and two very faint tap-clicks.
Littell said, “Hello?”
Kemper covered the mouthpiece.
Littell said, “Is that you, Boyd? Are you coming back into my life because you’re scared, or because you think I might have something you want?”
Kemper disconnected.
Ward J. Littell—Jesus Fucking Christ.
55
(Miami, 11/9/60)
Guy Banister screeched long-distance. Pete felt an earache coming on.
“We’re looking at a new papist hegemony. He loves niggers and Jews, and he’s been soft-line on Communism since he was a congressman. I can’t believe he won. I can’t believe the American people bought his line of bull—”
“Get to it, Guy. You said J.D. Tippit picked up something.”
Banister de-throttled his spiel. “I forgot I called you for a reason. And I forgot you were soft-line on Kennedy.”
Pete said, “I like his hair. It gets my dick hard.”
Banister re-throttled. Pete cut him off quick.
“It’s 8:00 fucking a.m. I’ve got cab calls backed up and three drivers out sick. Tell me what you want.”
“I want Dick Nixon to demand a recount.”
“Guy—”
“All right, then. Boyd was supposed to tell you to talk to Wilfredo Delsol.”
“He did.”
“Did you talk to him?”
“No. I’ve been busy.”
“Tippit said he heard Delsol’s been seen with some Castro guys. A bunch of us think he should explain.”
“I’ll go see him.”
“You do that. And while you’re at it, try to develop some political brains.”
Pete laughed. “Jack’s a white man. I’ve got a big hard-on just thinking about his hair.”
Pete drove to Wilfredo’s pad and knocked on the door. Delsol opened up in his skivvies.
He was bleary-eyed. He was scrawny. He looked too sleepy to stand upright.
He shivered and plucked at his balls. He shook the cobwebs out of his head and caught on fast.
“Somebody told you something bad about me.”
“Keep going.”
“You only visit people in order to scare them.”
“That’s right. Or to ask them to explain some things.”
“Ask me, then.”
“You were seen talking to some pro-Castro guys.”
“That’s true.”
“So?”
“So they heard how my cousin Tomás died. They thought they could get me to betray the Cadre.”
“And?”
“And I told them I hated what happened to Tomás, but I hate Fidel Castro more.”
Pete leaned against the door. “You don’t much like speedboat runs.”
“Killing odd militiamen is futile.”
“Suppose you get assigned to an invasion group?”
“I’ll go.”
“Suppose I tell you to whack one of those guys you were seen talking to?”
“I would say Gaspar Blanco lives two blocks from here.”
Pete said, “Kill him.”
Pete cruised Niggertown—for the pure time-marking fuck of it. The radio ran election news exclusively.
Nixon conceded. Frau Nixon pitched some boo-hoo. Bad-Back Jack thanked his staff and announced that Frau Bad-Back was pregnant.
Nigger junkies were cliqued up by a shine stand. Fulo and Ramón drove up to service them. Chuck was trading bindles for signed-over welfare checks.
Jack talked up the New Frontier. Fulo dropped off a fat load of shit with the shoeshine man.
A local bulletin flashed on.
Shots fired outside Coral Gables bodega! Police ID dead man as one Gaspar Ramon Blanco!
Pete smiled. November 8, 1960, was an all-time classic day.
He stopped at Tiger Kab after lunch. Teo Paez had a parking-lot sale going: hot TVs for twenty scoots a pop.
The sets were hooked up to a battery pack. Jack the K beamed out of two dozen screens.
Pete mingled with potential buyers. Jimmy Hoffa popped out of the crowd, popping sweat on a nice cool day.
“Hi, Jimmy.”
“Don’t gloat. I know you and Boyd wanted that cunt-lapping faggot to win.”
“Don’t worry. He’ll put his kid brother on a tight leash.”
“As if that’s my only worry.”
“What do you mean?”
“I mean Jules Schiffrin’s dead. His place in Lake Geneva got clouted for some priceless fucking paintings, and some priceless fucking paperwork got lost in the process. Jules had a heart attack, and now our shit has probably been torched in some burglar’s fucking basement.”
LITTELL. 100% certifiably insane.
Pete started laughing.
Hoffa said, “What’s so fucking funny?”
Pete roared.
Hoffa said, “Stop laughing, you frog fuck.”
Pete couldn’t stop. Hoffa pulled a piece and shot Jack the Haircut six TV screens across.
56
(Washington, D.C., 11/13/60)
The mailman brought a special-delivery letter. It was postmarked Chicago and sent without a return address. Kemper opened the envelope. The one page inside was neatly typed.
I have the books. They are fail-safed against my death or disappearance in a dozen different ways. I will release them only to Robert Kennedy, if I am given a Kennedy Administration appointment within the next three months. The books are safely hidden. Hidden with them is an 83-page deposition, detailing my knowledge of your McClellan Committee-Kennedy incursion. I will destroy that deposition only if I am given a Kennedy A
dministration appointment. I remain fond of you, and am grateful for the lessons you taught me. At times, you acted with uncharacteristic selflessness and risked exposure of your many duplicitous relationships in an effort to help me achieve what I must fatuously describe as my manhood. That said, I will also state that I do not trust your motives regarding the books. I still consider you a friend, but I do not trust you one iota.
Kemper jotted a note to Pete Bondurant.
Forget about the Teamster books. Littell finessed us, and I’m beginning to rue the day I taught him some things. I made some discreet queries with the Wisconsin State Police, who are frankly baffled. I’ll supply forensic details the next time we talk. I think you’ll be grudgingly impressed. Enough pissing and moaning. Let’s depose Fidel Castro.
57
(Chicago, 12/8/60)
Wind rocked the car. Littell turned up the heat and pushed his seat back to stretch out.
His stakeout was strictly cosmetic. He might join the party himself—Mal would get a huge kick out of it.
It was a Bust the Blacklist bash. The Chicago Board of Ed had hired Mal Chamales to teach remedial math.
Guests walked up to the house. Littell recognized leftists with Red Squad sheets half a mile long.
A few waved to him. Mal said he might send his wife out with coffee and cookies.
Littell watched the house. Mal turned his Christmas lights on—the tree by the porch bloomed all blue and yellow.
He’d stay until 9:30. He’d write the bash up as a routine holiday soiree. Leahy would accept his assessment pro forma—their stalemate precluded direct confrontations.
His door-kicking episode and Lake Geneva time went unquestioned. He had thirty-nine days to go until his retirement. The Bureau’s no-confrontation policy would hold and see him through to civilian life.
He had the Fund books stashed in a bank vault in Duluth. He had two dozen cryptography texts at home. He had seventeen days logged in without an ounce of liquor.
He could send the Fund books to Bobby on a moment’s notice. He could delete Joe Kennedy’s name with a few swipes of a pencil.
Dead leaves strafed the windshield. Littell got out of the car and stretched his legs.
He saw men running up Mal’s driveway. He heard metal-on-metal pump-shotgun-slide noise.