He grabbed it and threw some change down. The barman said, "Don't we want our beer?"Littell drove to the office and typed up a tail report. He chewed a roll of Clorets to kill his liquor breath.
He omitted mention of his beverage intake and his blunder at Hernando's Hideaway. He stressed the basic gist: that Lenny Sands might have a secret homosexual life. This might prove to be a recruitment wedge: he was obviously hiding that life from his Mob associates.
Lenny never noticed him. So far, his tail stood uncompromised.
Court Meade rapped on his cubicle screen. "You've got a longdistance call, Ward. A man named Boyd in Miami on line 2."
Littell picked up. "Kemper, hi. What are you doing back in Florida?"
"Working at cross-purposes for Bobby and Mr. Hoover, but don't tell anyone."
"Are you getting results?"
"Well, people keep approaching me, and Bobby's witnesses keep disappearing, so I'd have to call it a toss-up. Ward..."
"You need a favor."
"Actually, two."
Littell leaned his chair back. "I'm listening."
Boyd said, "Helen's flying into Chicago tonight. United flight 84, New Orleans to Midway. She gets in at 5:10. Will you pick her up and take her to her hotel?"
"Of course. And I'll take her to dinner, too. Jesus, that's lastminute but great."
Boyd laughed. "That's our Helen, an impetuous traveler. Ward, do you remember that man Roland Kirpaski?"
"Kemper, I saw him three days ago."
"Yes, you did. In any event, he's allegedly down in Florida, but I can't seem to find him. He was supposed to call Bobby and report on Hoffa's Sun Valley scheme, but he hasn't called, and he left his hotel last night and hasn't returned."
"Do you want me to go by his house and talk to his wife?"
"Yes, if you wouldn't mind. If you get anything pertinent, leave a coded message with Communications in D.C. I haven't found a hotel here yet, but I'll check in with them to see if you've called."
"What's the address?"
"It's 818 South Wabash. Roland's probably off on a toot with some bimbo, but it can't hurt to see if he's called home. And Ward?"
"I know. I'll remember who you're working for and play it close to the vest."
"Thanks."
"You're welcome. And by the way, I saw a man today who's as good a role player as you are."
Boyd said, "That's impossible."Mary Kirpaski rushed him inside. The house was overfurnished and way overheated.
Littell took off his overcoat. The woman almost pushed him into the kitchen.
"Roland always calls home every night. He said if he didn't call on this trip, I should cooperate with the authorities and show them his notebook."
Littell smelled cabbage and boiled meat. "I'm not with the McClellan Committee, Mrs. Kirpaski. I haven't really worked with your husband."
"But you know Mr. Boyd and Mr. Kennedy."
"I know Mr. Boyd. He's the one who asked me to check on you."
She'd chewed her nails bloody. Her lipstick was applied way off-center.
"Roland didn't call last night. He kept this notebook on Mr. Hoffa's doings, and he didn't take it to Washington because he wanted to talk to Mr. Kennedy before he agreed to testify."
"What notebook?"
"It's a list of Mr. Hoffa's Chicago phone calls, with dates and everything like that. Roland said he stole the phone bills of some of Mr. Hoffa's friends because Mr. Hoffa was afraid to call long distance from his hotel, because he thought his phone might be tapped."
"Mrs. Kirpaski..."
She grabbed a binder off the breakfast table. "Roland would be so mad if I didn't show it to the authorities."
Littell opened the binder. Page 1 listed names and phone numbers, neatly arranged in columns.
Mary Kirpaski crowded up to him. "Roland called up the phone companies in all the different cities and found out who the numbers belonged to. I think he impersonated policemen or something like that."
Littell flipped pages front to back. Roland Kirpaski printed legibly and neatly.
Several "calls received" names were familiar: Sam Giancana, Carlos Marcello, Anthony Iannone, Santo Trafficante Jr. One name was familiar and scary: Peter Bondurant, 949 Mapleton Drive, Los Angeles.
Hoffa called Big Pete three times recently: 11/25/58, 12/1/58, 12/2/58.
Bondurant snapped manacles bare-handed. He allegedly killed people for ten thousand dollars and plane fare.
Mary Kirpaski was fondling rosary beads. She smelled like Vicks VapoRub and cigarettes.
"Ma'am, could I use the phone?"
She pointed to a wall extension. Littell pulled the cord to the far end of the kitchen.
She left him alone. Littell heard a radio snap on one room over.
He dialed the long-distance operator. She put him through to the security desk at L.A. International Airport.
A man answered. "Sergeant Donaldson, may I help you?"
"This is Special Agent Littell, Chicago FBI. I need an expedite on some reservation information."
"Yes, sir. Tell me what you need."
"I need you to query the airlines that fly Los Angeles to Miami round-thp. I'm looking for reservations going out on either December the eighth, ninth or tenth, and returning any time after that. I'm looking for a reservation under the name Peter Bondurant, spelled B-O-N-D-U-R-A-N-T, or reservations charged to the Hughes Tool Company or Hughes Aircraft. If you turn up positive on any of that, and the reservation is in a man's name, I need a physical description of the man either picking up his ticket or boarding the airplane."
"Sir, that last part is needle-in-a-haystack stuff."
"I don't think so. My suspect is a male Caucasian in his late thirties, and he's about six-foot-five and very powerfully built. If you see him, you don't forget him."
"I copy. Do you want me to call you back?"
"I'll hold. If you don't get me anything in ten minutes, come back on the line and take my number."
"Yes, sir. You hold now. I'll get right on this."
Littell held the line. An image held him: Big Pete Bondurant crucified. The kitchen cut through it: cramped, hot, saints' days marked on a parish calendar-- Eight minutes crawled by. The sergeant came back on the line, excited.
"Mr. Littell?"
"Yes."
"Sir, we hit. I didn't think we would, but we did."
Littell got out his notebook. "Tell me."
"American Airlines flight 104, Los Angeles to Miami. It left L.A. at 8:00 a.m. yesterday, December 10th, and arrived in Miami at 4:10 p.m. The reservation was made under the name Thomas Peterson and was charged to Hughes Aircraft. I talked to the agent who issued the ticket, and she remembered that man you described. You were right, you don't forget--"
"Is there a return reservation?"
"Yes, sir. American flight 55. It arrives in Los Angeles at 7:00 a.m. tomorrow morning."
Littell felt dizzy. He cracked a window for some alt "Sir, are you there?"
Littell cut the man off and dialed 0. A cold breeze flooded the kitchen.
"Operator."
"I need Washington, D.C. The number is KL4-8801."
"Yes, sir, just one minute."
The call went through fast. A man said, "Communications, Special Agent Reynolds."
"This is Special Agent Littell in Chicago. I need to transmit a message to SA Kemper Boyd in Miami."
"Is he with the Miami office?"
"No, he's on a detached assignment. I need you to transmit the message to the Miami SAC and have him locate SA Boyd. I think it's a matter of a hotel check, and if it wasn't so urgent, I'd do it myself."
"This is irregular, but I don't see why we can't do it. What's your message?"
Littell spoke slowly. "Have circumstantial and suppositional-- underline those two words--evidence that J.H. hired our old oversized French confrere to eliminate Committee witness R.K. Our confrere leaves Miami late tonight, American flight 55. Call me in Chicago for details. Urge that you inform Robert K. immediately. Sign it W.J.L."
The agent repeated the message. Littell heard Mary Kirpaski sobbing just outside the kitchen door.Helen's flight was late. Littell waited in a cocktail lounge near the gate.
He rechecked the phone call list. His instinct held firm: Pete Bondurant killed Roland Kirpaski.
Kemper mentioned a dead witness named Gretzler. If he could connect the man to Bondurant, TWO murder charges might fly.
Littell sipped rye and beer. He kept checking the back wall mirror to gauge his appearance.
His work clothes looked wrong. His glasses and thinning hair didn't jibe with them.
The rye burned; the beer tickled. Two men walked up to his table and grabbed him.
They jerked him upright. They clamped down on his elbows. They steered him back to an enclosed phone bank.
It was swift and sure--no civilian patrons caught it.
The men pinned his arms back. Chick Leahy stepped out of a shadow and got right up in his face.
Littell felt his knees go. The men propped him up on his toes.
Leahy said, "Your message to Kemper Boyd was intercepted. You could have violated his cover on the incursion. Mr. Hoover does not want to see Robert Kennedy aided, and Peter Bondurant is a valued colleague of Howard Hughes, who is a great friend of Mr. Hoover and the Bureau. Do you know what fully fully coded messages are, Mr. Littell?" coded messages are, Mr. Littell?"
Littell blinked. His glasses fell off. Everything went blurry.
Leahy jabbed his chest, hard. "You're off the THP and back on the Red Squad as of now. And I strongly urge you not to protest."
One man grabbed his notebook. The other man said, "You reek of liquor."
They elbowed him aside and walked out. The whole thing took thirty seconds.
His arms hurt. His glasses were scratched and dented. He couldn't quite breathe or stay balanced on his feet.
He swerved back to his table. He choked down rye and beer and leveled his shakes out.
His glasses fit crooked. He checked out his new mirror image: the world's most ineffectual workingman.
An intercom boomed, "United flight 84 from New Orleans is now arriving."
Littell finished his drinks and chased them with two Clorets. He walked over to the gate and bucked passengers up to the jetway.
Helen saw him and dropped her bags. Her hug almost knocked him down.
People stepped around them. Littell said, "Hey, let me see you."
Helen looked up. Her head grazed his chin--she'd grown tall.
"You look wonderful."
"It's Max Factor number-four blush. It does wonders for my scars."
"What scars?"