L Littell got off the train and checked for tails.
The arrivals and departures looked normal--just Notre Dame kids and anxious parents. Some cheerleaders shivered--shortskirted pompom girls out in ten-degree weather.
The crowd dispersed. No platform loiterers stuck close to him. In a phrase: The Phantom sees phantoms.
Tail sightings were a probable booze-by-product. The clicks on his phone line were most likely overactive nerves.
He'd dismantled his two phones. He found no wiretap apparatus. The Mob couldn't rig outside outside taps--only police agencies could. That man watching him and Mal Chamales last week-probably just a barfly tweaked by their left-of-center conversation. taps--only police agencies could. That man watching him and Mal Chamales last week-probably just a barfly tweaked by their left-of-center conversation.
Littell hit the station lounge and knocked back three rye-andbeers. Christmas dinner with Susan mandated fortification.Amenities dragged. Talk bounced between safe topics.
Susan tensed when he hugged her. Helen steered clear of his hands. Claire had grown into a distaff Kemper--the resemblance had solidified amazingly.
Susan never addressed him by name. Claire called him "Ward baby"--Helen said she was in a Rat Pack phase. Susan smoked like her mother now--straight down to match flicks and exhales.
Her apartment mimicked Margaret's: too many porcelain knickknacks and too much stiff furniture.
Claire played Sinatra records. Susan served diluted eggnog-- Helen must have told her that her father drank to excess.
He said he hadn't heard from Kemper in months. Claire smiled--she knew all her father's secrets. Susan laid out dinner: Margaret's boring glazed ham and sweet potatoes.
They sat down. Littell bowed his head and offered a prayer.
"O heavenly Father, we ask thy blessing on all of us, and on our absent friends. I commend to you the souls of three men recently departed, whose deaths were caused by arrogant if heartfelt attempts to facilitate justice. I ask you to bless all of us on this sacred day and in the year to come."
Susan rolled her eyes and said "Amen." Claire carved the ham; Helen poured wine.
The girls got full glasses. He got a splash. It was cheap Cabernet Sauvignon.
Claire said, "My Dad's proposing to his mistress tonight. Let's hear it for my Dad and my nifty new mom, who's only nine and a half years older than me."
Littell almost gagged. Social climber Kemper as secret Kennedy in-law-- Susan said, "Claire, really. 'Mistress' and 'nifty' in the same sentence?"
Claire made cat claws. "You forgot to mention the age difference. How could you? We both know that age gaps are your pet peeve."
Helen groaned. Susan pushed her plate aside and lit a cigarette.
Littell filled his glass. Claire said, "Ward baby, assess the three of us as attorneys."
Littell smiled. "It's not hard. Susan prosecutes misdemeanors, Helen defends wayward FBI men, and Claire goes into corporate law to finance her father's expensive tastes in his old age."
Helen and Claire laughed. Susan said, "I don't appreciate being defined by pettiness."
Littell gulped wine. "You can join the Bureau, Susie. I'll be retiring in a year and twenty-one days, and you can take my place and torment pathetic leftists for Mr. Hoover."
"I wouldn't characterize Communists as pathetic, Father. And I don't think you could support your bar tab on a twenty-year pension."
Claire flinched. Helen said, "Susan, please."
Littell grabbed the bottle. "Maybe I'll go to work for John F. Kennedy. Maybe he'll be elected President. His brother hates organized crime more than Communists, so maybe it runs in the family."
Susan said, "I can't believe you place common hoodlums in the same league as a political system that has enslaved half the world. I can't believe that you could be hoodwinked by a fatuous liberal politician whose father intends to buy him the presidency."
"Kemper Boyd likes him."
"Excuse me, Father, and excuse me, Claire, but Kemper Boyd worships money, and we all know that John F Kennedy has plenty of that."
Claire ran out of the room. Littell flat-guzzled wine.
"Communists don't castrate innocent men. Communists don't hook up car batteries to people's genitals and electrocute them. Communists don't drop TV sets into bathtubs or--"
Helen ran out. Susan said, "Father, goddamn you for your weakness."He called in accumulated sick leave and holed up through New Year's. The A&P delivered food and liquor.
Law school finals kept Helen away. They talked on the phone--mostly petty chitchat and sighs. He heard occasional clicks on the line and wrote them off to nerves.
Kemper didn't call or write. The man was ignoring him.
He read Bobby Kennedy's book about the Hoffa wars. The story thrilled him. Kemper Boyd did not appear in the text.
He watched the Rose Bowl and Cotton Bowl on TV. He eulogized Icepick Tony Iannone--dead one year ago exactly.
Exactly four rye-and-beers induced euphoria. He fantasized an exact form of courage: the will to move on Jules Schiffrin and the Fund books.
More liquor killed the notion. To moye meant to sacrifice lives. His courage was weakness pushed into grandiosity.
He watched John Kennedy announce his Presidential candidacy. The Senate Caucus Room was packed with his supporters.
Cameras cut to a picket line outside. Teamsters chanted: "Hey, hey, ho, ho, Kennedy says 'Labor NO!'"
A reporter spoke voice-over: "A Florida grand jury has Teamster president James R. Hoffa under close scrutiny. He is suspected of feluny land fraud in matters pertaining to the Teamsters' Sun Valley development."
An insert shot caught Hoffa laughing off Sun Valley.
Littell juxtaposed words: Pete, kill some men for me, will ya?
Father, goddamn you for your weakness.
40
(Tampa, 2/1/60)
J Jack Ruby said, "I am desperate. That well-known indigent Sal D. owed me a bundle when he died, and the IRS is climbing up my you-know-what for back payments I ain't got. I'm overextended on my club, Sam already turned me down, and you know I am a great friend to the Cuban Cause. A pal and me brought strippers down to entertain the boys in Blessington, which was strictly voluntary on my part and has nothing to do with the request I just made."
Santo Junior sat at his desk. Ruby stood in front of it. Three fat German shepherds drooped off the couch.
Pete watched Ruby grovel. The office stunk: Santo gave his dogs free run of the furniture.
Ruby said, "I am desperate. I am here before you like a supplicant before his local pontiff."
Trafficante said, "No. You brought some girls down when I was locked up in Havana, but that is not ten grand's worth of collateral. I can let you have a thousand out of my pocket, but that's it."
Ruby stuck his hand out. Santo greased him with C-notes off a flash roll. Pete got up and opened the door.
Ruby walked out fondling the money. Santo spritzed cologne on the spot where he stood groveling.
"That man is rumored to have strange sexual tastes. He could give you diseases that would put cancer to shame. Now, tell me some good things, because I don't like to start my day with beggars."
Pete said, "Profits went up 2% in December and January. I think Wilfredo Delsol's okay on his cousin, and I don't think he'd ever rat off the Cadre. Nobody's stealing from us, and I think the Obregon thing put a good little scare out."
"Somebody's fucking up, or you wouldn't've asked to see me."
"Fulo's been running whores. He's got them turning tricks for five-dollar pops and candy bars. He's turning over all the money, but I still think it's bad business."
Trafficante said, "Make him stop."
Pete sat on the edge of the couch. King Tut put out a cursory growl.
"Lockhart and his Klan buddies built a social club down the road from the campsite, and now they're tallcing about lynching spooks. On top of that, Lockhart's pals with that Dallas cop guy J.D. that drove down here with Ruby. Chuck Rogers wants to take J.D. up in his plane and drop some hate leaflets. He's talking about saturation-bombing South Florida."
Trafficante slapped his desk blotter. "Make this foolishness stop."
"I will."
"You didn't have to run this by me."
"Kemper thinks all discipline should initiate with you. He wants the men to think we're labor as opposed to management."
"Kemper's a subtle guy."
Pete stroked King Farouk and King Arthur. Fucking King Tut evileyed him.
"He's every bit of subtle."
"Castro turned my casinos into pigsties. He lets goats shit on the carpets my wife picked out personally."
Pete said, "He'll pay."He drove back to Miami. The cabstand was packed with loafers: Lockhart, Fulo, and the whole fucking Cadre.
Minus Chuck Rogers--up in his airplane dropping hate bombs.
Pete shut down the stand and laid down The Law. He called it the Declaration of Cadre Non-Independence and the New KKK Bill of Non-Rights.
No pimping. No robbery. No flim-flam. No B&E. No extortion. No hijacking.
No lynching. No nigger assaults. No church bombings. No racial shit directed at Cubans.
The Blessington Klan's specific mandate: Love all Cubans. Leave them alone. Fuck up anybody who fucks with your new Cuban brethren.
Lockhart called the mandate quasi-genocidal. Pete cracked his knuckles. Lockhart shut his mouth.
The huddle broke up. Jack -Ruby came by and begged a ride-- his carburetor blew, and he needed to run his girls down to Blessington.
Pete said okay. The girls wore capris and halter tops--things could be worse.
Ruby rode up front. J.D. Tippit and the strippers rode in the back of the truck. Rain clouds were brewing--if a storm hit, they were screwed.
Pete took two-lane roadways south. He played the radio to keep Ruby quiet. Chuck Rogers flew down from deep nowhere and spun tree-level backflips.
The girls cheered. Chuck dropped a six-pack; J.D. caught it. Hate leaflets blew down--Pete plucked one out of the air.
"Six Reasons Why Jesus Was Pro-Klan." #1 set the tone: because Commies fluoridated the Red Sea.
Ruby eyeballed the scenery. Tippit and the girls guzzled beer. Chuck blew off his flight pattern and brick-bombed a nigger church.
The radio signal faded. Ruby started whining.
"Santo don't possess the world's longest memory. Santo stiffs me with one-tenth of what I asked him for 'cause his memory's nine-tenths on the blink. Santo don't understand the tsuris I went through bringing those ladies down to Havana. Sure the Beard was giving him grief. But he didn't have no crazy Fed from Chicago leeching onto him."
Pete snapped to. "What Fed from Chicago?"
"I don't know his name. I only met him in the flesh once, praise Allah."
"Describe him."
"Maybe six foot one, maybe forty-six or -seven years of age. Glasses, thin gray hair, and a boozer in my considered opinion, since the one time I met him face-to-face he had whisky on his breath."
The road dipped. Pete hit the brakes and almost stalled the truck out.
"Tell me how he leeched onto you."
"Why? Give me one good reason why I should share this abuse with you."
"I'll give you a thousand dollars to tell me the story. If I like the story, I'll give you four more."
Ruby counted on his fingers--one to five a half dozen times.
Pete tapped a little tune on the wheel. The beat ran 1-2-3-4-5.
Ruby lip-synched numbers: 1-2-3-4-5, 1-2-3-4-5.