DDP: You should invite Jack and Bobby and his racket squad guys to your place and poison them all.
PS: I should. Hey, you know my waitress, Deeleen?
DDP: Sure. I heard she plays skin clarinet with the best.
PS: She does. And she banged Jack Kennedy. She said he had this little piccolo dick.
DDP: The Irish ain't hung for shit. It's a well-known fact.
PS: Italian men have the biggest.
DDP: And the best.
PS: I heard Mo's hung like a mule.
DDP: Who told you?
PS: Mo himself.
Non-applicable conversation follows.
Newark, 5/1/62. Placement: Lou's Lucky Lounge pay phone Lou's Lucky Lounge pay phone. Number dialed: MU6-9441 (pay phone at Reuben's Delicatessen Reuben's Delicatessen, New York City). Caller: Herschel "Heshie" Ryskind (See THP file #887.8, Dallas Office). Person called: Morris Milton Weinshank (See THP file #400.5, New York City Office). Three minutes and one second of non-applicable conversation precedes the following.
MMW: We're all sorry you're sick, Hesh. We're all pulling for you and praying for you.
HR: I want to live long enough to see Sam G. kick Sinatra's skinny bantamweight tuchus from here to Palermo. Sinatra and some CIA shitheel convinced Sam and Santo that Jack the K. was kosher. Use your noggin and think, Morris. Think about Ike and Harry Truman and FDR. Did they give us grief like this?
MMW: They did not.
HR: I know it's Bobby and not Jack that's the instigator. But Jack knows the rules. Jack knows you can't sic your rabid dogs on people who did you favors.
MMW: Sam thought Frank had pull with the brothers. He thought he could get Jack to call Bobby off.
HR: Frank was dreaming. The, only pull Frank's got is with his putz. All Frank and that CIA guy Boyd want to do is suck the big Kennedy cock.
MMW: Jack and Bobby got nice hair.
HR: Which somebody should part with a forty-five caliber dum-dum.
MMW: Such hair. I should have such hair.
HR: You want hair? Buy a fucking wig.
Non-applicable conversation follows.
DOCUMENT INSERT: 5/1/62. Personal note: Howard Hughes to J. Edgar Hoover.
Dear Edgar,Duane Spurgeon, my chief aide and legal advisor, is terminally ill. I need a replacement to go on retainer immediately. Of course, I would prefer a morally-sound lawyer with an FBI background. Could you recommend a man?All best, Howard
78
(Washington, D.C., 5/2/62)
T Their bench faced the Lincoln Memorial. Nannies and small chilthen scampered by.
Hoover said, "The woman is quite good."
"Thank you, Sir."
"She lures King Jack into provocative traps."
Littell smiled. "Yes, Sir. She does."
"King Jack has mentioned my forced retirement twice. Did you tell the woman to prod him in that direction?"
"Yes, Sir. I did."
"Why?"
"I wanted to increase your stake in the operation."
Hoover straightened the crease in his trousers. "I see. And I cannot fault your logic."
Littell said, "We want to convince the man to make his brother tone down his assault on my clients and their friends, and if they think you have copies of the tapes, it will go a long way toward convincing them to retain you."
Hoover nodded. "I cannot fault your logic."
"I would rather not go public with the tapes, Sir. I would rather see this resolved behind the scenes."
Hoover patted his briefcase. "Is that why you asked me to return my copies temporarily?"
"Yes, Sir."
"You don't trust me to keep them in cold storage?"
Littell smiled. "I want you to possess absolute deniability should Robert Kennedy bring in outside agency investigators. I want all the tapes kept in a single location, so that they can be destroyed if necessary."
Hoover smiled. "And so that, if worse comes to worse, Pete Bondurant and Fred Turentine can be portrayed as the sole perpetrators of the plot?"
Littell said, "Yes, Sir."
Hoover shooed a perching bird away. "Who's financing this? Is it Mr. Hoffa or Mr. Marcello?"
"I'd rather not say, Sir."
"I see. And I cannot fault your desire for secrecy."
"Thank you, Sir."
"Suppose public exposure becomes necessary?"
"Then I would go forward in late October, right before the congressional elections."
"Yes. That would be the optimum time."
"Yes, Sir. But as I said, I would rather not--"
"You needn't repeat yourself. I'm not senile."
The sun broke out of a cloud bank. Littell broke a slight sweat.
"Yes, Sir."
"You hate them, don't you?"
"Yes, I do."
"You're not alone. The THP has private taps and bugs installed in fourteen critical organized crime locales. We've been picking up a good deal of Kennedy resentment. I haven't informed the Brothers, and I'm not going to."
"I'm not surprised, Sir."
"I've compiled some wonderfully vituperative outtakes. They are hilariously colloquial and profane."
"Yes, Sir."
Hoover smiled. "Tell me what you're thinking."
Littell smiled. "That you trust me. That you trust me because I hate them as much as you do."
Hoover said, "You're correct. And my God, wouldn't Kemper be hurt if he overheard King Jack's assessment of his character?"
"He would be. Thank God he has no idea this operation exists."
A little girl skipped by. Hoover smiled and waved.
"Howard Hughes needs a new right-hand man. He asked me to find him someone with your qualifications, and I've recommended you."
Littell grabbed the bench. "I'm honored, Sir."
"You should be. You should also know that Howard Hughes is a very disturbed man with a rather tenuous hold on reality. He only communicates by telephone and letter, and I think there's a fair chance that you may never meet him face-to-face."
The bench shook. Littell folded his hands over one knee.
"Should I call him?"
"He'll call you, and I would advise you to accept his offer. The man has a silly, if exploitable, plan to purchase Las Vegas hotel-casinos a few years from now, and I think the notion has intelligence-gathering potential. I told Howard the names of your other clients, and he was quite impressed. I think the job is yours for the asking."
Littell said, "I want it."
Hoover said, "Of course you do. You've been hungry all your life, and you've finally reconciled your desires with your conscience."
79
(Orange Beach, 5/4/62)
T They had 3:00 a.m. moonlight to work by. It was half a curse-- total total dark meant SURPRISE. dark meant SURPRISE.
Pete pulled off the blacktop. He saw sand dunes up ahead--big high ones.
Nestor draped his legs across Wilfredo Delsol. Wilfredo the Mummy was duct-taped head to toe and stuffed between the front and back seats.
Boyd rode shotgun. Delsol wheezed through his nose. They kidnapped him at his pad on their way out of Miami.
Pete shifted to four-wheel drive. The Mummy lurched and banged Nestor's legs.
The jeep bounced between dunes. Boyd examined their track obfuscator--rake prongs attached to metal tubing.
Nestor coughed. "The beach is half a mile. I walked it twice."
Pete braked and cut the engine. Wave noise came on strong. Boyd said, "Listen to that. If we're lucky, they won't hear us."
They got out. Nestor dug a hole and buried Delsol in sand up to his nose.
Pete tossed a tarp over the jeep. It was light tan and sand-dune compatible.
Nestor rigged the rake gizmo. Boyd inventoried hardware.
They had silencer-fitted .45s and machine guns. They had a chainsaw, a clock bomb and two pounds of plastic explosive.