Hoover's inside source says that Bobby is privately interrogating Valachi. Valachi refuses to discuss the Fund books. Bobby is furious.
11/10/63: Kemper calls. He says Guy Banister's "far-fetched" ploy succeeded: the Miami motorcade was canceled.
11/12/63: Pete calls. He reports more campsite raids and hitplot rumors.
11/15/63: Jack parades through New York City. Teenagers and middle-aged matrons swarm his car.
11/16/63: Dallas newspapers announce the motorcade route. Barb Jahelka has a front-row seat--she's performing a noon show at a club on Commerce Street.
An intercom buzzed. Bobby's voice cut through static: "I'll see Mr. Littell now."
The receptionist got the door. Littell carried his tape recorder in.
Bobby stood behind his desk. He jammed his hands in his pockets and made no forward moves--Mob lawyers received cutrate civility.
The office was nicely appointed. Bobby's suit was an off-the-rack sack cut.
"Your name seems familiar, Mr. Littell. Have we met before?"
I WAS YOUR PHANTOM. I ACHED TO BE PART OF YOUR VISION.
"No, Mr. Kennedy. We haven't."
"I see you brought a tape recorder."
Littell set it down on the floor. "Yes, I did."
"Has Jimmy owned up to his evil ways? Did you bring me some kind of confession?"
"In a sense. Would you mind listening?"
Bobby checked his watch. "I'm yours for the next nine minutes."
Littell plugged the machine into a wall outlet. Bobby jiggled the coins in his pockets.
Littell tapped Play. Joe Valachi spoke. Bobby leaned against the wall behind his desk.
Littell stood in front of the desk. Bobby stared at him. They stayed absolutely motionless and did not blink or twitch.
Joe Valachi laid down his indictment. Bobby heard the evidence. He did not shut his eyes or in any way discernibly react.
Littell broke a sweat. The silly staring contest continued.
The tape slipped off the spindle. Bobby picked up his desk phone.
"Get Special Agent Conroy in Boston. Have him go to the main Security--First National Bank and find out who account number 811512404 belongs to. Have him examine the safe-deposit boxes and call me back immediately. Tell him to expedite this top-priority, and hold my calls until his comes through."
His voice did not waver. He came on cast-iron/steel-plate/watertight strong.
Bobby put the phone down. The eyeball duel continued. The first one to blink is a coward.
Littell almost giggled. An epigram: Powerful men are children.
Time passed. Littell counted minutes off his heartbeat. His glasses started sliding down his nose.
The phone rang. Bobby picked it up and listened.
Littell stood perfectly still and counted forty-one seconds off his pulse. Bobby threw the phone at the wall.
And blinked.
And twitched.
And brushed back tears.
Littell said, "Goddamn you for the pain you caused me."
97
(Dallas, 11/20/63)
S She'll know. She'll hear the news and see your face and know you were part of it.
She'll trace it back to the shakedown. You couldn't compromise him, so you killed him.
She'll know it was a Mob hit. She knows how those guys snip dangerous links. She'll blame you for bringing her so close to something so big.
Pete watched Barb sleep. Their bed smelled like suntan oil and sweat.
He was going to Las Vegas. He was going back to Howard "Dracula" Hughes. Ward Littell was their new middleman.
It was strongarm and dope work. It was a boilerplate commuted sentence: death for life imprisonment.
She'd kicked the sheets off. He noticed some new freckles on her legs.
She'd click with Vegas. He'd boot Joey out of her life and fix her up with a permanent lounge gig.
She'd be with him. She'd be close to his work. She'd build a rep as a stand-up woman who knew how to keep secrets.
Barb curled into her pillows. The veins on her breasts stretched out funny.
He woke her up. She snapped awake bright-eyed, like always.
Pete said, "Will you marry me?"
Barb said, "Sure."A fifty-dollar bribe waived the blood test. A C-note covered the no-birth-certificate problem.
Pete rented a 52 X-long tuxedo. Barb ran by the Kascade KIub and grabbed her one white Twist gown.
They found a preacher in the phone book. Pete scrounged up two witnesses: Jack Ruby and Dick Contino.
Dick said Uncle Hesh needed a pop. And what's he so excited about? For a dying man, he sure seems keyed up.
Pete ran by the Adolphus Hotel. He shot Heshie full of heroin and slipped him some Hershey bars to nosh on. Heshie thought his tuxedo was the funniest fucking thing he'd ever seen. He laughed so had he almost ripped his tracheal tube out.
Dick bounced for a wedding gift: the Adolphus bridal suite through the weekend. Pete and Barb moved their things in an hour before the ceremony.
Pete's gun fell out of his suitcase. The bellhop almost shit.
Barb tipped him fifty dollars. The kid genuflected out of the suite. A hotel limo dropped them at the chapel.
The preacher was a juicehead. Ruby brought his yappy dachshunds. Dick banged some wedding numbers on his squeezebox.
They said their vows in a dive off Stemmons Freeway. Barb cried. Pete held her hand so tight that she winced.
The preacher supplied imitation gold rings. Pete's ring wouldn't fit on his ring finger. The preacher said he'd order him a jumbo--he got his stuff from a mail-order house in Des Moines.
Pete dropped the too-small ring in his pocket. The Till Death Do Us Part pitch got him weak in the knees.They settled in at the hotel. Barb kept up a refrain: Barbara Jane Lindscott Jahelka Bondurant.
Heshie sent them champagne and a giant gift basket. The roomservice kid was atwitter--the President's riding by here on Friday!
They made love. The bed was flouncy pink and enormous.
Barb fell asleep. Pete left an 8:00 p.m. call--his bride had a gig at 9:00 sharp.
He couldn't sleep. He didn't touch the bubbly--booze was starting to feel like a weakness.
The phone rang. He got up and grabbed the parlor extension.
"Yeah?"
"It's me, Pete."
"Ward, Jesus. How'd you get this--?"
Littell said, "Banister just called me. He said Juan Canestel's missing in Dallas. I'm sending Kemper in to meet you, and I want the two of you to find him and do what you have to do to make Friday happen."
98
(Dallas, 11/20/63)
T The plane taxied up to a loading bay. The pilot rode tailwinds all the way from Meridian and made the run in under two hours.
Littell arranged a private charter. He told the pilot to fly ballsto-the-wall. The little two-seater rattled and shook--Kemper couldn't believe it.
It was 11:48 p.m. They were thirty-six hours short of GO.
Car headlights blinked--Pete's signal.
Kemper unhooked his seat belt. The pilot throttled down and cranked the door open for him.
Kemper jumped out. Propeller backspin almost knocked him flat.
The car pulled up. Kemper got in. Pete punched it across a string of small-craft runways.
A jet whooshed overhead. Love Field looked otherworldly.
Pete said, "What did Ward tell you?"
"That Juan's loose. And that Guy's afraid that Carlos and the others will think he fucked up."
"That's what he told me. And I told him that I didn't like the risks involved, unless somebody tells Carlos that we helped him out and saved Banister from blowing the whole fucking hit."
Kemper cracked the window. His goddamn ears kept popping.
"What did Ward say to that?"
"He said he'll tell Carlos after the hit. if if we find Canestel and save the fucking day." we find Canestel and save the fucking day."
A 2-way radio sputtered. Pete turned it down.
"This is J. D. Tippit's off-duty car. Him and Rogers are out looking, and if they get a spot on Juan, we go in. Tippit can't leave his patrol sector, and Chuck can't do anything that could fuck him out of showing up for the hit."
They dodged baggage carts. Kemper leaned out the window and popped three Dexedrine thy.
"Where's Banister?"
"He's flying in from New Orleans later. He thinks Juan's solid, and if something happens and they lose him, he'll move Rogers into his slot, and go out with him and the pro shooter."