American Tabloid Page 12

  “I don’t think that’s a very enlightened attitude.”

  “Think what you like.”

  “I will. And I know you’re thinking, ‘Holy Hannah, who is this guy that’s my fellow murder-one accessory, because we sure have shared some unusual experiences in our short acquaintance.”

  Pete leaned against the window. He caught a little blip of a prowl car half a block down.

  “My guess is you’re a CIA contract hand. You’re supposed to get next to the Cubans at the stand while everybody waits to see how Castro jumps.”

  Fulo came on indignant. “Fidel will jump toward the United States of America.”

  Chuck laughed. “Immigrants make the best Americans. You should know, huh, Pete? Aren’t you some kind of frog?”

  Pete popped his thumbs. Rogers flinched.

  “You just make like I’m a 100% American who knows what’s good for business.”

  “Whoa now. I never doubted your patriotism.”

  Pete heard whispers outside the door. Looks circulated—Chuck and Fulo caught the gist quick. Pete heard shotgun announcement noise: three loud and clear breach-to-barrel pumps.

  He dropped his piece behind some pamphlets. Fulo and Chuck put their hands up.

  Plainclothesmen kicked the door down. They ran in with shotgun butts at high port arms.

  Pete went down behind a powder-puff shot. Fulo and Chuck played it rugged and got beaten skull-cracking senseless.

  A cop said, “The big guy’s faking.” A cop said, “We can fix that.”

  Rubber-padded gun butts slammed him. Pete curled up his tongue so he wouldn’t bite it off.

  • • •

  He came to cuffed and shackled. Chair slats gouged his back; percussion bopped him upside his brain.

  Light hit his eyes. One eye only—tissue flaps cut his sight in half. He made out three cops sitting around a bolted-down table.

  Snare drums popped behind his ears. A-bombs ignited up and down his spine.

  Pete flexed his arms and snapped his handcuff chain.

  Two cops whistled. One cop applauded.

  They’d double-manacled his ankles—he couldn’t give them an encore.

  The senior cop crossed his legs. “We got an anonymous tip, Mr. Bondurant. One of Mr. Machado’s neighbors saw Mr. Adolfo Herendon and Mr. Armando Cruz-Martín enter Mr. Machado’s house, and he heard what might have been shots several hours later. Now, a few hours after that, you and Mr. Rogers arrive separately. The two of you and Mr. Machado leave carrying two large bundles wrapped in window curtains, and the neighbor gets Mr. Rogers’ license number. We checked Mr. Rogers’ car, and we noticed some debris that looks like skin fragments, and we certainly would like to hear your comments on all of this.”

  Pete stuck his eyebrow back in place. “Charge me or release me. You know who I am and who I know.”

  “We know you know Jimmy Hoffa. We know you’re pals with Mr. Rogers, Mr. Machado and some other Tiger Kab drivers.”

  Pete said, “Charge me or release me.” The cop tossed cigarettes and matches on his lap.

  Cop #2 leaned in close. “You probably think Jimmy Hoffa’s bought off every policeman in this town, but son, I’m here to tell you that simply ain’t the case.”

  “Charge me or release me.”

  “Son, you are trying my patience.”

  “I’m not your son, you cracker faggot.”

  “Boy, that kind of talk will get your face slapped.”

  “If you slap me, I’ll go for your eyes. Don’t make me prove it.”

  Cop #3 came on soft. “Whoa, now, whoa. Mr. Bondurant, you know we can hold you for seventy-two hours without charging you. You know you’ve probably got a concussion and could use some medical attention. Now, why don’t you—”

  “Give me my phone call, then charge me or release me.”

  The senior cop laced his hands behind his head. “We let your friend Rogers make a call. He fed the jailer some cock-and-bull story about having government connections and called a Mr. Stanton. Now, who are you gonna call—Jimmy Hoffa? You think Uncle Jimmy’s gonna go your bail on a double-homicide charge and maybe engender all kinds of bad publicity that he doesn’t need?”

  An A-bomb blast hit his neck. Pete almost blacked out.

  Cop #2 sighed. “This boy’s too woozy to cooperate. Let’s let him rest up a bit.”

  He passed out, woke up, passed out. His headache subsided from A-bomb to nitroglycerine.

  He read wall scratchings. He swiveled his neck to stay limber. He broke the world’s record for holding a piss.

  He broke down the situation.

  Fulo cracks or Fulo doesn’t crack. Chuck cracks or Chuck doesn’t. Jimmy buys them bail or lets them swing. Maybe the DA gets smart: spic-on-spic homicides rate bubkes.

  He could call Mr. Hughes. Mr. Hughes could nudge Mr. Hoover—which meant case fucking closed.

  He told Hughes he’d be gone three days. Hughes agreed to the trip, no questions asked. Hughes agreed because the Kennedy shakedown backfired. Joe and Bobby shrunk his balls down to peanut size.

  And Ward J. Littell slapped him.

  Which decreed the cocksucker’s death sentence.

  Gail was gone. The Jack K. gig went pfffft. Hoffa’s Kennedy hate sizzled—hot, hot, hot. Hughes was still gossip/smear crazed and hot to find a new Hush-Hush stringer.

  Pete read wall musings. The Academy Award winner: “Miami PD Sucks Rhino Dick.”

  Two men walked in and pulled chairs up. A jailer unshackled his legs and walked out fast.

  Pete stood up and stretched. The interrogation room dipped and swayed.

  The younger man said, “I’m John Stanton, and this is Guy Banister. Mr. Banister is retired FBI, and he was assistant superintendent of the New Orleans Police for a spell.”

  Stanton was slight and sandy-haired. Banister was big and booze-flushed.

  Pete lit a cigarette. Inhaling torqued his headache. “I’m listening.”

  Banister grinned. “I remember that civil rights trouble of yours. Kemper Boyd and Ward Littell arrested you, didn’t they?”

  “You know they did.”

  “I used to be the Chicago SAC, and I always thought Littell was a weak sister.”

  Stanton straddled his chair. “But Kemper Boyd’s another matter. You know, Pete, he went by the Tiger stand and showed your mug shot around. One of the men pulled a knife, and Boyd disarmed him in a rather spectacular fashion.”

  Pete said, “Boyd’s a stylish guy. And this is starting to play like some kind of audition, so I’ll tell you that I’d recommend him for Just about any kind of law-enforcement work.”

  Stanton smiled. “You’re not a bad audition prospect yourself.”

  Banister smiled. “You’re a licensed private investigator. You’re a former deputy sheriff. You’re Howard Hughes’ man, and you know Jimmy Hoffa, Fulo Machado and Chuck Rogers. Those are stylish credentials.”

  Pete stubbed his cigarette out on the wall. “The CIA’s not so bad, as credentials go. That’s who you are, right?”

  Stanton stood up. “You’re free to go. No charges will be filed on you, Rogers or Machado.”

  “But you’ll be keeping in touch?”

  “Not exactly. But I may ask a favor of you one day. And of course, you’ll be well paid for it.”

  14

  (New York City, 1/5/59)

  The suite was magnificent. Joe Kennedy bought it from the hotel outright.

  A hundred people left the main room only half-filled. The picture window gave you the breadth of Central Park in a snowstorm.

  Jack invited him. He said his father’s Carlyle bashes were not to be missed—and besides, Bobby needs to talk to you.

  Jack said there might be women. Jack said Lyndon Johnson’s redhead might appear.

  Kemper watched cliques constellate and dissolve. The party swirled all around him.

  Old Joe stood with his horsy daughters. Peter Lawford ruled an all-male group. Jack speared cocktail sh
rimp with Nelson Rockefeller.

  Lawford prophesied the Kennedy cabinet. Frank Sinatra was considered a shoo-in for Prime Minister of Pussy.

  Bobby was late. The redhead hadn’t arrived—Jack would have signaled him if he saw her first.

  Kemper sipped eggnog. His tuxedo jacket fit loose—he’d had it cut to cover a shoulder holster. Bobby enforced a strict no-sidearms policy—his men were lawyers, not cops.

  He was twice a cop—double-salaried and double-dutied.

  He told Mr. Hoover that Anton Gretzler and Roland Kirpaski were dead—but their “presumed dead” status had not demoralized Bobby Kennedy. Bobby was determined to chase Hoffa, the Teamsters and the Mob WAY past the McClellan Committee’s expiration date. Municipal PD racket squads and grand jury investigators armed with Committee-gathered evidence would then become the Get Hoffa spearhead. Bobby would soon be preparing the groundwork for Jack’s 1960 campaign—but Jimmy Hoffa would remain his personal target.

  Hoover demanded investigatory specifics. He told him that Bobby wanted to trace the “spooky” three million dollars that financed Hoffa’s Sun Valley development—Bobby was convinced that Hoffa skimmed cash off the top and that Sun Valley itself constituted land fraud. Bobby instinctively believed in the existence of separate, perhaps coded, Teamster Central States Pension Fund books—ledgers detailing tens of millions of dollars in hidden assets—money lent to gangsters and crooked businessmen at gargantuan interest rates. An elusive rumor: A retired Chicago hoodlum managed the Fund. Bobby’s personal instinct: The total Fund package was his most viable Get Hoffa wedge.

  He had two salaries now. He had two sets of conflicting duties. He had John Stanton hinting at offers—if the CIA’s Cuban plans stabilized.

  It would give him a third salary. It would give him enough income to sustain his own pied-à-terre.

  Peter Lawford cornered Leonard Bernstein. Mayor Wagner chatted up Maria Callas.

  A waiter refilled Kemper’s tankard. Joe Kennedy walked an old man up.

  “Kemper, this is Jules Schiffrin. Jules, Kemper Boyd. You two should talk. The two of you are rascals from way back.”

  They shook hands. Joe slid off to talk to Bennett Cerf.

  “How are you, Mr. Schiffrin?”

  “I’m fine, thank you. And I know why I’m a rascal. But you? You’re too young.”

  “I’m a year older than Jack Kennedy.”

  “And I’m four years younger than Joe, so things even out. Is that your occupation, rascal?”

  “I’m retired from the FBI. Right now, I’m working for the McClellan Committee.”

  “You’re an ex-G-man? And retired so young?”

  Kemper winked. “I got tired of FBI-sanctioned car theft.”

  Schiffrin mimicked the wink. “Tired, schmired. How bad could it be if it bought you custom mohair tuxedos like you’re wearing? I should own such a tux.”

  Kemper smiled. “What do you do?”

  “ ‘Did do’ is more like it. And what I did do was serve as a financier and a labor consultant. Those are euphemisms, in case you’re wondering. What I didn’t do was have lots of lovely children to enjoy in my old age. Such lovely children Joe has. Look at them.”

  Kemper said, “You’re from Chicago?”

  Schiffrin beamed. “How did you know that?”

  “I’ve studied regional accents. It’s something I’m good at.”

  “Good doesn’t describe it. And that drawl of yours, is that Alabama?”

  “Tennessee.”

  “Aah, the Volunteer State. It’s too bad my friend Heshie isn’t here. He’s a Detroit-born gonif who’s lived in the Southwest for years. He’s got an accent that would baffle you.”

  Bobby walked into the foyer. Schiffrin saw him and rolled his eyes. “There’s your boss. Pardon my French, but don’t you think he’s a bit of a shitheel?”

  “In his way, yes.”

  “Now you’re euphemizing. I remember Joe and I were yakking once, about how we fucked Howard Hughes on a deal thirty years ago. Bobby objected to the word ‘fuck’ because his kids were in the next room. They couldn’t even hear, but—”

  Bobby signaled. Kemper caught the gesture and nodded.

  “Excuse me, Mr. Schiffrin.”

  “Go. Your boss beckons. Nine kids Joe had, so one shitbird isn’t such a bad average.”

  Kemper walked over. Bobby steered him straight into the cloakroom. Fur coats and evening capes brushed up against them.

  “Jack said you wanted to see me.”

  “I did. I need you to collate some evidence briefs and write out a summary of everything the Committee’s done, so that we can send out a standardized report to all the grand juries who’ll be taking over for us. I realize that paperwork isn’t your style, but this is imperative.”

  “I’ll start in the morning.”

  “Good.”

  Kemper cleared his throat. “Bob, there’s something I wanted to run by you.”

  “What?”

  “I have a close friend. He’s an agent in the Chicago office. I can’t tell you his name just yet, but he’s a very capable and intelligent man.”

  Bobby wiped snow off his topcoat. “Kemper, you’re leading me. I realize that you’re used to having your way with people, but please get to the point.”

  “The point is he was transferred off the Top Hoodlum Program against his will. He hates Mr. Hoover and Mr. Hoover’s ‘There is no Mob’ stance, and he wants to conduit anti-Mob intelligence through me to you. He understands the risks, and he’s willing to take them. And for what it’s worth, he’s an ex-Jesuit seminarian.”

  Bobby hung his coat up. “Can we trust him?”

  “Absolutely.”

  “He wouldn’t be a conduit to Hoover?”

  Kemper laughed. “Hardly.”

  Bobby looked at him. Bobby gave him his witness-intimidation stare.

  “All right. But I want you to tell the man not to do anything illegal. I don’t want a zealot out there wiretapping and God knows what else because he thinks I’ll back him up on it.”

  “I’ll tell him. Now, what areas do you—?”

  “Tell him I’m interested in the possibility that secret Pension Fund books exist. Tell him that if they do, it’s likely that the Chicago Mob administers them. Have him work off that supposition, and see if he can come up with any general Hoffa intelligence while he’s at it.”

  Guests filed past the cloakroom. A woman trailed her mink coat on the floor. Dean Acheson almost tripped over it.

  Bobby winced. Kemper saw his eyes slip out of focus.

  “What is it?”

  “It’s nothing.”

  “Is there anything else you’d—?”

  “No, there isn’t. Now, if you’ll excuse me …”

  Kemper smiled and walked back to the party. The main room was crowded now—maneuvering was a chore.

  The mink woman had heads turning.

  She made a butler pet her coat. She insisted that Leonard Bernstein try it on. She mambo-stepped through the crowd and snatched Joe Kennedy’s drink.

  Joe gave her a small, gift-wrapped box. The woman tucked it in her purse. Three Kennedy sisters walked off in a huff.

  Peter Lawford ogled the woman. Bennett Cerf slid by and peeked down her dress. Vladimir Horowitz waved her over to the piano.

  Kemper took a private elevator down to the lobby. He picked up a courtesy phone and badged the switchboard girl for a straight patch to Chicago.

  She put him through. Helen answered on the second ring.

  “Hello?”

  “It’s me, sweetheart. The one you used to have a crush on.”

  “Kemper! What are you doing with that syrupy southern accent!”

  “I’m engaged in subterfuge.”

  “Well, I’m engaged in law school and looking for an apartment, and it is so difficult!”

  “All good things are. Ask your middle-aged boyfriend, he’ll tell you.”

  Helen whispered. “Ward’s been m
oody and secretive lately. Will you try to—?”

  Littell came on the line. “Kemper, hi.”

  Helen blew kisses and put her extension down. Kemper said, “Hello, son.”

  “Hello yourself. I hate to be abrupt, but have you—?”

  “Yes, I have.”

  “And?”

  “And Bobby said yes. He said he wants you to work for us sub rosa, and he wants you to follow up on that lead Roland Kirpaski gave us, and try to determine if there really are secret Pension Fund books hiding untold zillions of dollars.”

  “Good. This is … very good.”

  Kemper lowered his voice. “Bobby reiterated what I told you. Don’t take unnecessary risks. You remember that. Bobby’s more of a stickler for legalities than I am, so you just remember to be careful, and remember who you have to look out for.”

  Littell said, “I’ll be careful. I may have a Mob man compromised on a homicide, and I think I might be able to turn him as an informant.”

  The mink woman walked through the lobby. A slew of bellboys rushed to get the door for her.

  “Ward, I have to go.”

  “God bless you for this, Kemper. And tell Mr. Kennedy that I won’t disappoint him.”

  Kemper hung up and walked outside. Wind roared down 76th Street and toppled trashcans set out on the curb.

  The mink woman was standing under the hotel canopy. She was unwrapping Joe Kennedy’s gift.

  Kemper stood a few feet away from her. The gift was a diamond broach tucked inside a roll of thousand-dollar bills.

  A wino stumbled by. The mink woman gave him the broach. Wind fanned the roll and showed off at least fifty grand.

  The wino giggled and looked at his broach. Kemper laughed out loud.

  A cab pulled up. The mink woman leaned in and said, “881 Fifth Avenue.”

  Kemper opened the door for her.

  She said, “Aren’t the Kennedys vulgar?”

  Her eyes were drop-dead translucent green.

  15

  (Chicago, 1/6/59)

  One jiggle snapped the lock. Littell pulled his pick out and closed the door behind him.

  Passing headlights strafed the windows. The front room was small and filled with antiques and art deco gewgaws.