by James Ellroy
Ruby lip-synched numbers: 1-2-3-4-5, 1-2-3-4-5.
Pete held up five fingers. Ruby counted them out loud.
“Five thousand if you like it?”
“That’s right, Jack. And a thousand if I don’t.”
“I am taking a tremendous risk in telling you this.”
“Then don’t.”
Ruby fretted his Jew-star necklace. Pete splayed five fingers out on the dashboard. Ruby kissed the star and took a bigggg breath.
“Last May this farkakte Fed braces me down in Dallas. He makes every conceivable threat on God’s green earth, and I believe him, ’cause I know he’s this crazy goyishe zealot with nothing to lose. He knows I’ve sharked in Big D and up in Chicago, and he knows I’ve sent people looking for high-end loans to Sam Giancana. That’s what he’s got this colossal hard one for. He wants to trace the money that gets loaned out from the Teamsters’ Pension Fund.”
It was vintage Littell: bold and stupid.
“He gets me to call him at a pay phone in Chicago once a week. He gives me a few dollars when I tell him I’m running on fumes. He gets me to tell him about this movie guy I know, Sid Kabikoff, who’s interested in seeing this loan shark named Sal D’Onofrio, who’s gonna shoot him up to Momo for a Pension Fund loan. What happened after that I don’t know. But I read in the Chicago papers that both Kabikoff and D’Onofrio have been murdered, so-called ‘torture-style,’ and that both cases are unsolved. I’m not no Einstein, but ‘torture’ in Chicago means Sam G. And I also know that Sam don’t know I was involved, or I’d have been visited. And it don’t take an Einstein to figure out the crazy Fed was at the root of all this pain.”
Littell was working outlaw. Littell was Boyd’s best friend. Lenny Sands worked with Littell and D’Onofrio.
Ruby plucked a dog hair off his lap. “Is that five thousand dollars’ worth of story?”
The road blurred. Pete damn near plowed a gator.
“Has the Fed called you since Sal D. and Kabikoff died?”
“No, praise Allah. Now what about my five—?”
“You’ll get it. And I’ll pay you three thousand extra if he calls you again and you get back to me on it. And if you end up helping me out with him, I’ll make it another five.”
Ruby went apoplectic. “Why? Why the fuck do you care to the extent of all this money?”
Pete smiled. “Let’s keep this between the two of us, all right?”
“You want secret, I’ll give you secret. I’m a well-known secret type of guy who knows how to keep his mouth shut.”
Pete pulled his magnum and drove with his knees. Ruby smiled—ho, ho—What’s this?
Pete popped the cylinder, dumped five rounds and spun it.
Ruby smiled—ho, ho—Kid, you’re too much.
Pete shot him in the head. The five-to-one odds held: the hammer hit an empty chamber.
Ruby went Klan-sheet white.
Pete said, “Ask around. See what people say about me.”
They hit Blessington at dusk. Ruby and Tippit got their strip show ready.
Pete called Midway Airport and impersonated a police officer. A clerk confirmed Ruby’s story: A Ward J. Littell flew to Dallas and back last May 18.
He hung up and called the Eden Roc Hotel. The switchboard girl said Kemper Boyd was “out for the day.”
Pete left him a message: “10:00 tonight, the Luau Lounge—urgent.”
Boyd took it casual. He said, “I know Ward’s been chasing the Fund,” like he was too bored to breathe.
Pete blew smoke rings. Boyd’s tone pissed him off—he drove eighty miles for a display of fucking ennui.
“It doesn’t seem to bother you.”
“I’m a bit overextended on Littell, but other than that, I don’t think it’s anything to be concerned about. Do you feel like divulging your source?”
“No. He doesn’t know Littell’s name, and I’ve got him cowed pretty good.”
A tiki torch lit their table. Boyd flickered in and out of this weird little glow.
“I don’t see how this concerns you, Pete.”
“It concerns Jimmy Hoffa. He’s tied to us on the Cuban thing, and Jimmy is the fucking Pension Fund.”
Boyd drummed the table. “Littell is fixated on the Chicago Mob and the Fund. It doesn’t touch on our Cuban work, and I don’t think we owe Jimmy a warning. And I don’t want you to talk to Lenny Sands about this. He’s not conversant on the topic, and you don’t need to trouble him with it.”
It was vintage Boyd: “need-to-know basis” straight down the line.
“We don’t have to warn Jimmy, but I’ll say this loud and clear. Jimmy hired me to clip Anton Gretzler, and I don’t want Littell to burn me for it. He’s already made me for the job, and he’s just crazy enough to go public with it, Mr. Hoover or no Mr. Hoover.”
Boyd twirled his martini stick. “You clipped Roland Kirpaski, too.”
“No. Jimmy clipped him himself.”
Boyd whistled—très, très casual.
Pete got up in his face. “You cut Littell too much slack. You make fucking allowances for him that you shouldn’t.”
“We both lost brothers, Pete. Let it go at that.”
The line didn’t compute. Boyd talked on these weird levels sometimes.
Pete leaned back. “Are you watchdogging Littell? How tight a leash are you keeping on him?”
“I haven’t been in touch with him in months. I’ve been distancing myself from him and Mr. Hoover.”
“Why?”
“Just an instinct.”
“Like an instinct for survival?”
“More of a homing instinct. You move away from some people, and you move toward the people of the moment.”
“Like the Kennedys.”
“Yes.”
Pete laughed. “I’ve hardly seen you since Jack hit the trail.”
“You won’t be seeing me at all until after the election. Stanton knows I can’t be dividing my time.”
“He should know. He hired you to get next to the Kennedys.”
“He won’t regret it.”
“I don’t. It means I get to run the Cadre solo.”
“Can you handle it?”
“Can niggers dance?”
“They surely can.”
Pete sipped his beer. It was flat—he forgot he ordered it.
“You said ‘election’ like you think the job’s going through to November.”
“I’m reasonably certain it will. Jack’s ahead in New Hampshire and Wisconsin, and if we get past West Virginia I think he’ll go all the way.”
“Then I hope he’s anti-Castro.”
“He is. He’s not as voluble as Richard Nixon, but then Dick’s a Red-baiter from way back.”
“President Jack. Jesus Christ.”
Boyd signaled a waiter. A fresh martini hit the table quick.
“It’s seduction, Pete. He’ll back the country into a corner with his charm, like it’s a woman. When America sees that it’s a choice between Jack and twitchy old Dick Nixon, who do you think they’ll get between the sheets with?”
Pete raised his beer. “Viva La Causa. Viva Bad-Back Jack.”
They clinked glasses. Boyd said, “He’ll get behind the Cause. And if the invasion goes, we want it to be in his administration.”
Pete lit a cigarette. “I’m not worried about that. Put Littell aside, and there’s only one thing to be worried about.”
“You’re concerned that the Agency at large will find out about our Cadre business.”
“That’s right.”
Boyd said, “I want them to find out. In fact, I’m going to inform them some time before November. It’s inevitable that they will find out, and by the time they do my Kennedy connection will make me too valuable to dismiss. The Cadre will have recruited too many good men and have made too much money, and as far as morality goes, how does selling heroin to Negroes rate when compared to illegally invading an island?”
More vintage B
oyd: “self-budgeted,” “autonomous”—
“And don’t worry about Littell. He’s trying to accrue evidence to send to Bobby Kennedy, but I monitor all the information that Bobby sees, and I will not let Littell hurt you at all, or hurt Jimmy for the Kirpaski killing or anything else related to you or the Cause. But sooner or later Bobby will take Hoffa down, and I do not want you to meddle in it.”
Pete felt his head swim. “I can’t argue with any of that. But I’ve got a pipeline to Littell now, and if I think your boy needs a scare, I’m going to scare him.”
“And I can’t argue with that. You can do whatever you have to do, as long as you don’t kill him.”
They shook hands. Boyd said, “Les gens que l’on comprend—ce sont eux que l’on domine.”
En français, Pierre, souviens-toi:
Those we understand are those we control.
41
(New York City/Hyannis Port/
New Hampshire/Wisconsin/Illinois/West Virginia,
2/4/60–5/4/60)
Christmas Day made him certain. Every day since built on it.
Jack kept Laura’s ring. Kemper took Jackie’s emerald pin. His car wouldn’t start—a Kennedy chauffeur checked it out for him. Kemper strolled the compound and caught Jack in mid-transformation.
He was standing on the beach, alone. He was rehearsing his public persona in full voice.
Kemper stood out of sight and watched him.
Jack went from tallish to tall. He brayed less and rumbled more. His stabbing gestures hit some mark he’d always missed before.
Jack laughed. Jack cocked his head to listen. Jack masterfully summarized Russia, civil rights, the race for space, Cuba, Catholicism, his perceived youth and Richard Nixon as a duplicitous, do-nothing reactionary unfit to lead the greatest country on earth into perilous times.
He looked heroic. Claiming the moment drained all the boy out of him.
The self-possession was always there. He’d postponed the claim until it could give him the world.
Jack knew he’d win. Kemper knew he’d impersonate greatness with the force of an enigma granted form. This new freedom would make people love him.
• • •
Laura loved the pin.
Jack took New Hampshire and Wisconsin.
Jimmy Hoffa barnstormed both states. Jimmy mobilized Teamsters and ranted on national TV. Jimmy betrayed his essential lunacy every time he opened his mouth.
Kemper mobilized the backlash. Pro-Jack pickets scuffled with Teamster pickets. The pro-Jack boys were good shouters and good placard swingers.
Bobby’s book hit the best-seller lists. Kemper distributed free copies at union halls. The consensus four months in: Jimmy Hoffa was nullified.
Jack was spellbindingly handsome. Hoffa was bloated and harried. All his anti-Kennedy broadsides carried a footnote: “Currently under investigation for land fraud.”
People loved Jack. People wanted to touch him. Kemper let the people get non-security close.
Kemper let photographers get close. He wanted people to think Jack’s amusement was really love beaming back.
They were running unopposed in Nebraska. The West Virginia primary was six days off—Jack should knock Hubert Humphrey out of the race.
Frank Sinatra was wowing hillbilly voters. A Rat Pack stooge composed a ring-a-ding Jack Anthem. Payola got it constant airplay.
Laura called Sinatra a small penis with a big voice.
Jack’s ascent enraged her. She was blood kin and an outcast. Kemper Boyd was a stranger granted insider status.
He called her from the road every night. Laura considered the contact pro forma.
He knew that she missed Lenny Sands. She didn’t know that he’d banished him.
Lenny changed his Chicago number—there was no way that Laura could call him. Kemper put a trace on his phone bills and confirmed that he hadn’t called her.
Bobby remembered “voice coach” Lenny. Some staffers decreed a brush-up course and invited Lenny to New Hampshire.
Jack “introduced” Lenny to Kemper. Lenny played along and did not display an ounce of rancor or fear.
Lenny worked Jack’s speaking voice into top shape. Bobby put him on the Wisconsin payroll—as a crowd-building front man. Lenny built up big crowds on a small budget—Bobby was thrilled.
Claire spent most weekends with Laura. She said Jack’s half-sister was a rabid Nixon fan.
Like Mr. Hoover.
They talked in mid-February. Mr. Hoover made the call. He said, “My, it’s been a long time!” in a purely disingenuous tone.
Kemper updated his allegiances and detailed Joe Kennedy’s old suspicions. Hoover said, “I’ll build up a file to buttress your dissemblings. We’ll make it appear that all your Florida trips were solely on my behalf. I’ll anoint you the Bureau’s ace pro-Castro-group monitor.”
Kemper supplied key Florida dates. Hoover sent him mock itineraries to memorize.
Hoover never mentioned the campaign. Kemper knew that he sensed a Kennedy victory.
Hoover did not mention Jack and women. Hoover did not suggest hot-wiring prostitutes. Hoover did not nail the reason why Kemper Boyd had stayed distant.
He didn’t want to implement another sex shakedown. He wanted to retain one strong loyalty compartment.
Pimp shakedowns?—no. Pimp service?—certainly.
He got Jack one call girl per night. He called his local vice squad contacts for referrals—and skin-searched every girl that Jack fucked.
The girls loved Jack.
So did SA Ward Littell.
They hadn’t spoken in over six months. Ward showed up at Jack’s big Milwaukee rally—the old Chicago Phantom as the new Chicago Wraith.
He looked frail and unkempt. He did not look like anyone’s notion of a G-man.
Ward refused to talk Mob scuttlebutt or Pension Fund strategy. Ward refused to discuss the D’Onofrio homicide.
Ward said he was neglecting his Red Squad assignment. He said he’d struck up a friendship with a leftist he was tailing.
The Kennedy campaign thrilled him. He wore Kennedy buttons to work and made a scene when SAC Leahy told him to stop it.
Littell’s anti-Mob crusade was dead. Mr. Hoover couldn’t touch them now: the Boyd/Littell collusion was null and void.
Kemper told Bobby the Phantom was still plugging. Bobby said, Don’t bother me with trifles.
Littell was set to retire in eight months. His drunken dream was a Kennedy appointment.
Ward loves Jack.
New Hampshire loves Jack.
Wisconsin loves Jack.
West Virginia had its heart up for grabs. Greenbrier County was vote-crucial and totally Mob-run.
He decided not to ask the Boys for help. Why indebt Jack to men that Bobby hated? America loves Jack. Sinatra put it best:
“That old Jack Magic has me in its spell!”
42
(Blessington/Miami, 2/4/60–5/4/60)
That “lost brothers” line kept zinging him. Pete couldn’t get it out of his head.
John Stanton toured the campsite in mid-March. Pete quizzed him on Kemper Boyd’s background.
Stanton said the CIA researched the man. The hunting-accident story earned him high marks—Kemper didn’t let shit weigh him down.
Boyd spoke French. Boyd made big words come alive. Boyd made his whole world go whoosh—
His last three months: “autonomous,” straight from Webster’s Unabridged.
Kemper’s timecard read strictly KENNEDY. Pete’s timecard now read strictly CUBA.
Fulo quit running whores. Lockhart embraced the New Klan Kode. Six two-week cycles worked through Blessington—746 men total.
They learned weaponry, judo, speedboating and demolition fundamentals. Chuck Rogers fed them pro-U.S. doctrine.
The Cadre kept recruiting in Miami. Cuban hotheads kept signing up.
The Agency now had sixty operational campsites. They established an exile “grad school”
in Guatemala: a fully equipped military facility.
Ike loosened his pursestrings. Ike approved exile invasion plans. It was a big policy shift—three plots to whack Fidel backfired and scrambled the thinking at Langley.
Shooters couldn’t get close. Aides smoked exploding cigars marked for the Beard. Langley figured fuck it—let’s invade Cuba.
Maybe early next year. Maybe in Bad-Back Jack’s administration.
Boyd said Jack would approve the plan. Boyd was fucking persuasive. Santo Junior spread the word: Kemper Boyd has Jack Kennedy’s ear.
The Outfit dropped some coin on Jack’s campaign—quietly and anonymously. Big fat compartmentalized donations.
Jimmy Hoffa didn’t know. Jack didn’t know—and wouldn’t be told until the optimum moment to call in the debt.
Sam G. said he could buy Jack Illinois. Lenny Sands said Sam spent a fortune in Wisconsin. West Virginia ditto—Chi-Mob money had the state locked in for Jack.
Pete asked Lenny if Boyd knew about all that finagling. Lenny said, I don’t think so. Pete said, Let’s keep it that way—Kemper wouldn’t like to think that he’d put Jack in hock.
Boyd inspired confidence. Trafficante loved him. Santo passed the Cuban Cause hat—Giancana, Rosselli and Marcello ponied up large.
It was classic compartmentalization.
The CIA high brass condoned the gifts. And they learned about the Cadre dope biz—before Kemper informed them.
They condoned it. They considered it plausibly deniable and told John Stanton to continue. They told Stanton to hide this knowledge from non-CIA personnel.
Like outside police agencies. Like moralistic politicians.
Stanton was relieved. Kemper was amused. He said the issue illustrated the Jack/Bobby dichotomy: dope peddling as divisive moral issue.
Big Brother would wince and try to ignore the alliance. Little Brother would side with God and banish all Mob-CIA contact.
Big Brother was worldly, like his dad. Little Brother was prissy, like a dejuiced Ward Littell with functioning balls.
Bobby had his father’s money and his brother’s cache. Littell had booze and religion. Jack Ruby had a five-grand pointer’s fee—if Littell swerved through his life again, Big Pete would be notified.
