Jimmy “Turk” Torello, Louie “the Mooch” Eboli.

The Miami PD Intelligence Squad believes that Sam Giancana is a silent partner in the Tiger Kab Kompany, a Teamster-owned taxi service run by Cuban refugees believed to possess extensive criminal records.

Daniel “Donkey Dan” Versace, “Fat Bob” Paolucci-

The phone rang. Littell fumbled for it-eyestrain had him seeing double.

“Hello?”

“It’s me.”

“Kemper, hi.”

“What have you been doing? When I left you were two sheets to the wind.”

Littell laughed. “I’ve been reading the THP file. And so far, I’m not too impressed with Mr. Hoover’s anti-Mob mandate.”

“Watch your mouth, he might have bugged your room.”

“That’s a cruel thought.”

“Yes, if not far-fetched. Ward, look, it’s still snowing, and you’ll never be able to fly out today. Why don’t you meet me at the Committee office? Bobby and I are grilling a witness. He’s a Chicago man, and you might learn something.”

“I could use some air. You’re at the old Senate Office Building?”

“Right, suite 101. I’ll be in interview room A. It’s got an observation corridor, so you’ll be able to watch. And remember my cover. I’m retired from the FBI.”

“You’re a glib dissembler, Kemper. It’s rather sad.”

“Don’t get lost in the snow.”

o o o

The setup was perfect: a closed hallway with one-way glass access and wall-mounted speakers. Partitioned off in cubicle A: the Kennedy brothers, Kemper, and a blond man.

Cubicles B, C and D were vacant. He had the watching gallery to himself-the snowstorm must have scared people home.

Littell hit the speaker switch. Voices crackled out with minimum static.

The men sat around a desk. Robert Kennedy played host and worked the tape recorder.

“Take your time, Mr. Kirpaski. You’re a voluntary witness, and we’re here at your disposal.”

The blond man said, “Call me Roland. Nobody calls me Mr. Kirpaski.”

Kemper grinned. “Any man who rolls over on Jimmy Hoffa deserves that formality.”

Brilliant Kemper-reviving his Tennessee drawl.

Roland Kirpaski said, “That’s nice, I guess. But you know, Jimmy Hoffa’s Jimmy Hoffa. What I mean is, it’s like they say about the elephant. He don’t forget.”

Robert Kennedy laced his hands behind his head. “Hoffa will have plenty of time in prison to remember everything that put him there.”

Kirpaski coughed. “I’d like to say something. And I’d… uh… like to read it off when I testify in front of the Committee.”

Kemper said, “Go ahead.”

Kirpaski leaned his chair back. “I’m a union guy. I’m a Teamster. Now, I told you all them stories about Jimmy doing this and doing that, you know, telling his guys to lean on these other guys that wouldn’t play ball and so forth. I guess maybe all that stuff is illegal, but you know what? That don’t bother me so much. The only reason I’m so-called rolling over on Jimmy is because I can add up two and two and get four, and I heard enough at fucking Chicago Local 2109 to figure out that Jimmy Fucking Hoffa is cutting side deals with management, which means that he is a scab piece of shit, pardon my French, and I want to go on the record as saying that that is my motive for ratting him off.”

John Kennedy laughed. Littell flashed on the Shoftel job and winced.

Robert Kennedy said, “Duly noted, Roland. You’ll be able to read any statement you like before you testify. And remember, we’re saving your testimony for a televised session. Millions of people will see you.”

Kemper said, “The more publicity you get, the more unlikely it is that Hoffa will attempt reprisals.”

Kirpaski said, “Jimmy don’t forget. He’s like an elephant that way. You know those gangster pictures you showed me? Those guys I saw Jimmy with?”

Robert Kennedy held up some photos. “Santo Trafficante Jr. and Carlos Marcello.”

Kirpaski nodded. “Right. I also want to go on the record as saying that I’ve heard good things about those guys. I heard they hire union men exclusively. No Mafia guy ever said, ‘Roland, you’re a dumb Southside Polack’ to me. Like I said, they visited Jimmy at his suite at the Drake, and all they talked about was the weather, the Cubs and politics in Cuba. I want to go on the record as saying I got no gripe against the fucking Mafia.”

Kemper winked at the one-way. “Neither does J. Edgar Hoover.”

Littell laughed. Kirpaski said, “What?”

Robert Kennedy drummed the table. “Mr. Boyd is performing for some unseen colleague of his. Now, Roland, let’s get back to Miami and Sun Valley.”

Kirpaski said, “I’d like to. Jesus, this snow.”

Kemper stood up and stretched his legs. “Walk us through your observations again.”

Kirpaski sighed. “I was a Chicago delegate to the convention last year. We stayed at the Deauville in Miami. I was still friendly with Jimmy then, because I hadn’t figured out he was a scab cocksucker cutting side deals with-”

Robert Kennedy cut in. “Stick to the point, please.”

“The point is I ran some errands for Jimmy. I went by the Tiger Kab stand, which is spelled with a goddamn K, and picked up some cash so Jimmy could take some guys from the Miami locals out on a boat to shoot sharks with Tommy guns, which is one of Jimmy’s favorite Florida things to do. I must have picked up three grand easy. The cabstand was like the planet Mars. All these crazy Cuban guys wearing tiger-colored shirts. The boss Cuban was this guy Fulo. He was selling these hot TVs out of the parking lot. The Tiger Kab business is strictly cash-operated. If you want my considered opinion, it’s a tax evasion bounce looking to happen.”

Static rattled the speaker-Littell tapped the squelch button and smoothed the volume out. John Kennedy looked bored and restless.

Robert Kennedy doodled on a notepad. “Tell us about Anton Gretzler again.”

Kirpaski said, “We all went out shark shooting. Gretzler came along. Him and Jimmy were talking by themselves over on one end of the boat away from the shark shooters. I was down in the can, being seasick. I guess they thought they had privacy, because they were talking up this not-too-legal-sounding stuff, which I want to go on the record as stating was no skin off my ass, because it didn’t involve collusion with management.”

John Kennedy tapped his watch. Kemper prompted Kirpaski. “What exactly did they discuss?”

“Sun Valley. Gretzler said he had land surveys done, and his surveyor said the land wouldn’t fall into the swamp for five years or so, which would let them off the hook, legally speaking. Jimmy said he could tap the Pension Fund for three million dollars to purchase the land and prefab material, and maybe they could pocket some cash up front.”

Robert Kennedy jumped up. His chair crashed-the one-way glass shimmied. “That is very strong testimony! That is a virtual admission of conspiracy to commit land fraud and intent to defraud the Pension Fund!”

Kemper picked the chair up. “It’s only courtroom valid if Gretzler corroborates it or perjures himself denying it. Without Gretzler, it’s Roland’s word versus Hoffa’s. It comes down to credibility, and Roland has two drunk-driving convictions while Hoffa’s record is technically clean.”

Bobby fumed. Kemper said, “Bob, Gretzler has to be dead. His car was dumped in a swamp, and the man himself can’t be found. I’ve put a lot of hours in trying to find him, and I haven’t turned up one viable lead.”

“He could have faked his own death to avoid appearing before the Committee.”

“I think that’s unlikely.”

Bobby straddled his chair and gripped down on the slats. “You may be right. But I may still send you down to Florida to make sure.”

Kirpaski said, “I’m hungry.”