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

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 shrimp 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 nosidearms 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-a-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, schniired. How bad could it be if it bought you custom mohair tuxedos like you’re wearing? I should own such a

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.”