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 badgered 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 moody 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
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.
His eyes adjusted to the dark. There was good outside light-he didn’t need to risk turning lamps on.
Lenny Sands’ apartment was tidy and midwinter stuffy.
The Icepick Tony killing was five days old and unsolved. The TV and papers omitted one fact: that Iannone died outside a queer tryst spot. Court Meade said Giancana put the fix in: he didn’t want Tony slandered as a homo, and refused to believe it himself. Meade quoted some scary bug-post talk: “Sam’s got scouts out rousting known fruit rollers”; “Mo said Tony’s killer is gonna get castrated.”
Giancana couldn’t believe a self-evident fact Giancana thought Tony walked into Perry’s Little Log Cabin by mistake.
Littell got out his pen flash and Minox. Lenny’s recent schedule included Vendo-King pickups until midnight. It was 9:20 now-he had time to work.
Lenny’s address book was tucked under the living-room phone. Littell skimmed through it and noted auspicious names.
Eclectic Lenny knew Rock Hudson and Carlos Marcello. Hollywood Lenny knew Gail Russell and Johnnie Ray. Gangland Lenny knew Giancana, Butch Montrose and Rocco Malvaso.
One strange thing: His Mob address/numbers didn’t match the on-file THP listings.
Littell flipped pages. Odd names hit him.
Senator John Kennedy, Hyannis Port, Mass.; Spike Knode, 114 Gardenia, Mobile, Alabama; Laura Hughes, 881 5th Ave., New York City; Paul Bogaards, 1489 Fountain, Milwaukee.
He shot through the book alphabetically. He held the pen flash in his teeth and snapped one photograph per page. He notched thirty-two exposures up to the M’s.
His legs ached from squatting down to shoot The flash kept slipping out of his mouth.
He heard key/lock noise. He heard door rattles-NINETY MINUTES AHEAD OF SCHED-
Littell hugged the wall by the door. He replayed every judo move Kemper taught him.
Lenny Sands walked in. Littell grabbed him from behind and cupped his mouth shut Remember-”Jam one thumb to the suspect’s carotid and take him down supine.”
He did it Kemper-pure. Lenny went prone with no resistance. Littell pulled his muzzle hand free and kicked the door shut.
Lenny didn’t scream or yell. His face was jammed into a wad of scrunched-up carpet.
Littell eased off the carotid. Lenny coughed and retched.
Littell knelt beside him. Littell pulled out his revolver and cocked it.
“I’m with the Chicago FBI. I’ve got you for the Tony Iannone killing, and if you don’t work for me I’ll hand you up to Giancana and the Chicago PD. I’m not asking you to inform on your friends. What I’m interested in is the Teamsters’ Pension Fund.”
Lenny heaved for breath. Littell stood up and hit a wall switch-the room went bright with glare.
He saw a liquor tray by the couch. Cut-glass decanters full of scotch, bourbon and brandy.
Lenny pulled his knees up and hugged them. Littell tucked his gun in his waistband and pulled out a glassine bag.
It held two blood-crusted switchblades.
He showed them to Lenny. He said, “I dusted them for prints and got four latents that matched your DMV set.”
It was a bluff. All he got were smears.
“You’ve got no choice in this, Lenny. You know what Sam would do to you.”
Lenny broke a sweat. Littell poured him a scotch-the smell made him salivate.
Lenny sipped his drink two-handed. His tough-guy voice didn’t quite work.
“I know bubkes about the Fund. What I know is that connected guys and certain businessman types apply for these large-interest loans and get pushed up some kind of loan ladder.”