“I’ll consider your offer.”

18

Littell ran into the morgue. Kemper called him from the airport and said MEET ME THERE NOW

He called half an hour ago. He didn’t elaborate. He said just those four words and slammed the phone down.

A row of autopsy rooms extended off the foyer. Sheet-covered gurneys blocked the hallway.

Littell pushed through them. Kemper stood by the far wall, next to a row of freezer slabs.

Littell caught his breath. “What the fuck is-?”

Kemper pulled a slab out. The tray held a male Caucasian dead body.

The boy was torture slashed and cigarette burned. His penis was severed and stuffed in his mouth.

Littell recognized him: the kid in Icepick Tony’s nude snapshot.

Kemper grabbed his neck and forced him down close. “This is on you, Ward. You should have destroyed every bit of evidence pointing to Iannone’s known associates before you tipped off those Mob guys. Guilty or not, they had to kill someone, so they decided to kill the boy in the picture you left for them to see.”

Littell jerked backward. He smelled stomach bile and blood and forensic dental abrasive.

Kemper shoved him down closer.

“You’re working for Bobby Kennedy, and I set it up, and Mr. Hoover will destroy me if he finds out You’re damn lucky I decided to check some missing-persons reports, and you had damn well better convince me you won’t fuck up like this again.”

Littell closed his eyes. Tears spilled out. Kemper shoved him in cheek to cheek with the dead boy.

“Meet me at Lenny Sands’ apartment at ten. We’ll shore things up.”

o o o

Work didn’t help.

He tailed Commies and wrote out a surveillance log. His hands shook; his printing was near-illegible.

Helen didn’t help.

He called her just to hear her voice. Her law school chitchat brought him close to screaming.

Court Meade didn’t help.

They met for coffee and exchanged reports. Court told him he looked lousy. Court said his report looked threadbare-like he wasn’t spending much time at the listening post.

He couldn’t say, I’m slacking off because I found a snitch. He couldn’t say, I fucked up and got a boy killed.

Church helped a little.

He lit a candle for the dead boy. He prayed for competence and courage. He cleaned up in the bathroom and remembered something Lenny said: Sal D. was recruiting junketeers at Saint Vibiana’s this evening.

A tavern stop helped.

Soup and crackers settled his stomach. Three rye-and-beers cleared his head.

o o o

Sal and Lenny had the Saint Vib’s rec hall all to themselves. A dozen K of C men took in their pitch.

The group sat at a clump of bingo tables near the stage. The Knights looked like dnmks and wife beaters.

Littell loitered outside a fire exit. He cracked the door to watch and listen.

Sal said, “We leave in two days. Lots of my regulars couldn’t get away from their jobs, so I’m lowering my price to nine-fifty, airfare included. First we go to Lake Tahoe, then Vegas and Gardena, outside L.A. Sinatra’s playing the Cal-Neva Lodge in Tahoe, and you’ll be front row center to catch his show. Now, Lenny Sands, formerly Lenny Sanducci, and a Vegas star in his own right, will give you a Sinatra that out-Sinatras Sinatra. Go, Lenny! Go, paisan!”

Lenny blew smoke rings Sinatra-style. The K of C men clapped. Lenny flicked his cigarette above their heads and glared at them.

“Don’t applaud until I finish! What kind of Rat Pack Auxiliary are you! Dino, go get me a couple of blondes! Sammy, go get me a case of gin and ten cartons of cigarettes or I’ll put your other eye out! Hop to it, Sammy! When the Chicago Knights of Columbus Chapter 384 snaps its fingers, Frank Sinatra jumps!”

The Knights haw-haw-hawed. A nun pushed a broom by the group and never looked up. Lenny sang, “Fly me to the Coast with Big Sal’s junket tour! He’s the swingin’ gambling junket king, so dig his sweet allure! In other words, Vegas beware!”

The Knights applauded. Sal dumped a paper bag out on a table in front of them.

They sifted through the clutter and grabbed knickknacks. Littell saw poker chips, French ticlders, and Playboy rabbit key chains.

Lenny held up a novelty pen shaped like a penis. “Which one of you big-dick gavones wants to be the first one to sign up?”

A line formed. Littell felt his stomach turn over.

He walked to the curb and vomited. The rye and beer burned his throat. He hunched over and puked himself dry.

Some junket men walked past him twirling key chains. A few laughed at him.

Littell braced himself against a lamppost. He saw Sal and Lenny in the rec hall doorway.

Sal backed Lenny into the wall and jabbed at his chest. Lenny mimed a single word: “Okay.”

o o o

The door stood ajar. Littell pushed it all the way open.

Kemper was going through Lenny’s address book. He’d turned on all the living-room lights.

“Easy, son.”

Littell shut the door. “Who let you in?”

“I taught you how to B amp;E, remember?”

Littell shook his head. “I want him to trust me. Another man showing up like this might frighten him.”

Kemper said, “You need to frighten him. Don’t underestimate him just because he’s queer.”

“I saw what he did to Iannone.”

“He panicked, Ward. If he panics again, we could get hurt. I want to establish a certain tone tonight.”

Littell heard footsteps outside the door. There was no time to kill the lights for surprise.

Lenny walked in. He did a broad stage actor’s double-take.

“Who’s he?”

“This is Mr. Boyd. He’s a friend of mine.”

“And you were in the neighborhood, so you thought you’d break in and ask me a few questions.”

“Let’s not go at things this way.”

“What way? You said we’d talk on the phone, and you told me you were in this by yourself.”

“Lenny-”

Kemper said, “I did have a question.”

Lenny hooked his thumbs through his belt loops. “Then ask it. And help yourself to a drink. Mr. Littell always does.”

Kemper looked amused. “I glanced through your address book, Lenny.”

“I’m not surprised. Mr. Littell always does that, too.”

“You know Jack Kennedy and a lot of Hollywood people.”

“Yes. And I know you and Mr. Littell, which proves I’m not immune to slumming.”

“Who’s this woman Laura Hughes? This address of hers- 881 Fifth Avenue-interests me.”

“Laura interests lots of men.”

“You’re trembling, Lenny. Your whole manner just changed.”

Littell said, “What are you talk-?”

Kemper cut him off. “Is she in her early thirties? Tall, brunette, freckles?”

“That sounds like Laura, yes.”

“I saw Joe Kennedy give her a diamond broach and at least fifty thousand dollars. That looks to me like he’s sleeping with her.”

Lenny laughed. His smile said, Oh, you heathen.

Kemper said, “Tell me about her.”

“No. She’s got nothing to do with the Teamsters’ Pension Fund or anything illegal.”

“You’re reverting, Lenny. You’re not coming off like the hard boy that took out Tony Iannone. You’re starting to sound like a little fairy with a squeaky voice.”

Lenny went instant baritone. “Is this better, Mr. Boyd?”

“Save the wit for your lounge engagements. Who is she?”

“I don’t have to tell you that.”

Kemper smiled. “You’re a homosexual and a murderer. You have no rights. You’re a Federal informant, and the Chicago FBI owns you.”

Littell felt queasy. His heartbeat did funny little things.