o o o
Pete ate in his car. He had two chili burgers, French fries and coffee.
Carhops skated by. They wore leotards, push-up bras and tights.
Gail Hendee used to call him a voyeur. It always jazzed him when women nailed his shit.
The carhops looked good. Hauling trays on skates kept them trim. The blonde lugging hot fudge sundaes looked like good shakedown bait.
Pete ordered peach pie a Ia mode. The blonde brought it to him. He saw Lenny walking up to the car.
He opened the passenger door and slid in.
He looked stoic. The prima diva was one tough little fruitfly.
Pete lit a cigarette. “You told me you were too smart to fuck with me. Does that still hold?”
“Yes.”
“Is this what Kemper Boyd and Ward Littell have on you?”
“‘This’? Yeah, ‘this’ is.”
“I don’t buy it, Lenny, and I don’t think Sam Giancana would care in the long run. I think I could call Sam right now and say, ‘Lenny Sands fucks boys,’ and he’d be shocked for a couple of minutes, then sit on the information. If Boyd and Littell tried to bluff you with that, I think you’d have the brains and the stones to call them on it.”
Lenny shrugged. “Littell said he’d spill to Sam and the cops.”
Pete dropped his cigarette in his water glass. “I’m not buying. Now, you see that brunette on skates over there?”
“I see her.”
“I want you to tell me what Boyd and Littell squeezed you with by the time she gets over to that blue Chevy.”
“Suppose I can’t remember?”
“Then figure everything you’ve heard about me is true, and take it from there.”
Lenny smiled, prima-diva-style. “I killed Tony Iannone, and Littell made me for it.”
Pete whistled. “I’m impressed. Tony was a rough boy.”
“Don’t string me along, Pete. Just tell me what you’re going to do about it.”
“The answer’s nothing. All this secret shit of yours goes no further.”
“I’ll try to believe it.”
“You can believe that Littell and I go back awhile, and I don’t like him. Boyd and me are friendly, but Littell’s something else. I can’t lean on him without pissing off Boyd, but if he ever gets too rowdy with you, let me know.”
Lenny bristled and clenched up. “I don’t need a protector. I’m not that kind of…”
Carhops zigzagged by. Pete rolled down his back window for some air.
“You’ve got credentials, Lenny. What you do in your spare time is your business.”
“You’re an enlightened guy.”
“Thanks. Now, do you feel like telling me who or what you’re snitching for Littell?”
“No.”
“Just plain ‘No’?”
“I want to keep working for you. Let me out of here with something, all right?”
Pete popped the passenger door latch. “No more fag stuff for Hush-Hush. From now on you write anti-Castro, anti-Commie stuff exclusively. I want you to write the pieces directly for the magazine. I’ll get you some information, and you can make the rest of the shit up. You’ve been to Cuba, and you know Mr. Hughes’ politics. Take it from there.”
“Is that all?”
“Unless you want pie and coffee.”
o o o
Lenny Sands fucks boys. Howard Hughes lends Dick Nixon’s brother money.
Secret shit.
Big Pete wants a woman. Extortion experience preferred, but not mandatory.
o o o
The phone rang too fucking early.
Pete picked up. “Yeah?”
“It’s Kemper.”
“Kemper, shit, what time is it?”
“You’re hired, Pete. Stanton’s putting you on immediate contract status. You’re going to be running the Blessington campsite.”
Pete rubbed his eyes. “That’s the official gig, but what’s ours?”
“We’re going to facilitate a collaboration between the CIA and organized crime.”
28
Joe Kennedy handed out presidential-sealed tie pins. The Carlyle suite took on a fake-presidential glow.
Bobby looked bored. Jack looked amused. Kemper pinned his necktie to his shirt.
Jack said, “Kemper’s a thief.”
Bobby said, “We came here to discuss the campaign, remember?”
Kemper brushed lint off his trousers. He wore a seersucker suit and white bucks-Joe called him an ice-cream jockey out of work.
Laura loved the outfit. He bought it with his stock-theft money. It was good summertime wedding attire.
Joe said, “FDR gave me those pins. I kept them because I knew I’d host a meeting like this one day.”
Joe wanted an event The butler had arranged hors d’oeuvres on a sideboard near their chairs.
Bobby pulled off his necktie. “My book will be published in hardback in February, about a month after Jack announces. The paperback edition will come out in July, right around the time of the convention. I’m hoping it will put the whole Hoffa crusade in perspective. We don’t want Jack’s association with the McClellan Conmiittee to hurt him with labor.”
Jack laughed. “That goddamn book’s eating up all your time. You should get a ghost writer. I did, and I won the Pulitzer Prize.”
Joe smeared caviar on a cracker. “I heard Kemper wanted his name deleted from the text. That’s too bad, because then you could have titled it The Ice Cream Jockey Within.”
Kemper toyed with his tie pin. “There’s a million car thievesout there who hate me, Mr. Kennedy. I’d prefer that they not know what I’m doing.”
Jack said, “Kemper’s the furtive type.”
Joe said, “Yes, and Bobby could learn from him. I’ve said it a thousand times before, and I’ll say it a thousand times again. This hard-on for Jimmy Hoffa and the Mafia is horseshit. You may need those people to help you get out the vote one day, and now you’re adding insult to injury by writing a book on top of chasing them via the goddamn Committee. Kemper plays his cards close to the vest, Bobby. You could learn from him.”
Bobby chuckled. “Enjoy the moment, Kemper. Dad sides against his kids with outsiders present once in a decade.”
Jack lit a cigar. “Sinatra’s pals with those gangster guys. If we need them, we could use him as a go-between.”
Bobby punched a chair cushion. “Frank Sinatra is a cowardly, finger-popping lowlife, and I will never make deals with gangster scum.”
Jack rolled his eyes. Kemper took it as a cue to play middleman.
“I think the book has possibilities. I think we can distribute copies to union members during the primaries and notch some points that way. I’ve made a lot of law-enforcement connections working for the Committee, and I think we can forge an alliance of nominally Republican DAs by pushing Jack’s anticrime credentials.”
Jack blew smoke rings. “Bobby’s the gangbuster, not me.”
Kemper said, “You were on the Committee.”
Bobby smiled. “I’ll portray you heroically, Jack. I won’t say that you and Dad were soft on Hoffa from the gate.”
They all laughed. Bobby grabbed a handful of canapes.
Joe cleared his throat. “Kemper, we invited you to this session chiefly to discuss 1. Edgar Hoover. We should discuss the situation now, because I’m hosting a dinner at Pavillon tonight, and I need to get ready.”
“Do you mean the files that Hoover has on all of you?”
Jack nodded. “I was thinking specifically of a romance I had during the war. I’ve heard that Hoover’s convinced himself that the woman was a Nazi spy.”
“Do you mean Inga Arvad?”
“That’s right.”
Kemper snatched one of Bobby’s canapes. “Mr. Hoover has that documented, yes. He bragged about it to me years ago. May I make a suggestion and clear the air about something?”
Joe nodded. Jack and Bobby pushed up to the edge of their chairs.
Kemper leaned toward them. “I’m sure Mr. Hoover knows that I went to work for the Committee. I’m sure he’s disappointed that I haven’t been in touch with him. Let me re-establish contact and tell him that I’m working for you. Let me assure him that Jack won’t replace him as FBI director if he’s elected.”