“No. He doesn’t know Littell’s name, and I’ve got him cowed pretty good.”

A tiki torch lit their table. Boyd flickered in and out of this weird little glow.

“I don’t see how this concerns you, Pete.”

“It concerns Jimmy Hoffa. He’s tied to us on the Cuban thing, and Jimmy is the fucking Pension Fund.”

Boyd drummed the table. “Littell is fixated on the Chicago Mob and the Fund. It doesn’t touch on our Cuban work, and I don’t think we owe Jimmy a warning. And I don’t want you to talk to Lenny Sands about this. He’s not conversant on the topic, and you don’t need to trouble him with it.”

It was vintage Boyd: “need-to-know basis” straight down the line.

“We don’t have to warn Jimmy, but I’ll say this loud and clear. Jimmy hired me to clip Anton Gretzler, and I don’t want Littell to burn me for it. He’s already made me for the job, and he’s just crazy enough to go public with it, Mr. Hoover or no Mr. Hoover.”

Boyd twirled his martini stick. “You clipped Roland Kirpaski, too.”

“No. Jimmy clipped him himself.”

Boyd whistled-trиs, trиs casual.

Pete got up in his face. “You cut Littell too much slack. You make fucking allowances for him that you shouldn’t.”

“We both lost brothers, Pete. Let it go at that.”

The line didn’t compute. Boyd talked on these weird levels sometimes.

Pete leaned back. “Are you watchdogging Littell? How tight a leash are you keeping on him?”

“I haven’t been in touch with him in months. I’ve been distancing myself from him and Mr. Hoover.”

“Why?”

“Just an instinct.”

“Like an instinct for survival?”

“More of a homing instinct. You move away from some people, and you move toward the people of the moment.”

“Like the Kennedys.”

“Yes.”

Pete laughed. “I’ve hardly seen you since Jack hit the trail.”

“You won’t be seeing me at all until after the election. Stanton knows I can’t be dividing my time.”

“He should know. He hired you to get next to the Kennedys.”

“He won’t regret it.”

“I don’t. It means I get to run the Cadre solo.”

“Can you handle it?”

“Can niggers dance?”

“They surely can.”

Pete sipped his beer. It was flat-he forgot he ordered it.

“You said ‘election’ like you think the job’s going through to November.”

“I’m reasonably certain it will. Jack’s ahead in New Hampshire and Wisconsin, and if we get past West Virginia I think he’ll go all the way.”

“Then I hope he’s anti-Castro.”

“He is. He’s not as voluble as Richard Nixon, but then Dick’s a Red-baiter from way back.”

“President Jack. Jesus Christ.”

Boyd signaled a waiter. A fresh martini hit the table quick.

“It’s seduction, Pete. He’ll back the country into a corner with his charm, like it’s a woman. When America sees that it’s a choice between Jack and twitchy old Dick Nixon, who do you think they’ll get between the sheets with?”

Pete raised his beer. “Viva La Causa. Viva Bad-Back Jack.”

They clinked glasses. Boyd said, “He’ll get behind the Cause. And if the invasion goes, we want it to be in his administration.”

Pete lit a cigarette. “I’m not worried about that. Put Littell aside, and there’s only one thing to be worried about.”

“You’re concerned that the Agency at large will find out about our Cadre business.”

“That’s right.”

Boyd said, “I want them to find out. In fact, I’m going to inform them some time before November. It’s inevitable that they will find out, and by the time they do my Kennedy connection will make me too valuable to dismiss. The Cadre will have recruited too many good men and have made too much money, and as far as morality goes, how does selling heroin to Negroes rate when compared to illegally invading an island?”

More vintage Boyd: “self-budgeted,” “autonomous”-

“And don’t worry about Littell. He’s trying to accrue evidence to send to Bobby Kennedy, but I monitor all the information that Bobby sees, and I will not let Littell hurt you at all, or hurt Jimmy for the Kirpaski killing or anything else related to you or the Cause. But sooner or later Bobby will take Hoffa down, and I do not want you to meddle in it.”

Pete felt his head swim. “I can’t argue with any of that. But I’ve got a pipeline to Littell now, and if I think your boy needs a scare, I’m going to scare him.”

“And I can’t argue with that. You can do whatever you have to do, as long as you don’t kill him.”

They shook hands. Boyd said, “Les gens que l’on comprend-ce sont eux que l’on domine.”

En francais, Pierre, souviens-toi:

Those we understand are those we control.

Christmas Day made him certain. Every day since built on it.

Jack kept Laura’s ring. Kemper took Jackie’s emerald pin. His car wouldn’t start-a Kennedy chauffeur checked it out for him. Kemper strolled the compound and caught Jack in midtransformation.

He was standing on the beach, alone. He was rehearsing his public persona in full voice.

Kemper stood out of sight and watched him.

Jack went from tallish to tall. He brayed less and rumbled more. His stabbing gestures hit some mark he’d always missed before.

Jack laughed. Jack cocked his head to listen. Jack masterfully summarized Russia, civil rights, the race for space, Cuba, Cathol icism, his perceived youth and Richard Nixon as a duplicitous, do-nothing reactionary unfit to lead the greatest country on earth into perilous times.

He looked heroic. Claiming the moment drained all the boy out of him.

The self-possession was always there. He’d postponed the claim until it could give him the world.

Jack knew he’d win. Kemper knew he’d impersonate greatness with the force of an enigma granted form. This new freedom would make people love him.

o o o

Laura loved the pin.

Jack took New Hampshire and Wisconsin.

Jimmy Hoffa barnstormed both states. Jimmy mobilized Teamsters and ranted on national TV. Jimmy betrayed his essential lunacy every time he opened his mouth.

Kemper mobilized the backlash. Pro-Jack pickets scuffled with Teamster pickets. The pro-Jack boys were good shouters and good placard swingers.

Bobby’s book hit the best-seller lists. Kemper distributed free copies at union halls. The consensus four months in: Jimmy Hoffa was nullified.

Jack was spellbindingly handsome. Hoffa was bloated and harried. All his anti-Kennedy broadsides carried a footnote: “Currently under investigation for land fraud.”

People loved Jack. People wanted to touch him. Kemper let the people get non-security close.

Kemper let photographers get close. He wanted people to think Jack’s amusement was really love beaming back.

They were running unopposed in Nebraska. The West Virginia primary was six days off-Jack should knock Hubert Humphrey out of the race.

Frank Sinatra was wowing hillbilly voters. A Rat Pack stooge composed a ring-a-ding Jack Anthem. Payola got it constant airplay.

Laura called Sinatra a small penis with a big voice.

Jack’s ascent enraged her. She was blood kin and an outcast. Kemper Boyd was a stranger granted insider status.

He called her from the road every night. Laura considered the contact pro forma.

He knew that she missed Lenny Sands. She didn’t know that he’d banished him.

Lenny changed his Chicago number-there was no way that Laura could call him. Kemper put a trace on his phone bills and confirmed that he hadn’t called her.

Bobby remembered “voice coach” Lenny. Some staffers decreed a brush-up course and invited Lenny to New Hampshire.