Hughes always said, Thanks for the dope. Pete always said, Thank the Agency.

He still got a Hughes paycheck. He still got twenty-three alimony cuts. He got 5% of Tiger Kab and his contract agent pay.

He used to pimp and pull shakedowns. Now he rode shotgun to History.

Jimmy Hoffa stopped by the cabstand every few days. His standard M.O. was to rave at non-English-speaking drivers. Wilfredo Delsol was running the switchboard now-whacking his cousin killed his appetite for strongarm.

Wilfredo understood English. He said Jimmy teed off on Cubans, but couldn’t sustain it. Whoever took the first few “fuckheads” got a reprieve. Hoffa couldn’t scream a sentence that didn’t end “Kennedy.”

Pete saw Jack and Jimmy on TV back-to-back. Kennedy charmed a heckler speechless. Hoffa wore white socks and an egg-spattered necktie.

Hold the tip sheet-I can spot winners and losers.

Sometimes he just couldn’t sleep. That big fucking whoooosh was like a hydrogen bomb inside his head.

43

Flanking cordons jammed up to the rostrum. Pro-Jack and proTeamster pickets-hard boys all.

The main drag was blocked off to cars. The pre-rally crowd extended back three blocks: at least six thousand people packed in shoulder-to-shoulder tight.

They jabbered and hummed. Placards bobbed ten feet high.

Jack was set to speak first. Humphrey lost a rigged coin toss and spoke last. Jack regalia outgunned Hubert three to one-the West Virginia campaign in a nutshell.

Teamster goons yelled into bullhorns. Some rednecks hoisted a cartoon banner: Jack with fangs and a papal biretta.

Kemper cupped his ears-the crowd roar was painful. Rocks shredded the banner-he paid some kids to crouch down and let fly.

Jack was due. Bad acoustics and Haifa invective would drown out his speech.

No great loss-people would still see him. The crowd would disperse when Humphrey showed up-free liquor was being served at select downtown taverns.

It was Kemper Boyd liquor. An old pal hijacked a Schenley’s truck and sold him the contents.

The street was packed. The sidewalks were packed. Peter Lawford was lobbing tie tacks at a gaggle of nuns.

Kemper mingled and watched the rostrum. He saw non-sequitur faces a few yards apart: Lenny Sands and a prototype Mob guy.

The Mob guy flashed Lenny a thumbs-up. Lenny flashed him two thumbs back.

Lenny was off the campaign payroll. Lenny had no official duties here.

The Mob man veered right. Lenny pushed his way left and ducked down an alley lined with trash cans.

Kemper followed him. Stray elbows and knees slowed him down.

High-school kids jostled him across the sidewalk. Lenny was midway down the alley, huddled with two cops.

The crowd noise leveled out. Kemper crouched behind a trash can and eavesdropped.

Lenny fanned a cash roll. A cop plucked bills off of it. His buddy said, “For two hundred extra we can stall the Humphrey bus and bring in some boys to shout him down.”

Lenny said, “Do it. And this is strictly on Mr. G., so don’t mention it to anybody with the campaign.”

The cops grabbed the whole roll and squeezed through an alleyway door. Lenny leaned against the wall and lit a cigarette.

Kemper walked up to him. Hipster Lenny said, “So?”

“So, tell me about it.”

“What’s to tell?”

“Fill in the blanks for me, then.”

“What’s to fill in? We’re both Kennedy guys.”

Lenny could maneuver. Lenny could outfrost any cool cat on earth.

“Giancana put money into Wisconsin, too. Is that right? You couldn’t have performed the way you did on what Bobby gave you.”

Lenny shrugged. “Sam and Hesh Ryskind.”

“Who told them to? You?”

“My advice don’t rate that high. You know that.”

“Spill, Lenny. You’re playing coy, and it’s starting to annoy me.”

Lenny stubbed his cigarette on the wall. “Sinatra was bragging up his influence with Jack. He was saying Jack as President wouldn’t be the same Jack that sat on the McClellan Committee, if you catch my meaning.”

“And Giancana bought the whole package?”

“No. I think you gave Frank a big fucking assist. Everybody’s real impressed with what you’ve been doing on the Cuba front, so they figured if you like Jack he can’t be all bad.”

Kemper smiled. “I don’t want Bobby and Jack to find out about this.”

“Nobody does.”

“Until the debt gets called in?”

“Sam don’t believe in frivolous reminders. And in case you’re thinking of reminding me, I’ll tell you now. I haven’t come up with bubkes on the Pension Fund.”

Kemper heard footscrapes. He saw Teamsters left and Teamsters right-chain swingers crouched at both ends of the alley.

They had their sights on Lenny. Tiny Lenny, Jewish Lenny, Kennedy toady Lenny-

Lenny didn’t see them. Pissy Lenny was entrenched in his cool cat/tough guy act.

Kemper said, “I’ll be in touch.”

Lenny said, “See you in shul.”

Kemper backed through the alleyway door and double-locked it behind him. He heard shouts, chain rattles and thuds-the classic labor-goon two-way press.

Lenny never yelled or screamed. Kemper timed the beating at a minute and six seconds.

44

The work was driving Littell schizophrenic. He had to satisfy the Bureau and his conscience.

Chick Leahy hated Mal Chamales. HUAC had linked Mal to sixteen Commie front groups. Leaky’s FBI mentor was former Chicago SAC Guy Banister.

Banister hated Mal. Mal’s Red Squad sheet was eighty pages long.

He liked Mal. They had coffee every so often. Mal spent ‘46 to ‘48 in Lewisburg-Banister built up a sedition profile and talked the U.S. Attorney into an indictment.

Leaky called him this morning. He said, “I want lockstep surveillance on Mal Chamales, Ward. I want you to go to every meeting he goes to and catch him making inflammatory remarks that we can use.”

Littell called Chamales and warned him. Mal said, “I’m addressing an SLP group this afternoon. Let’s just pretend we don’t know each other.” -

Littell mixed a rye and soda. It was 5:40-he had time to work before the national news.

He padded his report with useless details. He omitted Mal’s anti-Bureau tirade. He closed with noncommital remarks.

“The subject’s Socialist Labor Party speech was tepid and filled with nebulous cliches of a decidedly leftist, but non-seditious nature. His comments during the question and answer period were not inflammatory or in any way provocative.”

Mal called Mr. Hoover “a limp-wristed Fascist in jackboots and lavender lederhosen.” An inflammatory statement?-hardly.

Littell turned on the TV. John Kennedy filled the screen-he just won the West Virginia primary.

The doorbell rang. Littell hit the entry buzzer and got out some money for the A amp;P kid.

Lenny Sands walked in. His face was scabbed, bruised and sutured. A bandaged splint held his nose in place.

Lenny swayed. Lenny smirked. Lenny twirled his fingers at the TV-”Hello, Jack, you gorgeous slice of Irish roast lamb!”

Littell stood up. Lenny weaved into a bookcase and stiff-armed himself steady.

“Ward, you look marvelous! Those frayed slacks from J.C. Penney’s and that cheap white shirt are so YOU!”

Kennedy was addressing civil rights. Littell hit the off switch in mid-discourse.

Lenny waved goodbye. “Ta, Jack, my brother-in-law in the best of all possible worlds if I liked girls and you had the profile in courage to acknowledge my dear friend Laura that that gorgeously cruel Mr. Boyd drove out of my life.”