Kennedy tapped a stack of papers. ‘We work hard here. We plod. We subpoena and trace money and litigate. We don’t risk our lives stealing sports cars or dawdle over lunch or take women to the Willard Hotel for quickies. Our idea of a good time is to talk about how much we hate Jimmy Hoffa and the Mob.”
Kemper stood up. “I hate Hoffa and the Mob like Mr. Hoover hates you and your brother.”
Bobby laughed. “I’ll let you know within a few days.”
o o o
Kemper strolled by Sally Lefferts’ office. It was 2:30-Sally might be up for a quickie at the Willard.
Her door was open. Sally was at her desk fretting tissues-with a man straddling a chair up close to her.
She said, “Oh, hello, Kemper.”
Her color was up: rosy verging on flushed. She had that too-bright I’ve-lost-at-love-again glow on.
“Are you busy? I can come back.”
The man swiveled his chair around. Kemper said, “Hello, Senator.”
John Kennedy smiled. Sally dabbed at her eyes. “Jack, this is my friend Kemper Boyd.”
They shook hands. Kennedy did a little half-bow.
“Mr. Boyd, a pleasure.”
“My pleasure entirely, sir.”
Sally forced a smile. Her rouge was streaked-she’d been crying.
“Kemper, how did your interview go?’
“It went well, I think. Sally, I have to go. I just wanted to thank you for the referral.”
Little nods went around. Nobody’s eyes met. Kennedy handed Sally a fresh tissue.
Kemper walked downstairs and outside. A storm had fired up-he ducked under a statue ledge and let the rain graze him.
The Kennedy coincidence felt strange. He walked straight from an interview with Bobby into a chance meeting with Jack. It felt like he was gently pushed in that direction.
Kemper thought it through.
Mr. Hoover mentioned Sally-as his most specific link to Jack Kennedy. Mr. Hoover knew that he and Jack shared a fondness for women. Mr. Hoover sensed that he’d visit Sally after his interview with Bobby.
Mr. Hoover sensed that he’d call Sally for an interview referral immediately. Mr. Hoover knew that Bobby needed investigators and interviewed walk-in prospects at whim.
Kemper took the logical leap-
Mr. Hoover has Capitol Hill hot-wired. He knew that you broke up with Sally at her office-to forestall a big public scene. He picked up a tip that Jack Kennedy was planning the same thing- and took a stab at maneuvering you into a position to witness it.
It felt logically sound. It felt quintessentially Hoover.
Mr. Hoover doesn’t entirely trust you to forge a bond with Bobby. He took a shot at placing you in a symbiotic context with Jack.
The rain felt good. Lightning crackled down and backlit the Capitol dome. It felt like he could stand here and let the whole world come to him.
Kemper heard foot scrapes behind him. He knew who it was instantly.
“Mr. Boyd?”
He turned around. John Kennedy was cinching up his overcoat.
“Senator.”
“Call me Jack.”
“All right, Jack.”
Kennedy shivered. “Why the hell are we standing here?”
“We can run for the Mayflower bar when this lets up a bit.”
“We can, and I think we should. You know, Sally’s told me about you. She told me I should work on losing my accent the way you lost yours, so I was surprised to hear you speak.”
Kemper dropped his drawl. “Southerners make the best cops. You lay on the cornpone and people tend to underestimate you and let their secrets slip. I thought your brother might know that, so I acted accordingly. You’re on the McClellan Committee, so I figured I should go for uniformity.”
Kennedy laughed. “Your secret’s safe with me.”
“Thanks. And don’t worry about Sally. She likes men the way we like women, and she gets over the attendant heartaches pretty fast.”
“I knew you figured it out. Sally told me you cut her off in a similar fashion.”
Kemper smiled. “You can always go back occasionally. Sally appreciates an occasional afternoon at a good hotel.”
“I’ll remember that. A man with my aspirations has to be conscious of his entanglements.”
Kemper stepped closer to “Jack.” He could almost see Mr. Hoover grinning.
“I know a fair number of women who know how to keep things unentangled.”
Kennedy smiled and steered him into the rain. “Let’s go get a drink and talk about it. I’ve got an hour to kill before I meet my wife.”
3
(Chicago, 11/30/58)
Black bag work-a classic FBI Commie crib prowl.
Littell snapped the lock with a ruler. His hands dripped sweat- apartment-house break-ins always played risky.
Neighbors heard B amp;E noise. Hallway sounds muffled incoming footsteps.
He closed the door behind him. The living room took shape: ratty furniture, bookshelves, labor protest posters. It was a typical CPUSA member’s dwelling-he’d find documents in the dinette cupboard.
He did. Ditto the standard wall photos: Sad old “Free the Rosenbergs” shots.
Pathos.
He’d surveilled Morton Katzenbach for months. He’d heard scads of leftist invective. He knew one thing: Morty posed no threat to America.
A Commie cell met at Morty’s doughnut stand. Their big-time “treason”: feeding bear claws to striking auto workers.
Littell got out his Minox and snapped “documents.” He blew three rolls of film on donation tallies-all short of fifty dollars a month.
It was boring, shitty work. His old refrain kicked in automatically.
You’re forty-five years old. You’re an expert bug/wire man. You’re an ex-Jesuit seminarian with a law degree, two years and two months shy of retirement. You’ve got an alimony-fat ex-wife and a daughter at Notre Dame, and if you pass the Illinois Bar exam and quit the FBI, your gross earnings over the next X-number of years will more than compensate for your forfeited pension.
He shot two lists of “political expenses.” Morty annotated his doughnut handouts: “Plain,” “Chocolate,” “Glazed.”
He heard key-in-the-lock noise. He saw the door open ten feet in front of him.
Faye Katzenbach lugged groceries in. She saw him and shook her head like he was the saddest thing on earth.
“So you people are common thieves now?”
Littell knocked over a lamp running past her.
o o o
The squadroom was noontime quiet-just a few agents standing around clipping teletypes. Littell found a note on his desk.
K. Boyd called. In town en route to Florida. Pump Room, 7:00?
Kemper-yes!
Chick Leahy walked up, waving file carbons. “I’ll need the complete Katzenbach folder, with photo attachments, by December 11th. Mr. Tolson’s coming in for an inspection tour, and he wants a CPUSA presentation.”
“You’ll have it.”
“Good. Complete with documents?’
“Some. Mrs. Katzenbach caught me before I finished.”
“Jesus. Did she-?”
“She did not call the Chicago PD, because she knew who I was and what I was doing. Mr. Leahy, half the Commies on earth know the term ‘black bag job.’”
Leahy sighed. “Say it, Ward. I’m going to turn you down, but you’ll feel better if you say it.”
“All right I want a Mob assignment I want a transfer to the Top Hoodlum Program.”
Leahy said, “No. Our THP roster is full. And as special agentin-charge my assessment of you is that you’re best suited for political surveillance, which I consider important work. Mr. Hoover considers domestic Communists more dangerous than the Mafia, and I have to say that I agree with him.”
They stared at each other. Littell broke it off-Leahy would stand there all day if he didn’t