Littell tracked 1408s across paper. He saw continuous commas-and no cash-out bottom-line one-time profit.
Joe only took interest out. Joe’s base loan sums stayed liquid inside the Fund.
Growing.
Laundered, hidden, obfuscated, tax-sheltered and funneled- disbursed to labor thugs, dope pushers, shylocks and mobbed-up fascist dictators.
The all-code books contained specifics. He could crack the code and know exactly where the money went.
My secrets, Bobby-I’ll never let you hate your father.
Littell went eight drinks over his limit. He passed out shouting numbers.
54
Jack stood a million votes up and way ahead in the electoral. Nixon gouged at his lead-the Midwest looked problematic.
Kemper watched three TVs and juggled four phones. His motel room was one big cable socket-the Secret Service demanded multiple lines in and out.
The red phone was his personal line. The two white phones hooked in direct to the Kennedy compound. The blue phone linked the Secret Service to the almost-President-elect.
It was 11:35 p.m.
CBS called Illinois tight. NBC said “Cliffhanger!” ABC said Jack would win, with 51% of the vote.
Kemper checked the window. Secret Service men mingled outside--they’d booked up the entire motel complex.
White phone #2 rang. It was Bobby, with complaints.
A journalist pole-vaulted into the compound. A hot rod sporting Nixon banners plowed the main house lawn.
Kemper called two off-duty cops and sent them over. He told them to beat up all trespassers and impound their vehicles.
The red phone rang. It was Santo Junior, with Mob scuttlebutt.
He said, Illinois looks dicey. He said, Sam G. threw some weight to help Jack.
Lenny Sands was out stuffing ballot boxes. He had a hundred aldermen helping him. Jack should blitz Cook County and eke out a statewide win by a nun’s-cunt-hair margin.
Kemper hung up. The red phone rang again. It was Pete, with more secondhand gossip.
He said Mr. Hoover called Mr. Hughes. Mr. Hughes told Pete that Marilyn Monroe was quite naughty.
The Feds had her hot-wired. During the past two weeks she banged disc jockey Allan Freed, Billy Eckstine, Freddy Otash, Rin Tin Tin’s trainer, Jon “Ramar of the Jungle” Hall, her pool cleaner, two pizza delivery boys, talk-show man Tom Duggan and her maid’s husband-but no Senator John F. Kennedy.
Kemper laughed and hung up. CBS judged the race “too close to call.”
ABC retracted its prediction. The race was now “too close to call.”
White phone #1 rang.
Kemper picked up. “Bob?”
“It’s me. I just called to say we’re way ahead in the electoral, and Illinois and Michigan should put us over. The Hughes loan thing helped, Kemper. Your ‘unnamed source’ should know that it was a factor.”
“You don’t sound too elated.”
“I won’t believe it until it’s final. And a friend of Dad’s just died. He was younger than him, so he’s taking it hard.”
“Anybody I know?”
“Jules Schiffrin. I think you met him a few years ago. He had a heart attack in Wisconsin. He came home and found his house burglarized, and just keeled over. A friend of Dad’s in Lake Geneva called-”
“Lake Geneva?”
“Right. North of Chicago; Kemper…”
The Littell assault location. Schiffrin: a Chicago-based gonif type.
“Kemper…”
“I’m sorry. I was distracted.”
“I was going to say something…”
“About Laura?”
“How did you know that?”
“You never come off hesitant unless it’s about Laura.”
Bobby cleared his throat. “Call her. Tell her we’d appreciate it if she didn’t contact the family for a while. I’m sure she’ll understand.”
Court Meade said Littell vanished. It was circumstantial, but-
“Kemper, are you listening to me?”
“Yes.”
“Call Laura. Be kind, but be firm.”
“I’ll do it.”
Bobby hung up. Kemper placed a red phone call through the switchboard: Chicago, BL8-4908.
It went through. He heard two rings and two very faint tapclicks.
Littell said, “Hello?”
Kemper covered the mouthpiece.
Littell said, “Is that you, Boyd? Are you coming back into my life because you’re scared, or because you think I might have something you want?”
Kemper disconnected.
Ward J. Littell-Jesus Fucking Christ.
55
Guy Banister screeched long-distance. Pete felt an earache coming on.
“We’re looking at a new papist hegemony. He loves niggers and Jews, and he’s been soft-line on Communism since he was a congressman. I can’t believe he won. I can’t believe the American people bought his line of bull-”
“Get to it, Guy. You said J.D. Tippit picked up something.”
Banister de-throttled his spiel. “I forgot I called you for a reason. And I forgot you were soft-line on Kennedy.”
Pete said, “I like his hair. It gets my dick hard.”
Banister re-throttled. Pete cut him off quick.
“It’s 8:00 fucking a.m. I’ve got cab calls backedup and three drivers out sick. Tell me what you want.”
“I want Dick Nixon to demand a recount.”
“Guy-”
“All right, then. Boyd was supposed to tell you to talk to Wilfredo Delsol.”
“He did.”
“Did you talk to him?”
“No. I’ve been busy.”
“Tippit said he heard Delsol’s bern seen with some Castro guys. A bunch of us think he should explain.”
“I’ll go see him.”
“You do that. And while you’re at it, try to develop some political brains.”
Pete laughed. “Jack’s a white man. I’ve got a big hard-on just thinking about his hair.”
o o o
Pete drove to Wilfredo’s pad and knocked on the door. Delsol opened up in his skivvies.
He was bleary-eyed. He was scrawny. He looked too sleepy to stand upright.
He shivered and plucked at his balls. He shook the cobwebs out of his head and caught on fast.
“Somebody told you something bad about me.”
“Keep going.”
“You only visit people in order to scare them.”
“That’s right. Or to ask them to explain some things.”
“Ask me, then.”
“You were seen talking to some pro-Castro guys.”
“That’s true.”
“So?”
“So they heard how my cousin Tomбs died. They thought they could get me to betray the Cadre.”
“And?”
“And I told them I hated what happened to Tomбs, but I hate Fidel Castro more.”
Pete leaned against the door. “You don’t much like speedboat runs.”
“Killing odd militiamen is futile.”
“Suppose you get assigned to an invasion group?”
“I’ll go.”
“Suppose I tell you to whack one of those guys you were seen talking to?”
“I would say Gaspar Blanco lives two blocks from here.”
Pete said, “Kill him.”
o o o
Pete cruised Niggertown-for the pure time-marking fuck of it. The radio ran election news exclusively.
Nixon conceded. Frau Nixon pitched some boo-hoo. Bad-Back Jack thanked his staff and announced that Frau Bad-Back was pregnant.
Nigger junkies were cliqued up by a shine stand. Fulo and Ramуn drove up to service them. Chuck was trading bindles for signed-over welfare checks.
Jack talked up the New Frontier. Fulo dropped off a fat load of shit with the shoeshine man.
A local bulletin flashed on.
Shots fired outside Coral Gables bodega! Police ID dead man as one Gaspar Ramуn Blanco!
Pete smiled. November 8, 1960, was an all-time classic day.
o o o