“In what fucking capacity?”

“He shoots people.”

“Then tell him to clip Fidel and learn English. Tell him to do something impressive, or he’s just another frog geek to me.”

Boyd laughed. “He killed a man named Lumumba in the Congo last month.”

“So what?”

“He’s killed quite a few uppity Algerians.”

Pete lit a cigarette. “So tell Jack to send him down to Havana. And send Nйstor down with him. And tell Jack that he owes me one for the Nixon-Hughes thing, and as far as I’m concerned, history’s not moving fast enough. Tell him to give us a go date, or I’ll boat on down to Cuba and whack Fidel myself.”

Boyd said, “Be patient. Jack’s still getting his sea legs, and invading a Communist-held country is a big commitment Dulles and Bissell are keeping after him, and I’m convinced he’ll say yes before too long.”

Pete kicked a tin can off the porch. Boyd pulled his piece and unloaded it. The can danced all the way across the drill field.

The chow-line crew applauded. Big-bore reverb had a few guys clutching their ears.

Pete kicked at the shell casings. “You talk to Jack. Tell him the invasion’s good for business.”

Boyd twirled his gun on one finger. “I can’t openly proselytize for the invasion without blowing my Agency cover, and I’m damn lucky to have FBI cover to be in Florida in the first place.”

“That civil rights gig must be sweet. You just go through the motions and fly to Miami when the niggers start getting on your nerves.”

“It’s not like that.”

“No?”

“No. I like the Negro people I work with just as much as you like our Cubans, and offhand I’d say that their grievances are considerably more justified.”

Pete tossed his cigarette. “Say what you like. And I’ll say this again. You cut people too much slack.”

“You mean I don’t let people get to me.”

“That’s not what I mean. What I mean is you accept too much weak slat in people, and for my money it’s some condescending rich-kid quality you picked up from the Kennedys.”

Boyd popped in a fresh clip and slid a round in the chamber. “I’ll grant Jack that quality, but not Bobby. Bobby’s a true judger and hater.”

“He hates some pretty tight friends of ours.”

“He does. And he’s starting to hate Carlos Marcello more than I’d like him to.”

“Did you tell Carlos that?”

“Not yet. But if things escalate a bit more, I might ask you to help him out of a scrape.”

Pete cracked a few knuckles. “And I’ll say yes, no questions asked. Now, you say yes to something.”

Boyd aimed at a mound of dirt twenty yards off. “No, you cannot kill Ward Littell.”

“Why?”

“He’s got the books fail-safed.”

“So I torture him for the pertinent information, then kill him.”

“It won’t work.”

“Why?”

Boyd shot a rattlesnake headless.

“I said ‘Why?,’ Kemper.”

“Because he’d die just to prove he could do it.”

His cards read:

Ward J. Littell

Counselor-At-Law

Federal Bar Licensed

No address-he didn’t want clients to know that he worked out of his apartment. No glossy stock or embossed letters-he couldn’t really afford them.

Littell cruised the third-floor hallway. Indicted felons took the cards and looked at him like he was crazy.

Shyster. Ambulance chaser. Middle-aged lawyer on the skids.

The Federal courthouse did a brisk business. Six divisions and full arraignment docketing-all unaccompanied lowlifes qualified as potential clients.

Littell passed out cards. A man flicked a cigarette butt at him.

Kemper Boyd walked up. Beautiful Kemper-so fit and groomed that he sparkled.

“Can I buy you a drink?”

“I don’t drink like I used to.”

“Lunch then?”

“Sure.”

o o o

The Hay-Adams dining room faced the White House. Kemper kept glancing out the window.

“…And my work entails taking depositions and filing them in Federal District Court. We’re trying to insure that Negroes previously barred from voting aren’t excluded on the basis of illegally levied poll taxes or constrained by literacy tests that the local registrars want them to fail.”

Littell smiled. “And I’m sure the Kennedys will rig binding legal clauses to insure that every Negro in Alabama registers as a Democrat. You have to consider things like that in the early stages of building a dynasty.”

Kemper laughed. “The President’s civil rights policy isn’t that cynically conceived.”

“Is your application of it?”

“Hardly. I’ve always considered suppression ill-advised and futile.”

“And you like the people?”

“Yes, I do.”

“Your southern accent’s back in force.”

“It disarms the people I deal with. They appreciate it that a southern white man’s on their side. You’re grinning, Ward. What is it?”

Littell sipped coffee. “It occurred to me that Alabama is rather close to Florida.”

“You were always quick.”

“Does the attorney general know that you’re moonlighting?”

“No. But I do have a certain sanction on my Florida visits.”

“Let me guess. Mr. Hoover’s supplying you with cover, and as much as he professes to hate him, Bobby would never do anything to upset Mr. Hoover.”

Kemper waved a waiter off. “Your hatred’s showing, Ward.”

“I don’t hate Mr. Hoover. You can’t hate someone who runs so true to form.”

“But Bobby-”

Littell whispered. “You know what I risked for him. And you know what I got back. And what I can’t abide is that the Kennedys pretend to be better than that.”

Kemper said, “You’ve got the books.” He shot his cuffs and displayed a solid gold Rolex.

Littell pointed to the White House. “Yes, I do. And they’re booby-trapped a dozen different ways. I filed instruction contingency briefs with a dozen different lawyers when I was drunk, and even I can’t remember them all.”

Kemper folded his hands. “With depositions on my Kennedy incursion to go to the Justice Department in the event of your death or prolonged disappearance?”

“No. With depositions on your incursion and depositions on astronomically lucrative Joseph P. Kennedy Mob-linked fmancial malfeasance to go to municipal PD gangster squads nationwide, and every Republican member of the House and the Senate.”

Kemper said, “Bravo.”

Littell said, “Thank you.”

A waiter placed a phone on their table. Kemper placed a folder next to it.

“Are you broke, Ward?”

“Almost.”

“You haven’t expressed a word of rancor regarding my recent behavior.”

“It wouldn’t do any good.”

“How do you currently feel about organized crime?”

“My current feelings are relatively charitable.”

Kemper tapped the folder. “That’s a pilfered INS file. And you’re the best deportation-writ lawyer on God’s green earth.”

Littell’s shirt cuffs were soiled and frayed. Kemper wore solid gold cufflinks.

“Ten thousand dollars to start, Ward. I’m certain I can get it for you.”

“For doing what? For releasing the books to you?”

“Forget the books. All I ask is that you don’t release them to anyone else.”

“Kemper, what are you talk-?”

“Your client will be Carlos Marcello. And it’s Bobby Kennedy who wants to deport him.”

The phone rang. Littell dropped his coffee cup.

Kemper said, “That’s Carlos. Be obsequious, Ward. He’ll expect a certain amount of fawning.”

DOCUMENT INSERT: 4/2/61. VerbatIm FBI telephone call transcript: “TRANSCRIBED AT THE DIRECTOR’S REQUEST”/”DIRECTOR’S EYES ONLY.” Speaking: Director J. Edgar Hoover, Attorney General Robert F. Kennedy.