by James Ellroy
“Kemper, shit, what time is it?”
“You’re hired, Pete. Stanton’s putting you on immediate contract status. You’re going to be running the Blessington campsite.”
Pete rubbed his eyes. “That’s the official gig, but what’s ours?” “We’re going to facilitate a collaboration between the CIA and organized crime.”
28
(New York City, 8/26/59)
Joe Kennedy handed out presidential-sealed tie pins. The Carlyle suite took on a fake-presidential glow.
Bobby looked bored. Jack looked amused. Kemper pinned his necktie to his shirt.
Jack said, “Kemper’s a thief.”
Bobby said, “We came here to discuss the campaign, remember?”
Kemper brushed lint off his trousers. He wore a seersucker suit and white bucks—Joe called him an ice-cream jockey out of work.
Laura loved the outfit. He bought it with his stock-theft money. It was good summertime wedding attire.
Joe said, “FDR gave me those pins. I kept them because I knew I’d host a meeting like this one day.”
Joe wanted an event. The butler had arranged hors d’oeuvres on a sideboard near their chairs.
Bobby pulled off his necktie. “My book will be published in hardback in February, about a month after Jack announces. The paperback edition will come out in July, right around the time of the convention. I’m hoping it will put the whole Hoffa crusade in perspective. We don’t want Jack’s association with the McClellan Committee to hurt him with labor.”
Jack laughed. “That goddamn book’s eating up all your time. You should get a ghost writer. I did, and I won the Pulitzer Prize.”
Joe smeared caviar on a cracker. “I heard Kemper wanted his name deleted from the text. That’s too bad, because then you could have titled it The Ice Cream Jockey Within.”
Kemper toyed with his tie pin. “There’s a million car thieves out there who hate me, Mr. Kennedy. I’d prefer that they not know what I’m doing.”
Jack said, “Kemper’s the furtive type.”
Joe said, “Yes, and Bobby could learn from him. I’ve said it a thousand times before, and I’ll say it a thousand times again. This hard-on for Jimmy Hoffa and the Mafia is horseshit. You may need those people to help you get out the vote one day, and now you’re adding insult to injury by writing a book on top of chasing them via the goddamn Committee. Kemper plays his cards close to the vest, Bobby. You could learn from him.”
Bobby chuckled. “Enjoy the moment, Kemper. Dad sides against his kids with outsiders present once in a decade.”
Jack lit a cigar. “Sinatra’s pals with those gangster guys. If we need them, we could use him as a go-between.”
Bobby punched a chair cushion. “Frank Sinatra is a cowardly, finger-popping lowlife, and I will never make deals with gangster scum.”
Jack rolled his eyes. Kemper took it as a cue to play middleman.
“I think the book has possibilities. I think we can distribute copies to union members during the primaries and notch some points that way. I’ve made a lot of law-enforcement connections working for the Committee, and I think we can forge an alliance of nominally Republican DAs by pushing Jack’s anticrime credentials.”
Jack blew smoke rings. “Bobby’s the gangbuster, not me.”
Kemper said, “You were on the Committee.”
Bobby smiled. “I’ll portray you heroically, Jack. I won’t say that you and Dad were soft on Hoffa from the gate.”
They all laughed. Bobby grabbed a handful of canapes.
Joe cleared his throat. “Kemper, we invited you to this session chiefly to discuss J. Edgar Hoover. We should discuss the situation now, because I’m hosting a dinner at Pavilion tonight, and I need to get ready.”
“Do you mean the files that Hoover has on all of you?”
Jack nodded. “I was thinking specifically of a romance I had during the war. I’ve heard that Hoover’s convinced himself that the woman was a Nazi spy.”
“Do you mean Inga Arvad?”
“That’s right.”
Kemper snatched one of Bobby’s canapes. “Mr. Hoover has that documented, yes. He bragged about it to me years ago. May I make a suggestion and clear the air about something?”
Joe nodded. Jack and Bobby pushed up to the edge of their chairs.
Kemper leaned toward them. “I’m sure Mr. Hoover knows that I went to work for the Committee. I’m sure he’s disappointed that I haven’t been in touch with him. Let me re-establish contact and tell him that I’m working for you. Let me assure him that Jack won’t replace him as FBI director if he’s elected.”
Joe nodded. Jack and Bobby nodded.
“I think it’s a smart, cautious move. And while I’ve got the floor, I’d like to bring up the Cuban issue. Eisenhower and Nixon have declared themselves anti-Castro, and I’ve been thinking that Jack should establish some anti-Fidel credentials.”
Joe fiddled with his tie pin. “Everybody’s starting to hate Castro. I don’t see Cuba as a partisan issue.”
Jack said, “Dad’s right. But I’ve been thinking that I might send some Marines down if I’m elected.”
Joe said, “When you’re elected.”
“Right. I’ll send some Marines down to liberate the whorehouses. Kemper can lead the troops. I’ll have him establish a spearhead in Havana.”
Joe winked. “Don’t forget your spear, Kemper.”
“I won’t. And seriously, I’ll keep you posted on the Cuban front. I know some ex-FBI men with good anti-Castro intelligence.”
Bobby brushed hair off his forehead. “Speaking of FBI men, how’s the Phantom?”
“In a word, he’s persistent. He’s chasing those Pension Fund books, but he’s not making much headway.”
“He’s starting to impress me as pathetic.”
“Believe me, he’s not.”
“Can I meet him?”
“Not until he retires. He’s afraid of Mr. Hoover.”
Joe said, “We all are.”
Everybody laughed.
The St. Regis was a slightly downscale Carlyle. Kemper’s suite was a third the size of the Kennedys’. He kept a room at a modest hotel in the West 40s—Jack and Bobby contacted him there.
It was stifling hot outside. The suite was a perfect 68 degrees.
Kemper wrote a note to Mr. Hoover. He said, It’s confirmed—if elected, Jack Kennedy won’t fire you. He played a game of Devil’s Advocate next—his standard post-Kennedy-conference ritual.
Doubters questioned his travels. Doubters questioned his complex allegiances.
He sprang logical traps on himself and evaded them brilliantly.
He was seeing Laura tonight—for dinner and a recital at Carnegie Hall. She’d ridicule the pianist’s style and practice his showstopper piece endlessly. It was the Kennedy quintessence: Compete, but don’t go public unless you can win. Laura was half-Kennedy and a woman—she possessed competitive spirit but no family sanction. Her half-sisters married skirt chasers and stayed faithful; Laura had affairs. Laura said Joe loved his girls but deep down considered them niggers.
He’d been with Laura for seven months now. The Kennedys had no inkling of the liaison. When an engagement was formalized, he’d tell them.
They would be shocked, then relieved. They considered him trustworthy and knew that he kept things compartmentalized.
Laura loved ballsy men and the arts. She was a solitary woman—with no real friends except Lenny Sands. She exemplified the pervasive Kennedy orbit: A mobbed-up lounge lizard gave Jack speech lessons and forged a bond with his half-sister.
That bond was borderline scary. Lenny might tell Laura things. Lenny might tell her grisly stories.
Laura never mentioned Lenny—despite the fact that he facilitated their meeting.
She probably talked to Lenny long-distance.
Lenny was volatile. An angry or frightened Lenny might say:
Mr. Boyd made Mr. Littell hit me. Mr. Boyd and Mr. Littell are nasty extortionists
. Mr. Boyd got me my Hush-Hush job—which is very nasty employment.
His Lenny fears peaked in late April.
The Boynton Beach auditions revealed two security risks: a child molester and a homosexual pimp. CIA guidelines mandated termination. He took them out to the Everglades and shot them.
The pimp saw it coming and begged. He shot him in the mouth to cut his squeals off.
He told Claire he killed two men in cold blood. She responded with anti-Communist platitudes.
The pimp reminded him of Lenny. The pimp sparked Devil’s Advocate impromptus that he couldn’t lie his way out of.
Lenny could ruin him with Laura. Further coercion might backfire—Lenny was volatile.
There was no cut-and-dried Lenny solution. Easing Laura’s loneliness might help—she’d be less inclined to contact Lenny.
He brought Claire up from Tulane and introduced her to Laura in mid-May. She was wowed by Laura—a big-city sophisticate ten years her senior. A friendship clicked—the two became great phone chums. Claire joined Laura for occasional weekends, full of concerts and museum tours.
He traveled to earn his three paychecks. His daughter kept his future fiancée company.
Laura told Claire her whole story. Claire inspired full disclosure. Claire was wowed—My Dad might be the President’s secret brother-in-law someday.
He pimped for the maybe future President. Jack went through his little black book and sideswiped a hundred women inside six months. Sally Lefferts called Jack a de facto rapist. “He backs you into a corner and charms you until you’re plain bushed. He convinces you that turning him down would make you just about the most worthless female who ever lived.”
His little black book was near-depleted. Mr. Hoover might tell him to fix Jack up with FBI-plant call girls.
It might happen. If Jack’s campaign flourished, Mr. Hoover might simply say, “DO IT.”
The phone rang. Kemper caught it on the second ring.
“Yes?”
A long-distance line crackled. “Kemper? It’s Chuck Rogers. I’m at the stand, and something happened I figured you should know about.”
“What?”
“Those pro-Castro guys I fired cruised by last night and shot up the parking lot. We were damn lucky nobody got hurt. Fulo says he thinks they’ve got a hole-up someplace close.”
Kemper stretched out on the couch. “I’ll be down in a few days. We’ll fix things up.”
“Fix things how?”
“I want to convince Jimmy to sell the stand to the Agency. You’ll see. We’ll work something out with him.”
“I say let’s be decisive. I say we can’t lose face in the Cuban community by letting Commie shitheads shoot at us.”
“We’ll send them a message, Chuck. You won’t be disappointed.”
• • •
Kemper let himself in with his key. Laura left the terrace doors open—concert lights had Central Park sparkling.
It was too simple and too pretty. He’d seen some Cuban reconnaissance shots that put it to shame.
They showed United Fruit buildings torched against a night sky. The pictures were pure raw spellbinding—
Something said:
Check Laura’s phone bills.
He rifled her study drawers and found them. She’d called Lenny Sands eleven times within the past three months.
Something said, Convince yourself decisively.
It was most likely nothing. Laura never mentioned Lenny or acted in any way suspicious.
Something said, Make her tell you.
They sat down to martinis. Laura was sunburned from a long day shopping.
She said, “How long were you waiting?”
Kemper said, “About an hour.”
“I called you at the St. Regis, but the switchboard man said you’d left already.”
“I felt like a walk.”
“When it’s so grisly hot out?”
“I had to check my messages at the other hotel.”
“You could have called the desk and asked for them.”
“I like to show myself every so often.”
Laura laughed. “My lover’s a spy.”
“Not really.”
“What would my ersatz family think if they knew you had a suite at the St. Regis?”
Kemper laughed. “They’d consider it imitative, and wonder how I could afford it.”
“I’ve wondered myself. Your FBI pension and salary from the family aren’t that generous.”
Kemper put a hand on her knees. “I’ve been lucky in the stock market. I’ve said it before, Laura. If you’re curious, ask.”
“All right, I will. You’ve never mentioned taking walks before, so why did you take a walk on the hottest day of the year?”
Kemper made his eyes mist over. “I was thinking of my friend Ward, and these walks we’d take along the lakefront in Chicago. I’ve been missing him lately, and I think I confused the Chicago lakefront climate with Manhattan’s. What’s the matter, you look sad.”
“Oh, nothing.”
She took the bait. His Chicago/friend talk nailed her.
“Horseshit, ‘Oh, nothing.’ Laura …”
“No, really, it’s nothing.”
“Laura …”
She pulled away from him. “Kemper, it’s nothing.”
Kemper sighed. Kemper feigned perfect chagrined exasperation.
“No, it’s not, it’s Lenny Sands. Something I said reminded you of him.”
She relaxed. She was buying the whole verbal package.
“Well, when you said you knew Lenny you were evasive, and I haven’t brought him up because I thought it might bother you.”
“Did Lenny tell you that he knew me?”
“Yes, and some other nameless FBI man. He wouldn’t give me any details, but I could tell that he was afraid of you both.”
“We helped him out of trouble, Laura. There was a price. Do you want me to tell you what that price was?”
“No. I don’t want to know. It’s an ugly world that Lenny lives in … and … well, it’s just that you live in hotel suites and work for my quasi-family and God knows who else. I just wish we could be more open somehow.”
Her eyes convinced him to do it. It was dead risky but the stuff of legends.
Kemper said, “Put on that green dress I gave you.”
Pavilion was all silk brocade and candlelight. A pre-theater crowd came dressed to the nines.
Kemper slipped the maître d’ a hundred dollars. A waiter led them back to the family’s private room.
Time stood still. Kemper posed Laura beside him and opened the door.
Joe and Bobby looked up and froze. Ava Gardner put her glass down in slow motion.
Jack smiled.
Joe dropped his fork. His soufflé exploded. Ava Gardner caught chocolate sauce on the bodice.
Bobby stood up and balled his fists. Jack grabbed his cummerbund and pulled him back into his chair.
Jack laughed.
Jack said something like, “More balls than brains.”
Joe and Bobby glowed—radioactively pissed.
Time stood still. Ava Gardner looked smaller than life.
29
(Dallas, 8/27/59)
He rented a suite at the Adolphus Hotel. His bedroom faced the south side of Commerce Street and Jack Ruby’s Carousel Club.
Kemper Boyd always said DON’T SCRIMP ON SURVEILLANCE LODGING.
Littell watched the door with binoculars. It was 4:00 p.m. now, with no Live Striptease Girls until 6:00.
He’d checked Chicago-to-Dallas flight reservations. Sid Kabikoff flew in to Big D yesterday. His itinerary included a rent-a-car pickup.
His final destination was McAllen, Texas—smack on the Mexican border.
He flew down to make a smut film. He told Mad Sal that he was shooting it with Jack Ruby strippers.
Littell called in some sick time. He coughed when he talked to SAC Leahy. He purchased his airplane ticket under a p
seudonym—Kemper Boyd always said COVER YOUR TRACKS.
Kabikoff told Mad Sal that “real” Fund books existed. Kabikoff told Mad Sal that Jules Schiffrin kept them. Kabikoff told Mad Sal that Jules Schiffrin knew Joe Kennedy.
It had to be a benign business acquaintance. Joe Kennedy cut a wide business swath.
Littell watched the door. An eyestrain headache slammed him. A crowd formed outside the Carousel Club.
Three muscular young men and three cheap-looking women. Sid Kabikoff himself—fat and sweaty.
They said hellos and lit cigarettes. Kabikoff waved his hands, effusive.
Jack Ruby opened the door. A dachshund ran out and took a shit on the sidewalk. Ruby kicked turds into the gutter.
The crowd moved inside. Littell visualized a rear-entry reconnaissance.
The back door was hook-and-eye latched, with slack at the door-doorjamb juncture. A dressing room connected to the club proper.
He walked across the street and hooked around to the parking lot. He saw one car only: a ’56 Ford convertible with the top down.
The registration was strapped to the steering column. The owner was one Jefferson Davis Tippit.
Dogs yapped. Ruby should rename his dive the Carousel Kennel Club. Littell walked up to the door and popped the latch with his penknife.
It was dark. A crack of light cut through the dressing room.
He tiptoed up to the source. He smelled perfume and dog effluvia. The crack was a connecting door left ajar.
He heard overlapping voices. He made out Ruby, Kabikoff and a man with a deep Texas twang.
He squinted into the light. He saw Ruby, Kabikoff and a uniformed Dallas cop—standing by a striptease runway.
Littell craned his neck. His view expanded.
The runway was packed. He saw four girls and four boys, all buck naked.
Ruby said, “J.D., are they not gorgeous?”
The cop said, “I’m partial to women exclusively, but all in all I got to agree.”
The boys stroked erections. The girls oohed and aahed. Three dachshunds cavorted on the runway.
Kabikoff giggled. “Jack, you’re a better talent scout than Major Bowes and Ted Mack combined. 100%, Jack. I’m talking no rejections for these lovelies.”
J.D. said, “When do we meet?”