American Tabloid - James Ellroy [101]
“Communism’s bad for business. Don’t pretend it’s anything more than that.”
Banister hooked his thumbs in his belt. “If you think that makes you sound worldly, you’re sadly mistaken.”
“Yeah?”
Banister smiled, too smug to live. “Accepting Communism is synonymous with promoting Communism. Your old nemesis Ward Littell accepts Communism, and a friend of mine in Chicago told me that Mr. Hoover is building a pro-Communist profile on him, based on his inactions more than his actions. You see where being worldly and accepting gets you when the chips are down?”
Pete cracked some knuckles. “Go get Lockhart. You know what Boyd wants, so explain it to him. And from here on in, shitcan the lectures.”
Banister flinched. Banister started to open his mouth.
Pete went “Boo!”
Banister scurried out the hatch, double-time quick.
The silence and cold air felt sweet. The canned goods and liquor looked tasty. The wallpaper looked sweet—Miss July, especially.
Say the Russians drop the A-bomb. Say you hole up here. Cabin fever might set in and convince you the women were real.
Lockhart dropped down the hatch. He wore a soot-flecked sheet, cinched by a gunbelt and two revolvers.
He had bright red hair and freckles. His drawl was deep Mississippi.
“The money I like, and the move to Florida don’t bother me. But that no-lynching rule has gotta go.”
Pete backhanded him. Dougie Frank stayed upright—give him an A-plus for balance.
“Man, I have killed oversized white trash for less than what you just did!”
Punk bravura: Give him a C-minus.
Pete slapped him again. Lockhart pulled his right-hand piece—but didn’t aim it.
Nerves: A-plus. Sense of caution: B-minus.
Lockhart wiped blood off his chin. “I like Cubans. I might stretch my racial-exclusion policy and let your guys into my Klavern.”
Sense of humor: A-plus.
Lockhart spit a tooth out. “Give me something. Let me know that I’m more than just some punching bag.”
Pete winked. “Mr. Boyd and I might put you on a bonus plan. And the Agency just might give you your own Ku Klux Klan.”
Lockhart did a Stepin Fetchit shuffle. “Thank you, massah! If you was pro-Klan like a real white man, I’d kiss the hem of your sheet!”
Pete kicked him in the balls.
He went down—but didn’t yelp or whimper. He cocked his gun—but didn’t fire.
The man got passing marks overall.
34
(New York City, 9/29/59)
The cab crawled uptown. Kemper balanced paperwork on his briefcase.
A graph showed primary-election states divided by county. Intersecting columns listed his law-enforcement contacts.
He checkmarked the presumed Democrats. He crossed out the presumed GOP hardcases.
It was boring work. Joe should simply buy Jack the White House.
Traffic slogged. The cabbie rode his horn. Kemper played a game of Devil’s Advocate—dissembling practice never hurt.
Bobby questioned his constant Florida sojourns. His response verged on indignation.
“I’m in charge of forwarding McClellan Committee evidence, aren’t I? Well, the Sun Valley case sticks in my craw, and Florida’s a state that Jack needs to carry in the general election. I’ve been down there talking to some disaffected Teamsters.”
The cab passed through slums. Ward Littell crashed his thoughts.
They hadn’t talked or corresponded in a month. The D’Onofrio killing made a brief news splash and stayed unsolved. Ward didn’t call or write to comment.
He should contact Ward. He should find out if Mad Sal’s death derived from his work as Ward’s informant.
The driver stopped at the St. Regis. Kemper paid him and quick-walked to the desk.
A clerk hovered. Kemper said, “Would you buzz my suite and ask Miss Hughes to come down?”
The clerk slipped on a headset and punched his switchboard. Kemper checked his watch—they were running way late for dinner.
“She’s on the phone, Mr. Boyd. There’s a conversation in progress.”
Kemper smiled. “It’s probably Miss Hughes and my daughter. They talk for hours at hotel rates.”
“It’s Miss Hughes and a man, actually.”
Kemper caught himself clenching. “Let me have your