American Tabloid - James Ellroy [199]
The AG with shades and a stingy-brim fedora. The AG as Rat Pack reject.
They strolled the facility. Bobby’s getup inspired odd looks. Contract men walked by and waved hello.
Lies wouldn’t come.
They toured at a leisurely pace. Bobby kept his famous voice to a whisper. A few Cubans recognized him and played along with the ruse.
Kemper showcased the Propaganda Section. A case officer rattled off statistics. Nobody said, Jack Kennedy is a vacillating sob sister.
Nobody dropped Mob names. Nobody dropped hints that they knew Kemper Boyd before the Bay of Pigs invasion.
Bobby liked the air recon plans. The communications room impressed him.
Lies wouldn’t come. Details wouldn’t mesh with any degree of verisimilitude.
They toured the Map Section. Chuck Rogers walked up, hale-hearty. Kemper steered Bobby away from him.
Bobby used the men’s room and stormed out in a huff. Somebody scrawled anti-Kennedy remarks above the urinals.
They walked over to the Miami U cafeteria. Bobby bought them coffee and sweet rolls.
College kids carried trays past their table. Kemper forced himself not to fidget—the Dexedrine was surging especially strong.
Bobby cleared his throat. “Say what you’ve been thinking.”
“What?”
“Say that coastal harassment and intelligence gathering aren’t enough. Tell me we need to assassinate Fidel Castro for the three hundredth time and get it out of your system.”
Kemper smiled. “We need to assassinate Fidel Castro. And I’ll memorize your response, so you won’t have to say it again.”
Bobby said, “You know my response. I hate redundancy, and I hate this hat. How does Sinatra manage it?”
“He’s Italian.”
Bobby pointed to some coeds in short shorts. “Don’t they have a dress code here?”
“The code is as little as possible.”
“I should tell Jack. He could address the student body.”
Kemper laughed. “I’m glad to see that you’ve become more accepting.”
“More discerning, maybe.”
“And more specifically disapproving?”
“Touché.”
Kemper sipped coffee. “Who’s the man been seeing?”
“Some fluff. And a Twist performer Lenny Sands introduced him to.”
“Who isn’t fluff?”
“Let’s say she’s mentally overqualified for some cheap dance craze.”
“You’ve met her?”
Bobby nodded. “Lenny brought her to Peter Lawford’s house in Los Angeles. I got the impression that she thinks a few steps ahead of most people, and Jack always calls me from the Carlyle to say how smart she is, which is not what Jack usually comments on in a woman.”
Lenny, the Twist, L.A.—a puzzling little triad.
“What’s her name?”
“Barb Jahelka. Jack was on the phone with her this morning. He said he called her at 5:00 a.m. L.A. time, and she still managed to come off smart and funny.”
Pete called from L.A. last night. A woman was humming “Let’s Twist Again.”
“What is it about her that you disapprove of?”
“Probably just the fact that she doesn’t behave like most of Jack’s quickies.”
Pete was a shakedown man. Lenny was an L.A. show-biz reptile.
“Do you think she’s dangerous in some way?”
“Not exactly. I’m just suspicious because I’m the attorney general of the United States, and suspiciousness goes with the job. Why do you care? We’ve given this woman two minutes more than she deserves.”
Kemper crumpled his coffee cup. “I was just steering talk away from Fidel.”
Bobby laughed. “Good. And no, you and our exile friends cannot assassinate him.”
Kemper stood up. “Do you want to look around some more?”
“No. I’ve got a car picking me up. Do you want a lift to the airport?”
“No. I have to make some phone calls.”
Bobby took off his shades. A coed recognized him and squealed.
Kemper commandeered a vacant JM/Wave office. The switchboard put him through to LAPD R&I direct.
A man picked up. “Records and Information. Officer Graham.”
“Dennis Payne, please. Tell him it’s Kemper Boyd, long distance.”
“Hold on, please.”
Kemper scribbled up a scratch pad. Payne came on the line posthaste.
“Mr. Boyd, how are you?”
“I’m fine, Sergeant. You?”
“Fair to middling. And I’ll bet you have a request to make.”
“I do. I need you to check