American Tabloid - James Ellroy [47]
Pete lit a cigarette. Inhaling torqued his headache. “I’m listening.”
Banister grinned. “I remember that civil rights trouble of yours. Kemper Boyd and Ward Littell arrested you, didn’t they?”
“You know they did.”
“I used to be the Chicago SAC, and I always thought Littell was a weak sister.”
Stanton straddled his chair. “But Kemper Boyd’s another matter. You know, Pete, he went by the Tiger stand and showed your mug shot around. One of the men pulled a knife, and Boyd disarmed him in a rather spectacular fashion.”
Pete said, “Boyd’s a stylish guy. And this is starting to play like some kind of audition, so I’ll tell you that I’d recommend him for Just about any kind of law-enforcement work.”
Stanton smiled. “You’re not a bad audition prospect yourself.”
Banister smiled. “You’re a licensed private investigator. You’re a former deputy sheriff. You’re Howard Hughes’ man, and you know Jimmy Hoffa, Fulo Machado and Chuck Rogers. Those are stylish credentials.”
Pete stubbed his cigarette out on the wall. “The CIA’s not so bad, as credentials go. That’s who you are, right?”
Stanton stood up. “You’re free to go. No charges will be filed on you, Rogers or Machado.”
“But you’ll be keeping in touch?”
“Not exactly. But I may ask a favor of you one day. And of course, you’ll be well paid for it.”
14
(New York City, 1/5/59)
The suite was magnificent. Joe Kennedy bought it from the hotel outright.
A hundred people left the main room only half-filled. The picture window gave you the breadth of Central Park in a snowstorm.
Jack invited him. He said his father’s Carlyle bashes were not to be missed—and besides, Bobby needs to talk to you.
Jack said there might be women. Jack said Lyndon Johnson’s redhead might appear.
Kemper watched cliques constellate and dissolve. The party swirled all around him.
Old Joe stood with his horsy daughters. Peter Lawford ruled an all-male group. Jack speared cocktail shrimp with Nelson Rockefeller.
Lawford prophesied the Kennedy cabinet. Frank Sinatra was considered a shoo-in for Prime Minister of Pussy.
Bobby was late. The redhead hadn’t arrived—Jack would have signaled him if he saw her first.
Kemper sipped eggnog. His tuxedo jacket fit loose—he’d had it cut to cover a shoulder holster. Bobby enforced a strict no-sidearms policy—his men were lawyers, not cops.
He was twice a cop—double-salaried and double-dutied.
He told Mr. Hoover that Anton Gretzler and Roland Kirpaski were dead—but their “presumed dead” status had not demoralized Bobby Kennedy. Bobby was determined to chase Hoffa, the Teamsters and the Mob WAY past the McClellan Committee’s expiration date. Municipal PD racket squads and grand jury investigators armed with Committee-gathered evidence would then become the Get Hoffa spearhead. Bobby would soon be preparing the groundwork for Jack’s 1960 campaign—but Jimmy Hoffa would remain his personal target.
Hoover demanded investigatory specifics. He told him that Bobby wanted to trace the “spooky” three million dollars that financed Hoffa’s Sun Valley development—Bobby was convinced that Hoffa skimmed cash off the top and that Sun Valley itself constituted land fraud. Bobby instinctively believed in the existence of separate, perhaps coded, Teamster Central States Pension Fund books—ledgers detailing tens of millions of dollars in hidden assets—money lent to gangsters and crooked businessmen at gargantuan interest rates. An elusive rumor: A retired Chicago hoodlum managed the Fund. Bobby’s personal instinct: The total Fund package was his most viable Get Hoffa wedge.
He had two salaries now. He had two sets of conflicting duties. He had John Stanton hinting at offers—if the CIA’s Cuban plans stabilized.
It would give him a third salary. It would give him enough income to sustain his own pied-à-terre.
Peter Lawford cornered Leonard Bernstein. Mayor Wagner chatted up Maria Callas.
A waiter refilled Kemper’s tankard. Joe Kennedy walked an old man up.
“Kemper, this is Jules Schiffrin. Jules, Kemper Boyd. You two should talk. The two of you are