American Tabloid - James Ellroy [48]
They shook hands. Joe slid off to talk to Bennett Cerf.
“How are you, Mr. Schiffrin?”
“I’m fine, thank you. And I know why I’m a rascal. But you? You’re too young.”
“I’m a year older than Jack Kennedy.”
“And I’m four years younger than Joe, so things even out. Is that your occupation, rascal?”
“I’m retired from the FBI. Right now, I’m working for the McClellan Committee.”
“You’re an ex-G-man? And retired so young?”
Kemper winked. “I got tired of FBI-sanctioned car theft.”
Schiffrin mimicked the wink. “Tired, schmired. How bad could it be if it bought you custom mohair tuxedos like you’re wearing? I should own such a tux.”
Kemper smiled. “What do you do?”
“ ‘Did do’ is more like it. And what I did do was serve as a financier and a labor consultant. Those are euphemisms, in case you’re wondering. What I didn’t do was have lots of lovely children to enjoy in my old age. Such lovely children Joe has. Look at them.”
Kemper said, “You’re from Chicago?”
Schiffrin beamed. “How did you know that?”
“I’ve studied regional accents. It’s something I’m good at.”
“Good doesn’t describe it. And that drawl of yours, is that Alabama?”
“Tennessee.”
“Aah, the Volunteer State. It’s too bad my friend Heshie isn’t here. He’s a Detroit-born gonif who’s lived in the Southwest for years. He’s got an accent that would baffle you.”
Bobby walked into the foyer. Schiffrin saw him and rolled his eyes. “There’s your boss. Pardon my French, but don’t you think he’s a bit of a shitheel?”
“In his way, yes.”
“Now you’re euphemizing. I remember Joe and I were yakking once, about how we fucked Howard Hughes on a deal thirty years ago. Bobby objected to the word ‘fuck’ because his kids were in the next room. They couldn’t even hear, but—”
Bobby signaled. Kemper caught the gesture and nodded.
“Excuse me, Mr. Schiffrin.”
“Go. Your boss beckons. Nine kids Joe had, so one shitbird isn’t such a bad average.”
Kemper walked over. Bobby steered him straight into the cloakroom. Fur coats and evening capes brushed up against them.
“Jack said you wanted to see me.”
“I did. I need you to collate some evidence briefs and write out a summary of everything the Committee’s done, so that we can send out a standardized report to all the grand juries who’ll be taking over for us. I realize that paperwork isn’t your style, but this is imperative.”
“I’ll start in the morning.”
“Good.”
Kemper cleared his throat. “Bob, there’s something I wanted to run by you.”
“What?”
“I have a close friend. He’s an agent in the Chicago office. I can’t tell you his name just yet, but he’s a very capable and intelligent man.”
Bobby wiped snow off his topcoat. “Kemper, you’re leading me. I realize that you’re used to having your way with people, but please get to the point.”
“The point is he was transferred off the Top Hoodlum Program against his will. He hates Mr. Hoover and Mr. Hoover’s ‘There is no Mob’ stance, and he wants to conduit anti-Mob intelligence through me to you. He understands the risks, and he’s willing to take them. And for what it’s worth, he’s an ex-Jesuit seminarian.”
Bobby hung his coat up. “Can we trust him?”
“Absolutely.”
“He wouldn’t be a conduit to Hoover?”
Kemper laughed. “Hardly.”
Bobby looked at him. Bobby gave him his witness-intimidation stare.
“All right. But I want you to tell the man not to do anything illegal. I don’t want a zealot out there wiretapping and God knows what else because he thinks I’ll back him up on it.”
“I’ll tell him. Now, what areas do you—?”
“Tell him I’m interested in the possibility that secret Pension Fund books exist. Tell him that if they do, it’s likely that the Chicago Mob administers them. Have him work off that supposition, and see if he can come up with any general Hoffa intelligence while he’s at it.”
Guests filed past the cloakroom. A woman trailed her mink coat on the floor. Dean Acheson almost tripped over it.
Bobby winced. Kemper saw his eyes slip out of focus.
“What is it?”
“It’s nothing.”
“Is there anything else you’d—?”
“No, there isn’t. Now, if you’ll excuse