American Tabloid - James Ellroy [8]
I’m not Bob Aiken, freelance car thief.
I’m forty-two years old. I’m a Yale Law School grad. I’m a seventeen-year Bureau veteran, divorced, with a daughter in college—and a long-time FBI-sanctioned car booster.
He placed his cell: tier B at the Philly Fed Building.
His head throbbed. His wrists and ankles ached. He tamped down his identity a last notch.
I’ve rigged auto-job evidence and skimmed money off of it for years. IS THIS AN INTERNAL BUREAU ROUST?
He saw empty cells down both sides of the catwalk. He spotted some papers on his sink: newspaper mock-ups topped by banner headlines:
“Car Thief Suffers Heart Attack in Federal Custody”/“Car Thief Expires in Federal Building Cell.”
The text was typed out below.
This afternoon, Philadelphia Police enacted a daring arrest in the shadow of picturesque Rittenhouse Square.
Acting on information supplied by an unnamed informant, Sergeant Gerald P. Griffen and four other officers captured Robert Henry Aiken, 42, in the act of stealing an expensive Jaguar auto-mobile. Aiken meekly let the officers restrain him and—
Someone coughed and said, “Sir?”
Kemper looked up. A clerk type unlocked the cell and held the door open for him.
“You can go out the back way, sir. There’s a car waiting for you.”
Kemper brushed off his clothes and combed his hair. He walked out the freight exit and saw a government limo blocking the alley.
His limo.
Kemper got in the back. J. Edgar Hoover said, “Hello, Mr. Boyd.”
“Good afternoon, Sir.”
A partition slid up and closed the backseat off. The driver pulled out.
Hoover coughed. “Your infiltration assignment was terminated rather precipitously. The Philadelphia Police were somewhat rough, but they have a reputation for that, and anything less would have lacked verisimilitude.”
“I’ve learned to stay in character in situations like that. I’m sure the arrest was believable.”
“Did you affect an East Coast accent for your role?”
“No, a midwestern drawl. I learned the accent and speech patterns when I worked the St. Louis office, and I thought they’d complement my physical appearance more effectively.”
“You’re correct, of course. And personally, I would not want to second-guess you on anything pertaining to criminal role-playing. That sports jacket you’re wearing, for instance. I would not appreciate it as standard Bureau attire, but it’s quite appropriate for a Philadelphia car thief.”
Get to it, you officious little—
“In fact, you’ve always dressed distinctly. Perhaps ‘expensively’ is more apt. To be blunt, there have been times when I wondered how your salary could sustain your wardrobe.”
“Sir, you should see my apartment. What my wardrobe possesses, it lacks.”
Hoover chuckled. “Be that as it may, I doubt if I’ve seen you in the same suit twice. I’m sure the women you’re so fond of appreciate your sartorial flair.”
“Sir, I hope so.”
“You endure my amenities with considerable flair, Mr. Boyd. Most men squirm. You express both your inimitable personal panache and a concurrent respect for me that is quite alluring. Do you know what this means?”
“No, Sir. I don’t.”
“It means that I like you and am prone to forgive indiscretions that I would crucify other agents for. You’re a dangerous and ruthless man, but you possess a certain beguiling charm. This balance of attributes outweighs your profligate tendencies and allows me to be fond of you.”
DON’T SAY “WHAT INDISCRETIONS?”—HE’LL TELL YOU AND MAIM YOU.
“Sir, I greatly appreciate your respect, and I reciprocate it fully.”
“You didn’t include ‘fondness’ in your reciprocity, but I won’t press the point. Now, business. I have an opportunity for you to earn two regular paychecks, which should delight you no end.”
Hoover leaned back coax-me style. Kemper said, “Sir?”
The limo accelerated. Hoover flexed his hands and straightened his necktie. “The Kennedy brothers’ recent actions have distressed me. Bobby seems to be using the McClellan Committee’s labor racketeering mandate as a means to upstage the Bureau and