American tabloid

Wisconsin/Illinois/West Virginia, 2/4/60-5/4/60)

Christmas Day made him certain. Every day since built on it.

Jack kept Laura’s ring. Kemper took Jackie’s emerald pin. His car wouldn’t start-a Kennedy chauffeur checked it out for him. Kemper strolled the compound and caught Jack in midtransformation.

He was standing on the beach, alone. He was rehearsing his public persona in full voice.

Kemper stood out of sight and watched him.

Jack went from tallish to tall. He brayed less and rumbled more. His stabbing gestures hit some mark he’d always missed before.

Jack laughed. Jack cocked his head to listen. Jack masterfully summarized Russia, civil rights, the race for space, Cuba, Cathol icism, his perceived youth and Richard Nixon as a duplicitous, do-nothing reactionary unfit to lead the greatest country on earth into perilous times.

He looked heroic. Claiming the moment drained all the boy out of him.

The self-possession was always there. He’d postponed the claim until it could give him the world.

Jack knew he’d win. Kemper knew he’d impersonate greatness with the force of an enigma granted form. This new freedom would make people love him.

o o o

Laura loved the pin.

Jack took New Hampshire and Wisconsin.

Jimmy Hoffa barnstormed both states. Jimmy mobilized Teamsters and ranted on national TV. Jimmy betrayed his essential lunacy every time he opened his mouth.

Kemper mobilized the backlash. Pro-Jack pickets scuffled with Teamster pickets. The pro-Jack boys were good shouters and good placard swingers.

Bobby’s book hit the best-seller lists. Kemper distributed free copies at union halls. The consensus four months in: Jimmy Hoffa was nullified.

Jack was spellbindingly handsome. Hoffa was bloated and harried. All his anti-Kennedy broadsides carried a footnote: “Currently under investigation for land fraud.”

People loved Jack. People wanted to touch him. Kemper let the people get non-security close.

Kemper let photographers get close. He wanted people to think Jack’s amusement was really love beaming back.

They were running unopposed in Nebraska. The West Virginia primary was six days off-Jack should knock Hubert Humphrey out of the race.

Frank Sinatra was wowing hillbilly voters. A Rat Pack stooge composed a ring-a-ding Jack Anthem. Payola got it constant airplay.

Laura called Sinatra a small penis with a big voice.

Jack’s ascent enraged her. She was blood kin and an outcast. Kemper Boyd was a stranger granted insider status.

He called her from the road every night. Laura considered the contact pro forma.

He knew that she missed Lenny Sands. She didn’t know that he’d banished him.

Lenny changed his Chicago number-there was no way that Laura could call him. Kemper put a trace on his phone bills and confirmed that he hadn’t called her.

Bobby remembered “voice coach” Lenny. Some staffers decreed a brush-up course and invited Lenny to New Hampshire.

Jack “introduced” Lenny to Kemper. Lenny played along and did not display an ounce of rancor or fear.

Lenny worked Jack’s speaking voice into top shape. Bobby put him on the Wisconsin payroll-as a crowd-building front man. Lenny built up big crowds on a small budget-Bobby was thrilled.

Claire spent most weekends with Laura. She said Jack’s halfsister was a rabid Nixon fan.

Like Mr. Hoover.

They talked in mid-February. Mr. Hoover made the call. He said, “My, it’s been a long time!” in a purely disingenuous tone.

Kemper updated his allegiances and detailed Joe Kennedy’s old suspicions. Hoover said, “I’ll build up a file to buttress your dissemblings. We’ll make it appear that all your Florida trips were solely on my behalf. I’ll anoint you the Bureau’s ace pro-Castrogroup monitor.”

Kemper supplied key Florida dates. Hoover sent him mock itineraries to memorize.

Hoover never mentioned the campaign. Kemper knew that he sensed a Kennedy victory.

Hoover did not mention Jack and women. Hoover did not suggest hot-wiring prostitutes. Hoover did not nail the reason why Kemper Boyd had stayed distant.

He didn’t want to implement another sex shakedown. He wanted to retain one strong loyalty compartment.

Pimp shakedowns?-no. Pimp service?-certainly.

He got Jack one call girl per night. He called his local vice squad contacts for referrals-and skin-searched every girl that Jack fucked.

The girls loved Jack.

So did SA Ward Littell.

They hadn’t spoken in over six months. Ward showed up at Jack’s big Milwaukee rally-the old Chicago Phantom as the new Chicago Wraith.

He looked frail and unkempt. He did not look like anyone’s notion of a G-man.

Ward refused to talk Mob scuttlebutt or Pension Fund strategy. Ward refused to discuss the D’Onofrio homicide.

Ward said he was neglecting his Red Squad assignment. He said he’d struck up a friendship with a leftist he was tailing.

The Kennedy campaign thrilled him. He wore Kennedy buttons to work and made a scene when SAC Leaky told him to stop it.

Littell’s anti-Mob crusade was dead. Mr. Hoover couldn’t touch them now: the Boyd/Littell collusion was null and void.

Kemper told Bobby the Phantom was still plugging. Bobby said, Don’t bother me with trifles. -

Littell was set to retire in eight months. His drunken dream was a Kennedy appointment.

Ward loves Jack.

New Hampshire loves Jack.

Wisconsin loves Jack.

West Virginia had its heart up for grabs. Greenbrier County was vote-crucial and totally Mob-run.

He decided not to ask the Boys for help. Why indebt Jack to men that Bobby hated?

America loves Jack.

Sinatra put it best:

“That old Jack Magic has me in its spell!”