American tabloid

61

Bobby held the floor. Fourteen lawyers pulled chairs up and balanced notebooks and ashtrays on their knees.

The briefing room was drafty. Kemper leaned against the back wall with his topcoat slung over his shoulders.

The AG brayed-there was no need to get close. He had free time-a storm delayed his flight to Alabama.

Bobby said, “You know why I called you in, and you know what your basic job is. I’ve been tied up in red tape since the Inauguration, so I haven’t been able to get to the applicable case files, and I’ve decided to let you do that on your own. You’re the Organized Crime Unit, and you know what your mandate is. And I’ll be damned if I’m going to dawdle any longer.”

The men got out pens and pencils. Bobby straddled a chair in front of them.

“We’ve got lawyers and investigators of our own, and any attorney worth his salt is also a catch-as-catch-can investigator. We’ve got FBI agents we can utilize as needed, if I can convince Mr. Hoover to shift his priorities a bit. He’s still convinced that domestic Communists are more dangerous than organized crime, and I think that making the FBI more cooperative is going to be a major obstacle to overcome.”

The men laughed. An ex-McClellan cop said, “We shall overcome.”

Bobby loosened his tie. “We shall. And roving counsel Kemper Boyd, who’s spying from the peanut gallery, will overcome racial exclusion practices in the South. I won’t ask Mr. Boyd to join us, because skulking at the back of the room is very much his modus operandi.”

Kemper waved. “I’m a spy.”

Bobby waved back. “The President has always contended that.”

Kemper laughed. Bobby half-ass liked him now-breaking off with Laura clinched it. Claire and Laura stayed close-he got regular updates from New York.

Bobby said, “Enough bulishit. The McClellan Committee hearings have provided us with a hit list, and at the top we’ve got Jimmy Hoffa, Sam Giancana, Johnny Rosselli and Carlos Marcello. I want the IRS files on these men pulled, and I want the intelligence files of the Chicago, New York, Los Angeles, Miami, Cleveland and Tampa PDs combed for mention of them. I also want probable-cause briefs written, so that we can subpoena their financial books and personal records.”

A man said, “What about Hoffa specifically? He got hungjuried on Sun Valley, but there’s got to be other approaches we can use.”

Bobby rolled up his sleeves. “A hung jury first time out means an acquittal next time. I’ve given up hope of tracing the Spooky Three Million, and I’m starting to think that the so-called ‘Real’ Pension Fund books are nothing but a pipe dream. I think we need to impanel grand juries and deluge them with Hoffa evidence. And while we’re at it, I want to pass a Federal law requiring all municipal PDs to obtain Justice Department writs to implement their wiretaps, so that we can have access to every bit of wiretap intelligence seized nationwide.”

The men cheered. An old McClellanite threw some mock punches.

Bobby stood up. “I found an old deportation order on Carlos Marcello. He was born in Tunis, North Africa, of Italian parents, but he’s got a phony Guatemalan birth certificate. I want to deport him to Guatemala, and I want to do it danm soon.”

Kemper broke a little lightweight sweat-