American tabloid

74

Littell locked the money in his desk safe. One month’s retainer-$6,000 cash.

Hoffa said, “You didn’t count it.”

“I trust you.”

“I could’ve made a mistake.”

Littell tilted his chair back and looked up at him. “That’s unlikely. Especially when you walked it over here yourself.”

“You’d’ve felt better walking over to my shop in this fucking cold?”

“I could have waited until the first.”

Hoffa perched on the edge of the desk. His overcoat was soaked with melting snow.

Littell moved some folders. Hoffa picked up his crystal paperweight.

“Did you come for a pep talk, Jimmy?”

“No. But if you got one, I’m all ears.”

“How’s this. You’re going to win and Bobby’s going to lose. It’s going to be a long and painful war, and you’re going to win by sheer attrition.”

Jimmy squeezed the paperweight. “I was thinking Kemper Boyd should leak a copy of my Justice Department file to you.”

Littell shook his head. “He won’t do it, and I won’t ask him to. He’s got the Kennedys and Cuba and God knows what else wrapped in tidy little packages that only he knows the logic of. There’s lines he won’t cross over, and you and Bobby Kennedy are one of them.”

Hoffa said, “Lines come and go. And as far as Cuba goes, I think Carlos is the only Outfit guy who still gives a shit. I think Santo, Mo and the others are pissed off and bored with the whole notion of that rinky-dink goddamn island.”

Littell straightened his necktie. “Good. Because I’m bored with everything except keeping you and Carlos one step ahead of Bobby Kennedy.”

Hoffa smiled. “You used to like Bobby. I heard you used to really admire him.”

“Lines come and go, Jimmy. You said so yourself.”

Hoffa dropped the paperweight. “This is true. It is also fucking true that I need an edge on Bobby. And you fucking pulled the plug on that Kennedy wire job that Pete Bondurant was working for me back in ‘58.”

Littell forced a wince into a smile. “I didn’t know you knew that.”

“That is obvious. It should also be fucking obvious that I forgive you.”

“And obvious that you want to try it again.”

“This is true.”

“Call Pete, Jimmy. I don’t have much use for him, but he’s the best shakedown man alive.”

Hoffa leaned across the desk. His trouser legs slid up and showed off cheap white sweat socks.

“I want you in on it, too.”