American tabloid

8

Kemper called the car game Devil’s Advocate. It helped him keep his loyalties straight and honed his ability to project the right persona at the right time.

Bobby Kennedy’s distrust inspired the game. His southern accent slipped once-Bobby caught it instantly.

Kemper cruised South Miami. He began the game by marking who knew what.

Mr. Hoover knew everything. SA Boyd’s “retirement” was cloaked in FBI paperwork: if Bobby sought corroboration, he’d find it.

Claire knew everything. She’d never judge his motives or betray him.

Ward Littell knew of the Kennedy incursion. He most likely disapproved of it-Bobby’s crimebuster fervor deeply impressed him. Ward was also an ad hoc infiltration partner, compromised by the Darleen Shoftel wire job. The job shamed him-but gratitude for his THP transfer outweighed his guilt pangs. Ward did not know that Pete Bondurant killed Anton Gretzler; Ward did not know that Mr. Hoover condoned the murder. Bondurant terrified Ward-a sane response to Big Pete and the legend he inspired. The Bondurant matter should be kept from Ward at all cost.

Bobby knew that he was pimping for Jack-supplying him with the numbers of especially susceptible old flames.

Questions and answers next: practice for deflecting skepticism.

Kemper braked for a woman lugging groceries. His game snapped to the present tense.

Bobby thinks I’m chasing leads on Anton Gretzler. I’m really protecting Howard Hughes’ pet thug.

Q: You seem bent on crashing the Kennedy inner circle.

A: I can spot corners a mile off. Cozying up to Democrats doesn’t make me a Communist. Old Joe Kennedy’s as far right as Mr. Hoover.

Q: You “cozied up” to Jack rather fast.

A: If circumstances had been different, I could have been Jack.

Kemper checked his notebook.

He had to go by Tiger Kab. He had to go to Sun Valley and show mug shots to the witness who saw the “big man” avert his face off the Interstate.

He’d show him old mug shots-bad current Bondurant likenesses. He’d discourage a confirmation: you didn’t really see this man, did you?

A tiger-striped taxi swerved in front of him. He saw a tigerstriped hut down the block.

Kemper pulled up and parked across the street. Some curbside loungers smelled COP and dispersed.

He walked into the hut. He laughed-the wallpaper was freshflocked tiger-striped velveteen.

Four tiger-shirted Cubans stood up and circled him. They wore their shirttails out to cover waistband bulges.

Kemper pulled his mug shots out. The tiger men circled in tighter. A man pulled out a stiletto and scratched his neck with the blade.

The other tiger men laughed. Kemper braced the closest one. “Have you seen him?”

The man passed the mug strip around. Every man flashed recognition and said “No.”

Kemper grabbed the strip. He saw a white man on the sidewalk checking his car out.

The knife man sidled up close. The other tiger men giggled. The knife man twirled his blade right upside the gringo’s eyes.

Kemper judo-chopped him. Kemper snapped his knees with a sidekick. The man hit the floor prone and dropped his shiv.

Kemper picked it up. The tiger men backed off en masse. Kernper stepped on the knife man’s knife hand and slammed the blade through it.

The knife man screamed. The other tiger men gasped and tittered. Kemper exited with a tight little bow.

o o o

He drove out I-95 to Sun Valley. A gray sedan stuck close behind him. He changed lanes, dawdled and accelerated-the car followed from a classic tail distance.

Kemper eased down an off-ramp. A hicktown main street ran perpendicular to it-just four gas stations and a church. He pulled into a Texaco and parked.

He walked to the men’s room. He saw the tail car idle up to the pumps. The white man dawdling by Tiger Kab got out and looked around.

Kemper shut the door and pulled his piece. The room was smelly and filthy.

He counted seconds off his watch. He heard foot scuffs at fiftyone.

The man nudged the door open. Kemper yanked him in and pinned him to the walL

He was fortyish, sandy-haired, and slender. Kemper patsearched him from the ankles up.

No badge, no gun, no leatherette ID holder.

The man didn’t blink. The man ignored the revolver in his face.

The man said, “My name is John Stanton. I’m a representative of a U.S. Government agency, and I want to talk to you.”

“About what?”

Stanton said, “Cuba.”