American tabloid

11

“To say that I am furious belittles the concept of fury. To say that I consider your actions outrageous demeans the notion of outrage.”

Mr. Hoover paused. The pillow on his chair made him tower over two tall men.

Kemper looked at Littell. They sat flush in front of Hoover’s desk.

Littell said, “I understand your position, Sir.”

Hoover patted his lips with a handkerchief. “I do not believe you. And I do not rate the value of objective awareness nearly as high as I rate the virtue of loyalty.”

Littell said, “I acted impetuously, Sir. I apologize for that.”

“‘Impetuous’ describes your attempt to contact Mr. Boyd and foist your preposterous Bondurant suspicions on him and Robert Kennedy. ‘Duplicitous’ and ‘treacherous’ describe your unauthorized flight to Los Angeles to uproot an official Bureau operalion.”

“I considered Bondurant a murder suspect, Sir. I thought that he had implemented a piggyback on the surveillance equipment that Mr. Boyd and I had installed, and I was correct.”

Hoover said nothing. Kemper knew he’d let the silence build.

The operation blew from two flanks. Bondurant’s girlfriend tipped Bobby to a smear piece; Ward logicked out the Kirpaski hit himself. That logic held a certain validity: Pete was in Miami concurrent with Roland.

Hoover fondled a paperweight. “Is murder a Federal offense, Mr. Littell?”

“No, Sir.”

“Are Robert Kennedy and the McClellan Committee direct rivals of the Bureau?”

“I don’t consider them that, Sir.”

“Then you are a confused and naive man, which your recent actions more than confirm.”

Littell sat perfectly still. Kemper saw his pulse hammer his shirt front.

Hoover folded his hands. “January 16, 1961, marks the twentieth anniversary of your Bureau appointment. You are to retire on that day. You are to work at the Chicago office until then. You are to remain on the CPUSA Surveillance Squad until the day you retire.”

Littell said, “Yes, Sir.”

Hoover stood up. Kemper stood a beat later, per protocol. Littell stood up too fast-his chair teetered.

“You owe your continued career and pension to Mr. Boyd, who was most persuasive in convincing me to be lenient. I expect you to repay my generosity by promising to maintain absolute silence regarding Mr. Boyd’s McClellan Committee and Kennedy family incursion. Do you promise that, Mr. Littell?”

“Yes, Sir. I do.”

Hoover walked out.

Kemper put his drawl on. “You can breathe now, son.”

o o o

The Mayflower bar featured wraparound banquettes. Kemper sat Littell down and thawed him out with a double scotch-on-the-rocks.

They bucked sleet walking over-there was no chance to talk. Ward took the thrashing better than he expected.

Kemper said, “Any regrets?”

“Not really. I was going to retire at twenty years, and the THP is a half-measure at best.”

“Are you rationalizing?”

“I don’t think so. I’ve had a…”

“Finish the thought. Don’t let me explicate for you.”

“Well… I’ve had a… taste of something very dangerous and good.”

“And you like it.”

“Yes. It’s almost as if I’ve touched a new world.”

Kemper stirred his martini. “Do you know why Mr. Hoover allowed you to remain with the Bureau?”

“Not exactly.”

“I convinced him that you were volatile, irrational and addicted to taking heedless risks. The element of truth in that convinced him that you were better off inside the barn pissing out than outside the barn pissing in. He wanted me there to buttress the intimidation, and if he had signaled me I would have laced into you myself.”

Littell smiled. “Kemper, you’re leading me. You’re like an attorney drawing out a witness.”

“Yes, and you’re a provocative witness. Now, let me ask you a question. What do you think Pete Bondurant has planned for you?”

“My death?”

“Your postretirement death, more likely. He murdered his own brother, Ward. And his parents killed themselves when they found out. It’s a Bondurant rumor that I’ve chosen to believe.”

Littell said, “Jesus Christ.”

He was awed. It was a perfectly lucid response.

Kemper speared the olive in his glass. “Are you going to continue the work you started without Bureau sanction?”

“Yes. I’ve got a good informant prospect now, and-”

“I don’t want to know specifics just yet. I just want you to convince me that you understand the risks from both within and outside the Bureau, and that you won’t behave foolishly.”

Littell smiled-and almost looked bold. “Hoover would crucify me. If the Chicago Mob knew I was investigating them without sanction, they’d torture and kill me. Kemper, I’ve got a wild notion about where you’re leading me.”

“Tell me.”

“You’re thinking of working for Robert Kennedy for real. He’s gotten to you, and you respect the work he’s doing. You’re going to turn things over a notch and start feeding Hoover a minimum of information and selected misinformation.”

Lyndon Johnson waltzed a redhead by the back booths. He’d seen her before-Jack said he could arrange an introduction.

“You’re right, but it’s the senator I want to work for. Bobby’s more your type. He’s as Catholic as you are, and the Mob is just as much his raison d’кtre.”

“And you’ll feed Hoover as much information as you deem fit.”

“Yes.”

“The inherent duplicities won’t bother you?”

“Don’t judge me, Ward.”

Littell laughed. “You enjoy my judgments. You enjoy it that someone besides Mr. Hoover has your number. So I’ll warn you. Be careful with the Kennedys.”

Kemper raised his glass. “I will be. And you should know that Jack might damn well be elected President two years from now. If he is, Bobby will have carte blanche to fight organized crime. A Kennedy administration might mean considerable opportunities for both of us.”

Littell raised his glass. “An opportunist like you would know.”

“Salud. Can I tell Bobby that you’ll share your intelligence with the Committee? Anonymously?”

“Yes. And it just hit me that I retire four days before the next presidential inauguration. Should your profligate friend Jack be the one taking office, you might mention a worthy lawyer-cop who needs a job.”

Kemper pulled out an envelope. “You were always a quick study. And you forget that Claire has both our numbers.”

“You’re smirking, Kemper. Read me what you’ve got there.”

Kemper unrolled a sheet of notebook paper. “Quote, ‘And Dad, you wouldn’t believe this one a.m. phone call I got from Helen. Are you sitting down? She had a hot date with Uncle Ward (date of birth March 8, 1913, to Helen’s October 29, 1937) and necked with him in her room. Wait until Susan finds out! Helen’s always sideswiped older men, but this is like Snow White attacking Walt Disney! And I always thought you were the one she had eyes for,’ unquote.”

Littell stood up, blushing. “She’s meeting me later, at my hotel. I told her men liked women who traveled for them. And she’s been the pursuer so far.”

“Helen Agee is a college girl in the guise of a Mack truck. Remember that if things get complicated.”

Littell laughed, and walked off primping. His posture was good, but those dented glasses had to go.

Idealists disdained appearances. Ward had no flair for nice things.

Kemper ordered a second martini and watched the back booths. Echoes drifted his way-congressmen were talking up Cuba.

John Stanton called Cuba a potential Agency hotspot. He said, I might have work for you.

Jack Kennedy walked in. Lyndon Johnson’s redhead passed him a napkin note.

Jack saw Kemper and winked.