American tabloid

34

The cab crawled uptown. Kemper balanced paperwork on his briefcase.

A graph showed primary-election states divided by county. Intersecting columns listed his law-enforcement contacts.

He checkmarked the presumed Democrats. He crossed out the presumed GOP hardcases.

It was boring work. Joe should simply buy Jack the White House.

Traffic slogged. The cabbie rode his horn. Kemper played a game of Devil’s Advocate-dissembling practice never hurt.

Bobby questioned his constant Florida sojourns. His response verged on indignation.

“I’m in charge of forwarding McClellan Committee evidence, aren’t I? Well, the Sun Valley case sticks in my craw, and Florida’s a state that Jack needs to carry in the general election. I’ve been down there talking to some disaffected Teamsters.”

The cab passed through slums. Ward Littell crashed his thoughts.

They hadn’t talked or corresponded in a month. The D’Onofrio killing made a brief news splash and stayed unsolved. Ward didn’t call or write to comment.

He should contact Ward. He should find out if Mad Sal’s death derived from his work as Ward’s informant.

The driver stopped at the St. Regis. Kemper paid him and quick-walked to the desk.

A clerk hovered. Kemper said, “Would you buzz my suite and ask Miss Hughes to come down?”

The clerk slipped on a headset and punched his switchboard. Kemper checked his watch-they were running way late for dinner.

“She’s on the phone, Mr. Boyd. There’s a conversation in progress.”

Kemper smiled. “It’s probably Miss Hughes and my daughter. They talk for hours at hotel rates.”

“It’s Miss Hughes and a man, actually.”

Kemper caught himself clenching. “Let me have your headset, would you?”

“Wellllll…”

Kemper slipped him ten dollars.

“Wellllll…”

Kemper went to fifty. The clerk palmed it and handed him his earphones.

Kemper slipped them on. Lenny Sands was talking, very highpitched and fey.

“…As terrible as he was he’s dead, and he worked for the drunk just like me. There’s the drunk and the brute, and now the brute has me writing these preposterous articles about Cuba. I can’t name names, but Laura, my God…”

“You don’t mean my friend Kemper Boyd?”

“He’s not the one I’m afraid of. It’s the brute and the drunk. You never know what the drunk will do, and I haven’t heard from him since Sal was killed, which is driving me absolutely stark raving…

It was compartmental turbulence. It would have to be contained.