American tabloid

54

Jack stood a million votes up and way ahead in the electoral. Nixon gouged at his lead-the Midwest looked problematic.

Kemper watched three TVs and juggled four phones. His motel room was one big cable socket-the Secret Service demanded multiple lines in and out.

The red phone was his personal line. The two white phones hooked in direct to the Kennedy compound. The blue phone linked the Secret Service to the almost-President-elect.

It was 11:35 p.m.

CBS called Illinois tight. NBC said “Cliffhanger!” ABC said Jack would win, with 51% of the vote.

Kemper checked the window. Secret Service men mingled outside--they’d booked up the entire motel complex.

White phone #2 rang. It was Bobby, with complaints.

A journalist pole-vaulted into the compound. A hot rod sporting Nixon banners plowed the main house lawn.

Kemper called two off-duty cops and sent them over. He told them to beat up all trespassers and impound their vehicles.

The red phone rang. It was Santo Junior, with Mob scuttlebutt.

He said, Illinois looks dicey. He said, Sam G. threw some weight to help Jack.

Lenny Sands was out stuffing ballot boxes. He had a hundred aldermen helping him. Jack should blitz Cook County and eke out a statewide win by a nun’s-cunt-hair margin.

Kemper hung up. The red phone rang again. It was Pete, with more secondhand gossip.

He said Mr. Hoover called Mr. Hughes. Mr. Hughes told Pete that Marilyn Monroe was quite naughty.

The Feds had her hot-wired. During the past two weeks she banged disc jockey Allan Freed, Billy Eckstine, Freddy Otash, Rin Tin Tin’s trainer, Jon “Ramar of the Jungle” Hall, her pool cleaner, two pizza delivery boys, talk-show man Tom Duggan and her maid’s husband-but no Senator John F. Kennedy.

Kemper laughed and hung up. CBS judged the race “too close to call.”

ABC retracted its prediction. The race was now “too close to call.”

White phone #1 rang.

Kemper picked up. “Bob?”

“It’s me. I just called to say we’re way ahead in the electoral, and Illinois and Michigan should put us over. The Hughes loan thing helped, Kemper. Your ‘unnamed source’ should know that it was a factor.”

“You don’t sound too elated.”

“I won’t believe it until it’s final. And a friend of Dad’s just died. He was younger than him, so he’s taking it hard.”

“Anybody I know?”

“Jules Schiffrin. I think you met him a few years ago. He had a heart attack in Wisconsin. He came home and found his house burglarized, and just keeled over. A friend of Dad’s in Lake Geneva called-”

“Lake Geneva?”

“Right. North of Chicago; Kemper…”

The Littell assault location. Schiffrin: a Chicago-based gonif type.

“Kemper…”

“I’m sorry. I was distracted.”

“I was going to say something…”

“About Laura?”

“How did you know that?”

“You never come off hesitant unless it’s about Laura.”

Bobby cleared his throat. “Call her. Tell her we’d appreciate it if she didn’t contact the family for a while. I’m sure she’ll understand.”

Court Meade said Littell vanished. It was circumstantial, but-

“Kemper, are you listening to me?”

“Yes.”

“Call Laura. Be kind, but be firm.”

“I’ll do it.”

Bobby hung up. Kemper placed a red phone call through the switchboard: Chicago, BL8-4908.

It went through. He heard two rings and two very faint tapclicks.

Littell said, “Hello?”

Kemper covered the mouthpiece.

Littell said, “Is that you, Boyd? Are you coming back into my life because you’re scared, or because you think I might have something you want?”

Kemper disconnected.

Ward J. Littell-Jesus Fucking Christ.