James Ellroy - American tabloid

The hit was rescheduled for Dallas on November 22. Juan and a Corsican pro would shoot from separate locations. Chuck and two Dallas cops were set to kill the fall guy.

It was Littell’s basic plan embellished. It illustrated the ubiquitous Let’s Kill Jack metaphysic.

Littell disbanded the team. Lockhart returned to his Klan gig. Pete flew straight to Texas to be with his woman. The Swingin’ Twist Revue was scheduled to play Dallas on Hit Day.

Littell cut him loose. Some homing instinct drew him back to Meridian.

Quite a few locals remembered him. Some colored folks greeted him warmly. Some crackers gave him ugly looks and taunted him.

He took a motel room. He half-expected Mob killers to knock on his door. He ate three restaurant meals a day and drove around the countryside.

Dusk hit. Kemper crossed the Puckett town line. He saw a ridiculous sign framed by floodlights: Martin Luther King at a Communist training school.

The photo insert looked doctored. Someone drew devil’s horns on the Reverend.

Kemper swung east. He hit the switchback leading out to Dougie Lockhart’s old gun range.

Dirt roads took him right up to the edge. Shell casings snapped under his tires.

He killed his lights and got out. It was blessedly quiet-no gunshots and no rebel yells.

Kemper drew his piece. The sky was pitch dark-he couldn’t see the target silhouettes.

Shells crunched and skittered. Kemper heard footsteps.

“Who’s that? Who’s that trespassin’ on my property?”

Kemper tapped his headlights. The beams caught Dougie Lockhart head-on.

“It’s Kemper Boyd, son.”

Lockhart stepped out of the light. “Kemper Boyd, whose accent gets more syrupy the further south he gets. You got a chameleon quality, Kemper. Has anybody ever told you that?”

Kemper hit his brights. The whole range lit up.

Dougie, wash your sheet-you look awful.

Lockhart whooped. “Boss, you got me under the hot lights now! Boss, I gotta confess-it was me that bombed that nigger church in Birmingham!”

He had bad teeth and pimples. His moonshine breath was waiting out a good ten yards.

Kemper said, “Did you really do that?”

“As sure as I’m standing here basking in your light, Boss. As sure as niggers-”

Kemper shot him in the mouth. A full clip took his head off.

Bobby made him wait.

Littell sat outside his office. Bobby’s note stressed promptness and closed with a flair: “I’ll give any Hoffa lawyer ten minutes of my time.”

He was prompt. Bobby was busy. A door separated them.

Littell waited. He felt supremely calm.

Marcello didn’t break him. Bobby was a relative child. Marcello bowed when he only took one drink.

The outer office was wood-paneled and spacious. It was very close to Mr. Hoover’s office.

The receptionist ignored him. He counted down to the moment.

11/6/63: Kemper gives the dope back. Trafficante rebuffs his handshake.

11/6/63: Carlos Marcello calls. He says, “Santo has a job for you,” but will not elaborate further.

11/7/63: Sam Giancana calls. He says, “I think we can find work for Pete. Mr. Hughes hates spooks, and Pete’s a good narcotics man.”

11/7/63: He conveys this message to Pete. Pete understands that they’re letting him live.

if you work for us. if you move to Vegas. if you sell the local niggers heroin.

11/8/63: Jimmy Hoffa calls, elated. He doesn’t seem to care that he’s in very deep legal trouble.

Sam told him about the hit. Jimmy tells Heshie Ryskind. Heshie checks into the best hotel in Dallas-to enjoy the event close up.

Heshie brings his entourage: Dick Contino, nurses and hookers. Pete shoots him full of dope twice a day.

Heshie’s entourage is baffled. Why uproot to Dallas when you’re so close to passing away?

11/8/63: Carlos sends him a news clipping. It reads, “Klan Leader Murdered-Baffling Deep South Riddle!”

The cops suspect rival Klansmen. He suspects a Kemper Boyd gesture.

Carlos includes a note. Carlos says his deportation trial is going quite well.

11/8/63: Mr. Hughes sends him a note. Baby Howard wants Las Vegas like most children want new toys.

He wrote back to him. He promised to visit Nevada and compile research notes before Christmas.

11/9/63: Mr. Hoover calls. He says his private taps have picked up scalding outrage-the Joe Valachi Show is terrifying mobsters coast to coast.

Hoover’s inside source says that Bobby is privately interrogating Valachi. Valachi refuses to discuss the Fund books. Bobby is furious.

11/10/63: Kemper calls. He says Guy Banister’s “far-fetched” ploy succeeded: the Miami motorcade was canceled.

11/12/63: Pete calls. He reports more campsite raids and hitplot rumors.

11/15/63: Jack parades through New York City. Teenagers and middle-aged matrons swarm his car.

11/16/63: Dallas newspapers announce the motorcade route. Barb Jahelka has a front-row seat-she’s performing a noon show at a club on Commerce Street.

An intercom buzzed. Bobby’s voice cut through static: “I’ll see Mr. Littell now.”

The receptionist got the door. Littell carried his tape recorder in.

Bobby stood behind his desk. He jammed his hands in his pockets and made no forward moves-Mob lawyers received cutrate civility.

The office was nicely appointed. Bobby’s suit was an off-the-rack sack cut.

“Your name seems familiar, Mr. Littell. Have we met before?”

I WAS YOUR PHANTOM. I ACHED TO BE PART OF YOUR VISION.

“No, Mr. Kennedy. We haven’t.”

“I see you brought a tape recorder.”

Littell set it down on the floor. “Yes, I did.”

“Has Jimmy owned up to his evil ways? Did you bring me some kind of confession?”

“In a sense. Would you mind listening?”

Bobby checked his watch. “I’m yours for the next nine minutes.”

Littell plugged the machine into a wall outlet. Bobby jiggled the coins in his pockets.

Littell tapped Play. Joe Valachi spoke. Bobby leaned against the wall behind his desk.

Littell stood in front of the desk. Bobby stared at him. They stayed absolutely motionless and did not blink or twitch.

Joe Valachi laid down his indictment. Bobby heard the evidence. He did not shut his eyes or in any way discernibly react.

Littell broke a sweat. The silly staring contest continued.

The tape slipped off the spindle. Bobby picked up his desk phone.

“Get Special Agent Conroy in Boston. Have him go to the main Security-First National Bank and find out who account number 811512404 belongs to. Have him examine the safe-deposit boxes and call me back immediately. Tell him to expedite this top-priority, and hold my calls until his comes through.”

His voice did not waver. He came on cast-iron/steel-plate/watertight strong.

Bobby put the phone down. The eyeball duel continued. The first one to blink is a coward.

Littell almost giggled. An epigram: Powerful men are children.

Time passed. Littell counted minutes off his heartbeat. His glasses started sliding down his nose.

The phone rang. Bobby picked it up and listened.

Littell stood perfectly still and counted forty-one seconds off his pulse. Bobby threw the phone at the wall.

And blinked.

And twitched.

And brushed back tears.

Littell said, “Goddamn you for the pain you caused me.”

She’ll know. She’ll hear the news and see your face and know you were part of it.

She’ll trace it back to the shakedown. You couldn’t compromise him, so you killed him.