James Benn: The White Ghost

The flight itself wouldn’t have been too bad if the pilot had climbed above the clouds. But we’d hitched a ride on a reconnaissance mission, which meant the Sunderland had to fly low enough to scan the ocean waters for Japanese ships or a submarine cruising on the surface. Winds buffeted the fuselage, rattling and shaking the aircraft, vibrating the metal hull until I thought the rivets might pop out. I followed Kaz’s lead and crawled into a bunk, keeping my curses to myself. Some were aimed at the weather, but mostly I cursed the fates that had brought the Kennedys back into my life.

I’d had enough of Jack back in Boston, and would’ve been happy if our paths had never crossed again. But now he needed me, so here I was, flying around most of the world to smooth things out for the skinny little bastard. Again. I’d begun the story of how the Boyles and the Kennedys first came into contact, and as soon as Kaz was back on solid ground, I’d finish it. But I wasn’t sure about my story. Jack’s story, I should say, since he always preferred to be center stage. Unless there was trouble, that is.

Truth was, I was embarrassed. I didn’t want to admit to playing the sap for a spoiled rich kid.

I awoke to a smooth ride and blue skies, the ocean dazzlingly bright beneath us. We landed in a lagoon at Keeling Island, a flyspeck in the Indian Ocean halfway between Ceylon and Australia. A barge motored out and refueled the Sunderland. As we took off, RAF crewmen watched us from the white sandy beach, palm trees swaying lazily in the breeze. What was it like to spend a war in a tropical paradise? Did they count themselves lucky, or dream of distant battles and pester their commanding officer for transfers?

“It must be teatime somewhere,” Kaz said through a yawn, startling me as I gazed out the window. He looked disheveled and even paler than usual. “I don’t think I even know what day it is.”

“Tuesday,” I said, with more certainty than I felt. We made our way to the galley and got the tea going. There are worse ways to travel.

“Finish your story,” Kaz said as he stirred milk into his tea. I dumped sugar into mine. “About your father and Joseph Kennedy. Entertain me. We still have hours to go until we land. Or whatever they call it when one of these things comes down in the water.”

“Okay,” I said, leaning back in my seat and thinking about the stories Dad and Uncle Dan had told around the dinner table. I’d been in school back then, getting my knuckles rapped by the nuns and struggling with geometry. “Dad tags along with the prohis and the Canadian excise men, getting the lay of the land. They have some decent inside dope about gangs active in hijacking trucks with both legal and illegal cargoes. So Dad figures he’ll show them where the gangs operate and maybe pick up a few leads to use after they’re gone.”

“I take it he was more interested in the hijacking of trucks belonging to legitimate businessmen?” Kaz said.

“Yes and no,” I said. As usual, explaining how things worked wasn’t as straightforward as you might expect, especially with Prohibition thrown into the mix. “A lot of the guys involved in rum-running were ordinary businessmen. Tavern owners, distributors, greengrocers. Their business had been hurt by Prohibition and they were only looking to keep their heads above water.”

“What about the rest?”

“That’s different,” I said. “The bosses at the top were the real crooks. Some were career criminals, others were rich bastards who didn’t think the rules applied to them. Rich men who didn’t think they were rich enough. They made the real money, while everyone else ran big risks for small rewards.”

“Joseph Kennedy the elder being one of those?” Kaz raised his eyebrow as he asked the question, a smile playing on his lips. I had to remind myself that Kaz himself was rich and might have heard people disparage his own family’s wealth, jealous of their comforts and prestige, back when it was possible for any Pole to be comfortable.

“Dad said the Canadian evidence was interesting, but not enough to build a case on,” I said. “So they went to work on picking up the rest of the Gustin Gang. They were in hiding after the Mafia hit on Frank and Dodo. Frank’s brother, Stephen Wallace, was running the gang, such as it was. They were back to rum-running, bringing in bootleg booze from offshore.”

“But they had learned their lesson about stealing liquor from other gangs,” Kaz said.

“Yeah, and there were rumors the hit had been ordered from high up,” I said, lowering my voice to a whisper.

“Higher than the Mafia?” Kaz asked.

I nodded.

“Kennedy?”

I shrugged. “It was a theory,” I said. “The Gustins had upset the natural order of things, drawing too much attention to what was going on. Nobody in that business likes attention.”

“Did your father ever find evidence?” Kaz said.

“He got close,” I said. “They picked up Wallace and brought him in. The prohis threatened to let him go very publicly and leak word that he’d cooperated with them. An old trick.”

“But a smart one,” Kaz said. “It must have frightened Mr. Wallace, following the Mafia hit on his brother.”

“Yes, but too smart, as it turned out. Wallace talked, and claimed he could implicate Joe Kennedy. Dad wasn’t too sure; he thought Wallace might have been trying to impress the Feds, and if Kennedy were actually involved, he wouldn’t be in contact with lowlifes like the Wallace brothers.”

“What happened then?”

“Governor Allen sent one of his men to intervene. It seems Dad and his pals were getting too close, either to Kennedy or someone else with political connections. Wallace was sprung and the whole thing was forgotten. By most people, that is.”

“Your father had threatened a powerful man,” Kaz said.

“Yep. And he paid the price. He got sent back down to the uniform division. A signal to the rest of the department: it doesn’t pay to cooperate with federal agents, not when they have their sights set on Joe Kennedy and his like.”

“But you don’t know if it was Kennedy,” Kaz said, his tea gone cold.

“No,” I said, shaking my head. “Funny thing is, that guy from the governor’s office-Joseph Timilty-got himself appointed police commissioner back in 1936. He’s known to be in the back pocket of Joe Kennedy, and he’s as corrupt as they come. A few months ago he was indicted on charges of corruption. He didn’t even lose his job. The indictment was quashed by a friendly judge, and Timilty is still running the Boston police.”

“By friendly you mean a friend of Ambassador Kennedy’s,” Kaz said.

I nodded. He caught on fast.

“Your father became a detective, though.”

“He did. Not long after we got a new governor and one of his pet projects was a police academy. Dad helped him with that, and pretty soon he was back in plainclothes, working homicide.”

“Did Commissioner Timilty make things difficult for him later?”

“No need,” I said. “The point had been made. Everyone knew the story. Remember, these people don’t like attention if there’s even a whiff of impropriety. It was easier to move on and leave Dad alone to do his job. There’s an invisible world out there, run by money and power. The rules are unwritten, even unspoken, but anyone who comes into contact with it comes to understand them damn quick. Secrecy and order are what it’s about. Everything needs to run as normal to complete the illusion that all is right and proper with the world. Dad threatened all that when he drew attention to a possible link between Kennedy and the smugglers. He got away easy with a slap on the wrist.”

“Attention,” Kaz said. “That is why we have this assignment, is it not? To make sure the younger son does not receive unwarranted attention.”