Littell flew to Alabama--eight days back. Littell researched births and deaths. Jane Fentress was born in Birmingham. Her DOB was 9/4/26. Her DOD was 8/1/29.
He drove to Bessemer. He rented an apartment. He put "Jane Fentress" on the mailbox. Bessemer to Birmingham--twenty-two miles.
Littell switched pens. Littell spread fresh paper. Littell inked vertical lines.
Arden was a bookkeeper. Arden claimed credentials. Arden went to school in DeKalb, Mississippi. Let's upgrade her--Tulane, '49--let's give her an accounting degree.
He was due in New Orleans. He could visit Tulane. He could skim old catalogs. He could learn the academic terrain. He could forge a transcript. He could solicit Mr. Hoover. Local agents knew Tulane. A man could plant the goods.
Littell lined six sheets--standard college forms. He worked fast. He blotted. He smudged. He smeared.
Arden was safe. He stashed her in Balboa--due south of L.A.
A hotel hideaway--paid for by Hughes Tool. Tool Co. ignored his expenses--per Mr. Hughes' edict.
He swapped notes with Mr. Hughes. They spoke on the phone. They never officially met. He snuck into Drac's lair--one time only--the assassination a.m.
There's Drac: He's sucking IV blood. He's shooting dope in his dick. He's tall. He's thin. His nails curl back.
Mormons guarded him. Mormons cleaned his spikes. Mormons fed him blood. Mormons swabbed his injection tracks.
Drac stayed in his room. Drac owned his room. The hotel endured him--call it squatter's rights--Beverly Hills--style.
Littell spread photos out. Arden--three ways. One passport-DL shot/two keepsakes.
They made love in Balboa. A window blew open. Some kids heard them. The kids laughed. Their dog carried on.
Arden had sharp hips. He was bone-thin. They bumped and scraped and blundered into a fit.
Arden touched up her gray hair. Arden's pulse ran quick. She'd had scarlet fever as a kid. She'd had one abortion.
She was running. He caught her. Her run predated the hit.
Littell studied the photos. Littell studied her.
She had one brown eye. She had one hazel eye. Her left breast was smaller than her right. He bought her a cashmere sweater. It stretched snug on one side.
Jimmy Hoffa said, "I'm going down? After the fucking coup we just pulled?"
Littell went ssshhh. Hoffa shut up. Littell tossed the room. He checked the lamps. He checked the rugs. He checked under the desk.
"Ward, you worry too much. I got a fucking guard outside my office twenty-four hours a day."
Littell checked the window. Window mounts worked. Suction cups could be rigged to glass.
"Ward, Jesus fucking--"
No mounts/no glass plates/no cups.
Hoffa stretched out. Hoffa yawned. Hoffa dipped his chair and dropped his feet on his desk.
Littell sat on the edge. "You'll probably be convicted. The appeal process will buy you at least--"
"That cunt-lapping homo Bobby F-for-Faggot--"
"--but jury tampering is not an offense that falls under Federal sentencing guidelines, which means a discretionary decree, which--"
"--means Bobby F-for-Fuckface Kennedy wins and James R-for-Ridiculous Hoffa goes to the fucking shithouse for five or six fucking years."
Littell smiled. "That's my summary, yes."
Hoffa picked his nose. "There's more. 'That's my summary' is no kind of summary that's worth a fucking shit."
Littell crossed his legs. "You'll stay out on appeals for two or three years. I'm developing a long-range strategy to legitimize Pension Fund money and divert and launder it through foreign sources, which should kick into high gear around the time you get out. I'm meeting the Boys in Vegas next month to discuss it. I can't emphasize how important this may prove to be."
Hoffa picked his teeth. "And in the fucking meantime?"
"In the meantime, we have to worry about those other grand juries that Bobby's impaneled."
Hoffa blew his nose. "That cunt-lapping cocksucker. After what we did to fuck--"
"We need to know what Bobby thinks about the hit. Mr. Hoover wants to know, too."
Hoffa cleaned his ears. Hoffa shined on Littell. He gouged. He went in deep. He jabbed a pen. He prospected for wax.
He said, "Carlos has a lawyer at Justice."
New Orleans was hot. The air hung wet and ripe.
Carlos owned a motel--twelve rooms and one office. Carlos made people wait.
Littell waited. The office smelled--chicory and bug spray. Carlos left a bottle out--Hennessy X.O--Carlos doubted his will to abstain.
He got off the plane. He drove to Tulane. He went through catalogs. He compiled a list of GI Bill classes.
He called Mr. Hoover. He asked his favor. Mr. Hoover agreed. Yes, I'll do it--I'll plant your paper.
The air cooler died. Littell dumped his jacket. Littell undid his tie. Carlos walked in. Carlos slapped the wall unit. Cold air blew high.
"Come va, Ward?"
Littell kissed his ring. "Bene, padrone."
Carlos sat on the desk. "You love that shit, and you're not even Italian."
"Stavo perdiven tare un prete, Signor Marcello. Aurei potuto il tuo con fessore."
Carlos cracked the bottle. "Say the last part in English. Your Italian's better than mine."
Littell smiled. "I could have been your confessor."
Carlos poured two fingers. "You'd be out of a job. I never do anything to piss God off."
Littell smiled. Carlos offered the bottle. Littell shook his head.
Carlos lit a cigar. "So?"
Littell coughed. "We're fine. The commission's a whitewash, and I wrote the narrative brief that they'll work off. It played the way I expected."
"Despite some fuck-ups."
"Guy Banister's. Not Pete's or mine."
Carlos shrugged. "Guy's a capable guy, on the whole."
"I wouldn't say that."
"Of course you wouldn't. You wanted your crew to go in."
Littell coughed. "I don't want to argue the point."
"The fuck you don't. You're a lawyer."
The wall unit died. Carlos slapped it. Cold air blew wide.
Littell said, "The meeting is set for the fourth."
Carlos laughed. "Moe Dalitz is calling it 'the Summit.'"
"That's appropriate. Especially if we still have your vote for Pete's business."
"Pete's potential business? Yeah, sure."
"You don't sound too optimistic."
Carlos flicked ash. "Narcotics is a tough sell. Nobody wants to put Vegas in the shitter."
"Vegas is the shitter."
"No, Mr. I-Was-Almost-a-Priest, it's your fucking salvation. It's your debt to pay off, and without that debt you'd be in the shitter with your friend Kemper Boyd."
Littell coughed. The smoke was bad. The wall unit swirled it.
Carlos said, "So?"
"So, I have a plan for the Pension Fund books. It's long-range, and it derives from your plans for Mr. Hughes."
"You mean our plans."
Littell coughed. "Yes, ours."
Carlos shrugged--I'm bored for now--Carlos held up a file.
"Jimmy said you need a guy next to Bobby."
Littell grabbed the file. Littell skimmed the top page--one Shreveport PD rap sheet/one note.
8/12/54: Doug Eversall drives home. Doug Eversall hits three kids. He's drunk. The kids die. Doug's DA pal buries it.
For his pal: Carlos Marcello.
Doug Eversall is a lawyer. Doug Eversall works at Justice. Bobby likes Doug. Bobby hates drunks and loves kids. Bobby doesn't know Doug's a kid-killer.
Carlos said, "You'll like Doug. He's on the wagon, like you."
Littell grabbed his briefcase and stood up. Carlos said, "Not yet."
The smoke was bad. It punched up the booze fumes. Littell almost drooled.
"We got some loose ends, Ward. Ruby bothers me, and I think we should send him a message."
Littell coughed. Here it com-- "Guy said you know the story. You know, all that grief at Jack Zangetty's motel."
Chills now--steam off dry ice.
"I know the story, yes. I know what Guy wants you to do, and I'm against it. It's unnecessary, it's too conspicuous, it's too close to Ruby's arrest."
Carlos shook his head. "They go. Tell Pete to take care of it."
Dizzy--weightless now.
"This is all on Banister. He let them go to the safe house. He screwed up on Tippit and Oswald. He's the drunk who'll be bragging to every rightwing shithead on God's green earth."
Carlos shook his head. Carlos waved four fingers.
"Zangetty, Hank Killiam, that Arden cunt, and Betty McDonald. Tell Pete I don't expect a big delay."
17.
(Las Vegas, 12/13/63)