“No Mayor Daley this trip?”
He shook his head. “I made the, ah, political rounds not long ago, and talked to the local prosecutors and FBI. We have a Hoffa case coming up, you know.”
“Really.”
His smirk was humorless. “Would it surprise you that I don’t find Chicago a shining example of what America might hope to one day achieve?”
“I’m about as surprised as those Indians.”
He shook his head, sipped the coffee, made a face. I couldn’t tell whether that expression reflected the vending-machine coffee or my hometown.
“On my prior trip here,” he said, “Daley arranged for a limo, courtesy of some Chicago captain of industry. I turned it down, had local FBI agents pick me up and give me a real tour, the kind the mayor, ah, wouldn’t have liked-slums, low-cost housing projects, a mental hospital where on a sunny day the inmates, and that’s what they were, ah, inmates, were inside staring at blank walls. A disgrace. And this from a Democratic administration.”
“You sold me. I’ll vote straight-ticket Republican next time around.”
That got a little smile out of him. He was easier to make laugh than Eben Boldt, but just barely.
Then his smile turned sideways. He spoke softly, to imply both intimacy and confidentiality: “I could’ve used you lately, Nate, I’ll tell you that.”
“Oh?”
“You’ve seen this crap in the papers, about Bobby Baker and his call girls?”
“Don’t tell me Jack has suddenly taken an interest in the fairer sex.”
He smirked. “How about a German lass with connections to their Communist party?”
The press boys had always kept hands-off where JFK’s sexual escapades were concerned, but in the wake of Great Britain’s headline-making Profumo Scandal, they might well have a change of heart. A German Mata Hari in bed with the President would make goddamn good copy.
Plus, it was getting toward the end of JFK’s term, which encouraged a little good old-fashioned muckraking-outside the bedroom, the Kennedys were already considered fair game. Headlines in Chicago recently lambasted Bobby for going after Sam Giancana with tactics a federal judge had termed “Russian spy-type pursuit”; and nationally, stories embarrassingly revealed some of Bobby’s secret Cuban operations, specifically his anti-Castro guerrilla bases in Central America.
“I hope she was a looker,” I said, referring to this German variation on Christine Keeler, knowing Bobby’s brother wasn’t always picky.
“A ringer for Elizabeth Taylor.”
“Hell, why not just go after Liz herself? Unless Marilyn has given him second thoughts.”
Bobby didn’t get angry, which considering his hot temper said something; he didn’t even frown. His eyes were, if anything, sad suddenly.
The reason we hadn’t seen each other-or spoken-in over year grew out of the falling-out we’d had over the murder of Marilyn Monroe. Bobby hadn’t been responsible, nor had Jack, but people looking out for their best interests had been. Sound familiar?
And Bobby, the attorney general of this great land of ours, helped cover it up.
Which was why I’d told him, in no uncertain terms, that I was no longer available to the Camelot crowd for government work.
“I have to ask you,” he said, quietly, “to put that aside. I don’t expect your forgiveness, but I do request your forbearance.”
I said nothing.
He tried again. He touched my arm, a remarkable gesture coming from a guy about as demonstrative as a bust of Napoleon.
“Nate, I need your help. I understand your wish not to be involved with us, in any way, anymore. But you are in a unique position to help us out in a very tough situation.”
“Is it an opening in the Peace Corps? I always wanted to dig wells and teach in developing nations. Plus I hear it’s a good way to meet chicks.”
An aircraft was taking off-big enough to make the framed pictures nervous.
“You’re not going to make this easy, are you, Nate?”
I sipped the Coke. God it was awful. Too much syrup. Ice floating like glass chips, flat as Audrey Hepburn.
I asked, “What did you do about the German streusel?”
The slightest twinkle in those bloodshot blue eyes. “What do you think we did?”
“Deported her and paid her off.”
Another small smile. “Actually, ah, I understand she has come into money. I do know she was escorted overseas by LaVern Duffy.”
Another investigator from rackets committee days.
Bob was saying, “I think he, ah, got along quite well with Miss Rometsch.”
“For that gig, I might have made an exception.”
I twitched a smile at him, and he knew he had me.
With a relieved sigh, a business-like Bobby pushed the coffee away. I had already done that with the Coke.
“I trust Mr. Boldt has briefed you, at least in broad strokes. Very reliable man, Mr. Boldt. Jack misses having him on the White House detail.”
I frowned. “Is that what this is about? This planned attack on Jack next Saturday? Why don’t you just cancel the fucking trip?”
I already knew at least one answer: if every time a death threat came in before a public appearance by the President, the leader of the free world would never stick his head out of the Oval Office.
But, as Eben had indicated, most of those threats came from lunatics with a handgun and a grudge-not a trained assassination squad.
The latter might have been Bobby’s answer, but it wasn’t.
Instead, he said, “My brother is probably the most loved man in America. And possibly the most hated.”
“No,” I said, “you’re the most hated. But he’s probably second.”
That got a real smile out of him. His sense of humor was wry and dark, so I wasn’t surprised by that toothy display.
“This month, we’ve lined up several high-profile trips for Jack-motorcades preceding political events … not just this Chicago one, but to Florida and Texas.”
“The South?” I looked at him sideways. “That’s where they really hate you Kennedy boys. Remember what they used to say back in WW Two-is this trip really necessary?”
Though Bobby actually had a precarious relationship with Negro leaders-especially Martin Luther King-he was viewed in the Deep South as the “nigger-loving” attorney general who had forced Governor George Wallace to get out of that schoolhouse doorway and let the colored kids in.
“Florida and Texas are the only two Southern states we are likely to carry,” Bobby was saying. “And we need them. Much as he may sicken us, Lyndon being on the ticket again gives us a decent shot at Texas.”
“Isn’t Lyndon enough to swing it?”
“I wish he were. But the party down there is at war with itself-Governor Connally might as well be a Republican, and Senator Yarborough’s a liberal maverick. Jack has to go down there and spread the charm around.” He shook his head, smiled ruefully. “Shitty way to make a living, isn’t it?”
“Well, at least there’s plenty of retired Democrats living in Florida.”
“Can’t even take that for granted. Retirees are by nature conservative.” His eyebrows went up. “And, of course, we really need Illinois, and all those lovely electoral votes. Canceling is not an option, Nate.”
I sat forward. “It should be. Bob, your Secret Service contingent in the Loop numbers an underwhelming dozen or so. That would be a joke if it wasn’t so sad.”
His hands were folded on the table now, on top of the manila folder, almost prayerfully. “We have support from the Chicago PD and sheriff’s department, but your point is valid. We’ll be bringing in agents from Secret Service offices all over the country, on Saturday. But in the meantime, I would like to bolster the local bunch with some, ah, outside help.”
“What outside help are you thinking of?”