I took his place. A Bunny came over, but Kennedy already had a mixed drink of some kind going; me, too-a vodka gimlet.
“You know, Nate, I, uh, always look forward to seeing you.”
“Why’s that?” I didn’t figure we’d ever exchanged more than a dozen sentences.
“You’re not a bore,” he said, and twitched half a smile. “And you’re not a yes-man. I have so many of those.”
“That’s because you like it that way.”
Which made him laugh. “See? Exactly what I mean. You know, Bobby, uh, thinks the world of you.”
“I like him back. He’s a bulldog. Reminds me of a friend of mine.”
“Oh? Who’s that?”
“ Late friend of mine. Eliot Ness.”
“On TV?”
“No, the real man. He was shorter than Robert Stack, but a better actor.”
Kennedy grunted a little laugh. “Funny to think of somebody like that-so much larger than life? Actually existing. Walking around. Just a man, like the rest of us.”
Like the rest of us.
“What can I do for you, Jack?” I felt I could take the first-name liberty-I mean, he wasn’t president yet; and anyway, I was the guy who made his first marriage go away. And I wasn’t even pope.
“You, uh, know how stubborn Bobby is about his, uh, his passion.”
“I’m not sure.” I should have known what he meant, but in my defense, half-naked Playmates nearby were bobbing up and down underwater.
“The, uh, issue you worked with him on, years ago.”
“Organized crime. Teamster corruption. I wouldn’t call it an issue. But your brother’s passionate about it, all right.”
He sipped his drink; his eyes no longer met mine. “Bobby doesn’t always, uh, understand the waters we must swim in.”
Again, in this context, that could be taken wrong. Wasn’t that Miss January?
“What are you saying, Jack?”
Now his gaze rose. If his voice had been any softer, the piped-in jazz would have covered it. “I may need, uh, from time to time, the, uh, help of an intermediary… a liaison… with certain types of individuals.”
“Mobsters, you mean. Isn’t that what Sinatra is for?”
Kennedy’s smile was faint. “Frank’s a good friend, but he, uh… he’s a public figure, and he has a temper, and can be… controversial.”
As in, everybody from Hoboken to Hollywood knew Sinatra had mob ties. That hadn’t stopped the Kennedys from using Frank’s fame to their benefit in this campaign.
I said, “You’re saying you may need to get the occasional message to guys like Johnny Rosselli or Sam Giancana, and may need someone reliable to handle that.”
“Yes. But, uh, Nate, let’s not use specific names.”
I had a sip of gimlet. “If you win this thing, you’ll have the Secret Service, and the FBI, and-”
He held up a hand. “The Secret Service needs, I think, to steer clear of such matters, if possible. And the FBI, uh, well-you’ve had your own run-ins with J. Edgar Hoover, I, uh, understand.”
“Yeah. Told him to go fuck himself, back in ’34. Before that kind of thing was fashionable.”
He liked that.
“Jack, I’m glad to help, but if I could put in my two cents…?”
“Throw in as much as you like, Nate. The, uh, campaign coffers can use it.”
“I hear you got some help in West Virginia.”
The story was that Giancana had pulled strings in that state and pumped in money, some of it from a Teamster pension fund. That made Jack beholden to both Giancana and Hoffa, two of his brother’s least favorite people.
“It was a, uh, tough primary.”
“Not as tough as the general election’ll be. And if it’s Illinois that puts you over the top? And Giancana is, or even just thinks he’s the one who made it happen? Well… those are dangerous waters, Jack.”
“ Those are dangerous waters,” he said, smiling at an underwater nymph ogling him and waving. Then he looked at me. “In politics, Nate, we make, uh, all sorts of promises. All sorts of strange bedfellows. We make deals with people who are, uh, also giving to the other side, covering their bases, because that’s, uh, how it works. They hope for a little consideration. Sometimes you give it to them. But it’s not a quid pro quo situation.”
“Just my two cents.”
“Well, uh, I appreciate that, I really do, Nate, and your willingness to help out… I’ll be in touch. If and, uh, when the time comes.”
We shook hands again.
I’d been dismissed. Lawford, who was at the bar, saw me departing, nodded, smiled, and slid back in across from his brother-in-law.
Upstairs, I had a brief nonpolitical conversation with Sinatra, who I’d done a few jobs for. I didn’t know Martin or Davis very well, but we exchanged pleasantries.
Hef-holding court back at his couch, surrounded by guests and girls-gave me a happy-kid look. Kennedy’s presence meant a lot to him, though no reporter would cover tonight-a direct link between Hef and JFK might be embarrassing, and the press boys liked and protected this candidate. They also liked getting asked back to Hef’s parties.
The next hour I spent in the pool, in a bathing suit, chatting up Krista, that twisting bikini brunette I’d spotted earlier, a twenty-year-old who’d recently quit her bank secretary job to be a Bunny. She was from Los Angeles and originally from Sweden and had been in the magazine early last year.
Odd to see her in that skimpy bathing suit and already know that her breasts would be a pale pink against the dark tan and her nipples dark as that tan and rather large and puffy. We flirted, and I used the private eye angle to impress her-she had big brown eyes and a very white, very fetching smile, and a ridiculously sexy accent. We’d been tangling tongues at the edge of the pool for maybe ten minutes when I suddenly realized the tent I was making would be visible from the window in the bar, and suggested we make use of that grotto behind the waterfall.
But when we got in there, somebody was already standing in the waist-high pool with his back to its edge, his body reflecting the shimmering lighted-from-below waters in the cave-like surroundings.
Bad back be damned, there was Jack Kennedy, his chest tan, a goofy smile going, his hands underwater, somebody splashing as he held that somebody’s head under. As if trying to drown whoever it was.
Krista gave me a look and I gave her one back.
“Well, uh, hello again, Nate,” Jack said. “Who’s your lovely friend?”
Hands kept pushing down. More splashing.
“This is Krista. Jack, you better let that-”
“Be damned,” he chuckled. More splashing. “Wouldn’ta taken you for a spoilsport, Nate.”
And he let the person up-not surprisingly a girl, a lovely Liz Taylor-ish brunette with a mouthful of something, probably not water, which she swallowed, and then shoved her hands at him, half playful, half angry.
She scolded, “I told you not to do that anymore, Jack!”
“Don’t you trust me, Judy?… Nate, do you know Judy?”
“Yeah. Yeah. We’ve met.”
I’d met Judith Campbell before.
She was Sam Giancana’s current squeeze, and most anybody who was anybody in Chicago mob circles would know that.
Dangerous waters was right.
It was a little unsettling. What did the golden boy need with me as go-between, with Judy in the picture? Still, it didn’t stop me from sneaking upstairs like a thief with Krista and finding an empty room among the forty.
