Not good. Possibly it's a corollary of the service's command structure. After all, how many countries have a Secret Service that's commanded by a businessman, instead of a policeman or a soldier, anyone with intelligence experience? We have the Secretary of the Treasury, George M. Humphrey, former president of the Mark A. Hanna Company of Cleveland. A nice enough guy. He and Ike get along pretty well. But he knows nothing about the world of intelligence. But then neither do we. Right now, we're living on our reputation, and even that's in danger of going to the dogs. Procedures are slack and old-fashioned. A lot of the time we have to rely on local law enforcement officers, and that means we're usually only as good as they are, and sometimes just as bad. Did you know that the NYPD is the only municipal force we're posted on?'
Things are that good, huh?'
They're worse. I tell you, if the American people knew how slack things had become there would be a fucking outcry. When Ike went on his South American tour, back in February, some of the guys on the detail were so tired from all the partying that was going on, they couldn't keep up with the presidential limo. One guy had such a bad hangover, he actually puked up during the parade in Rio. What's more, we let Ike sit up on the back of the goddamn car, like a fairground target. The idea of a human shield to protect the President? Forget it.
Take the cars. In FDR's day, most of the cars had running boards. Modern cars don't. They look stupid with running boards. Dangerous, too. The last presidential car to have boards was retired seven years ago. And as for the drivers, they don't know shit. They've no driving skills to speak of. No getaway techniques. James Dean was a better driver than the guy behind the wheel of Ike's fucking car.'
They walked past Francis Scott Memorial Park where a flag hung limply in honour of the Washington attorney who had penned the national anthem. It seemed a noisy place for a park, so near to Key Bridge to their left, conducting streams of traffic south across the Potomac River. The two men turned north toward the quieter heights of Georgetown, and arrived at the foot of a seemingly interminable Jacob's ladder of stone steps leading up into the darkness of the November night. They began their ascent.
Hell, agents don't even have to take a yearly medical,' complained Weintraub. If you did, then they'd retire me for sure. The truth is that I can't cut it any more. I'm getting too slow. If I could afford to retire, I would.'
You seem fit enough to me,' puffed Nimmo. Talk about John Buchan. How many goddamn steps are there, anyway?
Almost twice as many. Seventy-five, to be precise.'
About as old as I feel right now.'
You know how much overtime I work? Seventy, sometimes eighty hours a month. There's some public law that says you don't get overtime unless you exceed your shift by twenty-six hours a month. I can't remember the last time I did as little overtime as that. Nobody can. We've all of us got wives and families. I just got this new apartment in Silver Spring and I need every dollar. Overtime makes me an extra thousand dollars a year. Of course, the more overtime you do, the slacker you get and the more tired you become. If they paid us a decent wage in the first place, I dunno, maybe things would be different. But if this system didn't exist, no one would be stupid enough to invent it. Thank God Ike's not more active. He's been real easy to guard since the heart attacks.'
They reached the top of the steps where Nimmo felt obliged to lean on the wall of some old federal building just to catch his breath. Inside his thick chest his lungs felt like two hot kippers. Don't mention heart attacks,' he gasped, and lit a cigarette to help him concentrate on recovering his breath. You're a lot fitter than you think.'
Thank you, sir.'
Turning right, they began to walk east, along N Street.
It could be worse,' continued Weintraub. It could be President De Gaulle we were guarding. In May we were in Paris with Ike and I tell you those French boys have their work cut out. De Gaulle's a regular fucking Geronimo. Seems like everyone wants to shoot him.' Quoting Eisenhower's campaign slogan from 1952, he added, I like Ike. And fortunately so does everyone else. But Little Boy Blue? That's what Ike calls Kennedy. I wonder. Some of the guys on Kennedy's detail tell me he likes to party a lot himself. He certainly likes to meet people, and that's going to be a problem. A big problem. Bodyguards don't get on with the body politic.'
As a matter of fact, that's what I wanted to talk to you about,' confessed Nimmo. Kennedy's security.'
Weintraub pointed up the street. Take a look up there. You're about to get a closer look at his security. Do you see those lights? They're TV lights. And they're outside Kennedy's house. Which means he must be home.'
I knew it was around here some place.' Nimmo stopped to light another cigarette with the butt of the one he had just smoked, and then looked around. There was no one in sight at this end of N Street. So that's where he lives.'
Until January twentieth. After that, he'll be in the White House. So. What were you going to say about Kennedy's security?'
Unlike you, Murray, I'm in no hurry to retire. Despite what anyone might think when they see me in Miami. Fact is, I miss the Bureau. Well, for a while now I've had this scheme that I figured might put me in good odour with Hoover again. There's this guy I know in Miami who's part of the local Teamster. Fellow by the name of Dave Yaras. He's a hood, Murray, a real fucking villain, and connected to a lot of mobsters. Jake Guzik, for one. Santos Trafficante, for another. Anyway, I've been developing Yaras as an informant for George White at the FBN. Remember George?' Weintraub nodded. There's nothing official, you understand. I mean, if I ever registered Yaras as an informant it'd be like cutting his throat myself. Chicago's riddled with corruption. Even the FBN. It's not that I don't trust George. But some of the people around him are really fucked up. However, to come back to the main point, I've been hoping there'd be some kind of a big narcotics bust, and George would put in a good word for me.
Then a couple of days ago,' Nimmo lied smoothly, I had a drink with Yaras, and we both got a little tight, and he told me that some guy, a friend of Jimmy Hoffa's, was going to take a pop at Kennedy, and that this would happen sometime before inauguration day. It's no secret Hoffa hates the Kennedys, after the way they went after him. He may have beaten those indictments, but he's smart enough to know there'll be others. Especially if Bobby becomes Attorney-General. Yaras said that Hoffa believed the quickest way to prevent this was to kill Jack, not Bobby. That Bobby would be nothing without Jack. Thus the contract.
Murray, my first instinct was that this was just a bunch of bullshit. Big talk from Yaras and this pal of Hoffa's. But when I rang Yaras to talk about it again, the next day, he seemed real scared, and clammed up. Wouldn't say another damn word about it. I could go to Hoover now, only I'm pretty sure he and those other boys on the fifth floor at Justice would just laugh me all the way down Constitution Avenue. Sure, someone wants to shoot the President-elect dead, they'll say. Same as they want to kill the Vice-president. During the campaign a mob of Dallas housewives spat at LBJ, for Christ's sake. They could just as easily have sprayed him with acid. And that was his home fucking state. Threats come with the job, they'll tell me, like the use of Air Force One and the executive toilet in the Oval Office.
But then they'll want to know why I'm drinking with the likes of Dave Yaras. And I don't think George White's the kind of friend who'll be there to back me up. Maybe it is all bullshit. I hope it is. But I voted for Kennedy and I wouldn't like to see anything happen to him, you know?'
So what is it you want from me?' enquired Weintraub.
I was thinking. If I knew more about where Kennedy's going to be in the next few weeks, then I might be able to bluff Yaras into the belief that Hoffa's hitman doesn't stand a chance - that there are Secret Service agents waiting for him in Palm Beach on the first of December, and at Hyannis Port on the fourth. So he might as well tell me everything he knows. I figure then I can get a fix on this guy, and tip off the local Bureau with some information that' s A-one-A, and not some gangster's vodka Martini say-so.
You're not asking much, are you?'
I swear I wouldn't ask if I didn't think this was on the level.'
I should say, no. You know that, don't you? And even if I said yes, and called the President-elect's office, at the Senate Office Building, and spoke to Kennedy's personal secretary, Mrs Lincoln, and you can't get more respectable than that, she'd be well within her rights to tell me to go to hell. The President-elect's schedule is highly confidential. Of course, I could tell her that the Protective Research Section of the Secret Service have asked me to liaise with her, in order that they can avoid doubling up on the checks made in advance on the places both Ike and Jack are gonna be. That's what I could tell her. And like I said, I should say no. I could get in trouble. But it so happens I need a favour myself, Jimmy.'
Whatever I can do, Murray. You only have to ask.'
I was telling you how I'm getting too old for this job. Forty-eight isn't old. But it's too old for this job. Only I
