JEH: I hope they’re paying you.
KB: It’s an ambiguous situation, Sir.
JEH: You’re an ambiguous man. And yes, any and all Cuban emigre intelligence would be appreciated. Have you anything to add? I’m due at a meeting.
KB: One last thing, Sir. Did you know that the brothers’ father had an illegitimate daughter with Gloria Swanson?
JEH: No, I did not know that. You’re certain?
KB: Reasonably. Should I follow up on it?
JEH: Yes. But avoid any personal entanglements that might upset your incursion.
KB: Yes, Sir.
JEH: Forewarned is forearmed. You have a tendency to adopt people, such as the morally-impaired Ward Littell. Don’t extend that tendency toward the Kennedys. I suspect that their powers of seduction exceed even your own.
KB: I’ll be careful, Sir.
JEH: Good day, Mr. Boyd.
KB: Good day, Sir.
19
(Los Angeles, 1/18/59)
Dick Steisel said, “If Mr. Hughes is so tight with J. Edgar Hoover, have him call off the goddamn process servers.”
Pete scoped out his office. The client photos were boffo—Hughes shared a wall with some South American dictators and bongo player Preston Epps.
“He won’t ask Hoover for favors. He figures he hasn’t kissed his ass enough yet.”
“He can’t keep dodging subpoenas forever. He should simply divest TWA, earn his three or four hundred million and get on to his next conquest.”
Pete rocked his chair and put his feet up on Steisel’s desk. “He doesn’t see things that way.”
“And how do you see things?”
“The way he pays me to.”
“Which means, in this instance?”
“Which means I’m going to call Central Casting, bag a half-dozen actors and have them made up as Mr. Hughes, then send them out in Hughes Aircraft limos. I’m going to tell them to hit some night spots, throw some cash around and talk up their travel plans. Timbuktu, Nairobi—who gives a shit? It’ll buy us some time.”
Steisel sifted through desk clutter. “TWA aside, you should know that most of the Hush-Hush articles you’ve sent over for vetting are libelous. Here’s an example from that Spade Cooley piece. ‘Does Ella Mae Cooley have ‘Everlast’ stamped across her chest? She should, because Spade’s been bopping bluegrass ballads on her already dangerously dented decolletage! It seems that Ella Mae told Spade she wanted to join a free love cult! Spade responded with fiddle-honed fisticuffs, and now Ella Mae has been sporting brutally black-and-blue blistered bosomage.’ You see, Pete, there’s no loophole rhetoric or—”
Steisel moaned and droned. Pete shut him out and daydreamed.
Kemper Boyd called him yesterday. He said, “I’ve got you a lead on a magazine stringer. His name’s Lenny Sands, and he’s playing a junket engagement at the Cal-Neva Lodge in Lake Tahoe. Go talk to him—I think he’d be perfect for Hush-Hush. But—he’s tight with Ward Littell, and I know you’ll figure out he’s FBI-connected. And you should also know that Littell has an eyeball witness on the Gretzler job. Mr. Hoover told him to forget about it, but Littell’s the volatile type. I don’t want you to even mention Littell to Lenny.”
Lenny Sands sounded good. The “eyeball witness” line was horseshit.
Pete said, “I’ll go see Sands. But let’s talk turkey about something else, too.”
“Cuba?”
“Yeah, Cuba. I’m starting to think it’s a gravy train for us law-enforcement retirees.”
“You’re right. And I’m thinking of buying in myself.”
“I want in. Howard Hughes is driving me nuts.”
“Do something nice, then. Do something John Stanton would like.”
“For instance?”
“Look me up in the Washington, D.C. white pages, and send me some goodies.”
Steisel jerked him out of his daydream. “Get these college kids to insert ‘alleged’ and ‘supposed, ’ and make the pieces more hypothetical. Pete, are you listening to me?”
Pete said, “Dick, I’ll see you. I’ve got things to do.”
He drove to a pay phone and dialed favors. He called a cop buddy, Mickey Cohen, and Fred Otash, “Private Eye to the Stars.” They said they could glom some “goodies,” with D.C. delivery guaranteed pronto.
Pete called Spade Cooley. He said, I just kiboshed a new smear on you. Grateful Spade said, “What can I do for you?”
Pete said, I need six girls from your band. Have them meet me at Central Casting in an hour.
Spade said, Yes, Big-Daddy-O!
Pete called Central Casting and Hughes Aircraft. Two clerks promised satisfaction: six Howard Hughes look-alikes and six limousines would be waiting at Central in one hour.
Pete rendezvoused with his shills and paired them off: six Howards, six women, six limos. The Howards got specific instructions: Live it up through to dawn and spread the word that you’re blasting off for Rio!
The limos hauled ass. Spade dropped Pete off at the Burbank airport.
He caught a puddle jumper to Tahoe. The pilot started his downswing right over the Cal-Neva Lodge.
Be good, Lenny.
The casino featured slots, craps, roulette, blackjack, poker, keno, and the world’s thickest deep-pile carpets. The lobby featured a panoply of jumbo cardboard Frank Sinatras.
Dig that one by the door—somebody drew a dick in Frankie’s mouth.
Dig that tiny cardboard cutout by the bar: “Lenny Sands at the Swingeroo Lounge!”
Somebody yelled, “Pete! Pete the Frenchman!” It had to be somebody Outfit—or somebody suicide prone.
Pete looked around. He saw Johnny Rosselli, waving from a booth just inside the bar enclosure.
He walked over. The booth was all-star: Rosselli, Sam G., Heshie Ryskind, Carlos Marcello.
Rosselli winked. “Frenchman Pete, che se dice?”
“Good, Johnny. You?”
“Ça va, Pete, ça va. You know the boys here? Carlos, Mo and Heshie?”
“Just by reputation.”
Handshakes went around. Pete stayed standing—per Outfit protocol.
Rosselli said, “Pete’s French-Canadian, but he don’t like to be reminded of it.”
Giancana said, “Everybody’s gotta come from somewhere.”
Marcello said, “Except me. I got no fucking birth certificate. I was either born in fucking Tunis, North Africa, or fucking Guatemala. My parents were Sicilian greenhorns with no fucking passports. I shoulda asked them, ‘Hey, where was I born?’ when I had the chance.”
Ryskind said, “Yeah, but I’m a Jew with a finicky prostate. My people came from Russia. And if you don’t think that’s a handicap in this crowd …”
Marcello said, “Pete’s been helping Jimmy out in Miami lately. You know, at the cabstand.”
Rosselli said, “And don’t think we don’t appreciate it.”
Giancana said, “Cuba has to get worse before it gets better. Now the fucking Beard has ‘nationalized’ our fucking casinos. He’s got Santo T. in custody down there, and he’s costing us hundreds of thousands a day.”
Rosselli said, “It’s like Castro just shoved an atom bomb up the ass of every made guy in America.”
Nobody said, “Sit down.”
Sam G. pointed out a lowlife walking by counting nickels. “D’Onofrio brings these chumps here. They stink up my room and don’t lose enough to compensate. Me and Frank have got forty percent of the Lodge between us. This is a top-line room, not a resort for the lunchpail crowd.”
Rosselli laughed. “Your boy Lenny’s working with Sal now.”
Giancana took a bead on the lowlife and pulled a make-believe trigger. “Somebody’s gonna put a new part in Mad Sal D’Onofrio’s hair. Bookies that owe more than they take in are like fucking Communists sucking the welfare tit.”
Rosselli sipped his highball. “So, Pete, what brings you to the Cal-Neva?”
“I’m interviewing Lenny Sands for a job.
I thought he might make a good stringer for Hush-Hush.”
Sam G. passed him some play chips. “Here, Frenchman, lose a grand on me. But don’t move Lenny out of Chicago, all right? I like having him around.”
Pete smiled. The “boys” smiled. Get the picture? They’ve tossed you all the crumbs they think you’re worth.
Pete walked. He got caught up in the tail end of a stampede—low rollers heading for the low-rent lounge.
He followed them in. The room was SRO: every table full, latecomers holding up the walls.
Lenny Sands was on stage, backed by a piano and drums.
The keyboard man tickled some blues. Lenny bopped him on the head with his microphone.
“Lew, Lew, Lew. What are we, a bunch of moolies? What are you playing? ‘Pass me the Watermelon, Mama, ’Cause My Spareribs are Double-Parked’?”
The audience yukked. Lenny said, “Lew, give me some Frankie.”
Lew Piano laid down an intro. Lenny sang, half Sinatra/half fag falsetto:
“I’ve got you under my skin. I’ve got you, keestered deep inside of me. So deep, my hemorrhoids are riding me. I’ve got you—WHOA!—under my skin.”
The junket chumps howled. Lenny cranked up his lisp:
“I’ve got you, chained to my bed. I’ve got you, and extra K-Y now! So deep, you can’t really say why now! I’ve got you under my skin!”
The geeks yuk-yuk-yukked and tee-hee-heed. Peter Lawford walked in and checked the action—Frank Sinatra’s #1 toady.
The drummer popped a rim shot. Lenny stroked his mike at crotch level.
“You gorgeous he-men from the Chicago Knights of Columbus, I just adore you!”
The audience cheered—
“And I want you to know that all my womanizing and chasing ring-a-ding cooze is just subterfuge to hide my overweening lust for YOU, the men of K of C Chapter 384, you gorgeous hunks of manicotti with your king-sized braciolas that I just can’t wait to sautee and fricassee and take deep into my tantalizing Tetrazzini!”
Lawford looked hot to trot. It was common insider knowledge that he’d kill to suck up to Sinatra.
The junketeers roared. Some clown waved a K of C flag.
“I just love you love you love you! I can’t wait to dress up in drag and invite all of you to sleep over at my Rat Pack slumber party!”
Lawford bolted toward the stage.
Pete tripped him.
Dig the toady’s pratfall—an instant all-time classic.
Frank Sinatra shoved his way into the lounge. The junketeers went stone fucking nuts.
Sam G. intercepted him. Sam G. whispered to him, nice and gentle and FIRM.
Pete caught the gist.
Lenny’s with the Outfit. Lenny’s not a guy you rough up for sport.
Sam was smiling. Sam dug Lenny’s act.
Sinatra about-faced. Ass-kissers surrounded him.
Lenny cranked his lisp waaaaay up. “Frankie, come back! Peter, get up off the floor, you gorgeous nincompoop!”
Lenny Sands was one cute shitbird.
• • •
He slipped the head blackjack dealer a note to forward to Sands. Lenny showed up at the coffee shop, on-the-dot punctual.
Pete said, “Thanks for coming.”
Lenny sat down. “Your note mentioned money. That’s something that always gets my attention.”
A waitress brought them coffee. Jackpot gongs went off—baby slots were bolted to every table.
“Kemper Boyd recommended you. He said you’d be perfect for the job.”
“Are you working for him?”
“No. He’s just an acquaintance.”
Lenny rubbed a scar above his lips. “What is the job exactly?”
“You’d be the stringer for Hush-Hush. You’d be digging up the stories and scandal bits and feeding them to the writers.”
“So I’d be a snitch.”
“Sort of. You keep your nose down in L.A., Chicago and Nevada, and report back.”
“For how much?”
“A grand a month, cash.”
“Movie-star dirt, that’s what you want. You want the skank on entertainment people.”
“Right. And liberal-type politicians.”
Lenny poured cream in his coffee. “I’ve got no beef with that, except for the Kennedys. Bobby I can do without, but Jack I like.”
“You were pretty tough on Sinatra. He’s pals with Jack, isn’t he?”
“He pimps for Jack and brown-noses the whole family. Peter Lawford’s married to one of Jack’s sisters, and he’s Frank’s brown-nose contact. Jack thinks Frank’s good for chuckles and not much else, and you didn’t hear any of this from me.”
Pete sipped coffee. “Tell me more.”
“No, you ask.”
“Okay. I’m on the Sunset Strip and I want to get laid for a C-note. What do I do?”
“You see Mel, the parking-lot man at Dino’s Lodge. For a dime, he’ll send you to a pad on Havenhurst and Fountain.”
“Suppose I want nigger stuff?”
“Go to the drive-in at Washington and La Brea and talk to the colored carhops.”
“Suppose I dig boys?”
Lenny flinched. Pete said, “I know you hate fags, but answer the question.”
“Shit, I don’t … wait … the doorman at the Largo runs a string of male prosties.”
“Good. Now, what’s the story on Mickey Cohen’s sex life?”
Lenny smiled. “It’s cosmetic. He doesn’t really dig cooze, but he likes to be seen with beautiful women. His current quasi-girlfriend is named Sandy Hashhagen. Sometimes he goes out with Candy Barr and Liz Renay.”
“Who clipped Tony Trombino and Tony Brancato?”
“Either Jimmy Frattiano or a cop named Dave Klein.”
“Who’s got the biggest dick in Hollywood?”
“Steve Cochran or John Ireland.”
“What’s Spade Cooley do for kicks?”
“Pop bennies and beat up his wife.”
“Who’d Ava Gardner cheat on Sinatra with?”
“Everybody.”
“Who do you see for a quick abortion?”
“I’d go see Freddy Otash.”
“Jayne Mansfield?”
“Nympho.”
“Dick Contino?”
“Muff diver supreme.”
“Gail Russell?”
“Drinking herself to death at a cheap pad in West L.A.”
“Lex Barker?”
“Pussy hound with jailbait tendencies.”
“Johnnie Ray?”
“Homo.”
“Art Pepper?”
“Junkie.”
“Lizabeth Scott?”
“Dyke.”
“Billy Eckstine?”
“Cunt man.”
“Tom Neal?”
“On the skids in Palm Springs.”
“Anita O’Day?”
“Hophead.”
“Cary Grant?”
“Homo.”
“Randolph Scott?”
“Homo.”
“Senator William F. Knowland?”
“Drunk.”
“Chief Parker?”
“Drunk.”
“Bing Crosby?”
“Drunk wife-beater.”
“Sergeant John O’Grady?”
“LAPD guy known for planting dope on jazz musicians.”
“Desi Arnaz?”
“Whore chaser.”
“Scott Brady?”
“Grasshopper.”
“Grace Kelly?”
“Frigid. I popped her once myself, and I almost froze my shvantze off.”
Pete laughed. “Me?”
Lenny grinned. “Shakedown king. Pimp. Killer. And in case you’re wondering, I’m much too smart to ever fuck with you.”
Pete said, “You’ve got the job.”
They shook hands.
Mad Sal D. walked in the door, waving two cups spilling nickels.
20
(Washington, D.C.,
1/20/59)
United Parcel dropped off three big boxes. Kemper carried them into his kitchen and opened them.
Bondurant wrapped the stuff in oilcloth. Bondurant understood the concept of “goodies.”
Bondurant sent him two submachine guns, two hand grenades and nine silencer-fitted .45 automatics.
Bondurant included a succinct, unsigned note:
“Your move and Stanton’s.”
The machine guns came with fully loaded drums and a maintenance manual. The .45s fit his shoulder rig perfectly.
Kemper strapped one on and drove to the airport. He caught the 1:00 p.m. New York shuttle with time to spare.
881 Fifth Avenue was a high-line Tudor fortress. Kemper ducked past the doorman and pushed the “L. Hughes” lobby buzzer.
A woman’s voice came on the intercom. “Take the second lift on the left, please. You can leave the groceries in the foyer.”
He elevatored up twelve floors. The doors opened straight into an apartment vestibule.
The vestibule was the size of his living room. The mink woman was leaning against a full-sized Greek column, wearing a tartan robe and slippers.
Her hair was tied back. She was juuust starting to smile.
“I remember you from the Kennedys’ party. Jack said you’re one of Bobby’s policemen.”
“My name’s Kemper Boyd, Miss Hughes.”
“From Lexington, Kentucky?”
“You’re close. Nashville, Tennessee.”
She folded her arms. “You heard me give the cab driver my address, and you described me to the doorman downstairs. He told you my name, and you rang my bell.”
“You’re close.”
“You saw me give that vulgar diamond broach away. Any man as elegantly dressed as you are would appreciate a gesture like that.”
“Only a well-taken-care-of woman would make that kind of gesture.”
She shook her head. “That’s not a very sharp perception.”
Kemper stepped toward her. “Then let’s try this. You did it because you knew you had an audience. It was a Kennedy kind of thing to do, and I’m not criticizing you for it.”
Laura cinched her robe. “Don’t get presumptuous with the Kennedys. Don’t even talk presumptuously about them, because when you least expect it they’ll cut you off at the knees.”
“You’ve seen it happen?”
“Yes, I have.”
“Did it happen to you?”