“Right.”
“Did Lawford introduce you to Jack Kennedy?”
“No.”
“Do you think he told Kennedy about you?”
“Maybe.”
“You’ve heard about Kennedy and women?”
“Sure. Peter called him ‘insatiable,’ and a showgirl I knew in Vegas told me some stories.”
Pete smelled suntan oil. Redheads and bright stage lights—
Barb said, “Where are we going with this?”
Pete said, “I’ll see you at the club tomorrow night and tell you.”
Littell met him outside Lenny’s building. Night-owl Lenny had his lights on at 3:20 a.m.
Pete said, “The woman’s great. All we need is Lenny to front the introduction.”
“I want to meet her.”
“You will. Is he alone?”
Littell nodded. “He came home with a pickup two hours ago. The boy just left.”
Pete yawned—he hadn’t slept in twenty-four-plus hours. “Let’s take him.”
“Good cop-bad cop?”
“Right. Alternating, so we keep him off balance.”
They walked up to the porch. Pete rang the bell. Littell screwed a crimped ugly look on his face.
Lenny opened up. “Don’t tell me, you forgot—”
Pete pushed him inside. Littell slammed the door and threw the bolt.
Chic Lenny cinched his robe. Fey Lenny threw his head back and laughed.
“I thought we were quits, Ward. And I thought you only crawled around Chicago.”
Littell said, “We need some help. And all you have to do is introduce a man to a woman and keep quiet about it.”
“Or?”
“Or we hand you up for the Tony Iannone killing.”
Pete sighed. “Let’s do this civilized.”
Littell said, “Why? We’re dealing with a sadistic little faggot who killed a man and bit his goddamn nose off.”
Lenny sighed. “I’ve been double-teamed before. This routine is nothing new to me.”
Littell said, “We’ll try to make it interesting.”
Pete said, “Five grand, Lenny. All you have to do is introduce Barb Jahelka to another friend of yours.”
Littell popped his knuckles. Lenny said, “Give it up, Ward. Rough-trade mannerisms don’t suit you.”
Littell slapped him. Lenny slapped him back.
Pete stepped between them. They looked ridiculous—two bloody-nosed pseudo tough guys.
“Come on, you two. Let’s do this civilized.”
Lenny wiped his nose. “Your face looks different, Ward. Those scars are soooooo you.”
Littell wiped his nose. “You didn’t seem surprised when Pete mentioned Barb Jahelka.”
Lenny laughed. “That’s because I was still in shock from the notion of you two as playmates.”
Littell said, “That’s not a real answer.”
Lenny shrugged. “How’s this? Barb’s in the Life, and everybody in the Life knows everybody else in the Life.”
Pete lobbed a change-up. “Name some hotels Jack Kennedy takes his women to.”
Lenny twitched. Pete popped his thumbs double-loud.
Littell said, “Name some hotels.”
Swishy Lenny squealed, “This is sooooo fun! Hey, let’s call Kemper Boyd and make it a foursome!”
Littell slapped him. Lenny popped some tears—fag bravado, adieu.
Pete said, “Name some hotels. Don’t make me get rough with you.”
Lenny put on a lisp. “The El Encanto in Santa Barbara, the Ambassador-East in Chicago, and the Carlyle in New York.”
Littell pushed Pete into the hallway—well out of Lenny’s earshot. “Hoover’s got standing bugs in the El Encanto and Ambassador-East.
The managers assign those suites to whoever he tells them to.”
Pete whispered. “He’s put it together. He knows what we want, so let’s close him.”
They walked back to the living room. Lenny was guzzling high-test Bacardi.
Littell looked ready to drool. Hoffa said he had ten months off the sauce. Lenny’s liquor cart was radioactive—rum and scotch and all kinds of good shit.
Lenny downed the juice two-handed. Pete said, “ ‘Jack, this is Barb. Barb, this is Jack.’ ”
Lenny wiped his lips. “I have to call him ‘Mr. President’ now.”
Littell said, “When was the last time you saw him?”
Lenny coughed. “A few months ago. At Peter Lawford’s beach house.”
“Does he always go by Lawford’s place when he’s in L.A.?”
“Yes. Peter throws wonderful parties.”
“Does he invite unattached women?”
Lenny giggled. “Does he ever.”
“Does he invite you?”
“Usually, dear heart. The President likes to laugh, and what the President likes, the President gets.”
Pete stepped in. “Who else goes to the parties? Sinatra and those Rat Pack guys?”
Lenny poured a stiff refill. Littell licked his lips and plugged the bottle.
Pete said, “Who else goes to those parties?”
Lenny shrugged. “Amusing people. Frank used to come, but Bobby made Jack drop him.”
Littell stepped in. “I read that Kennedy’s coming to Los Angeles on February 18th.”
“That’s true, dear heart. And guess who’s throwing a party on the 19th.”
“Were you invited, Lenny?”
“Yes, I was.”
“Does the Secret Service frisk the guests or run them through a metal detector?”
Lenny reached for the bottle. Pete grabbed it first.
“Answer Mr. Littell’s question, goddamnit.”
Lenny shook his head. “No. What the Secret Service does is eat, drink and discuss Jack’s protean sex drive.”
Pete said, “ ‘Barb, this is Jack. Jack, this is Barb.’ ”
Lenny sighed. “I’m not an imbecile.”
Pete smiled. “We’re upping your fee to ten thousand, because we know you’re way too smart to mention this to anybody.”
Littell pushed the liquor cart out of his sight. “That specifically includes Sam Giancana and your Outfit friends, Laura Hughes, Claire Boyd and Kemper Boyd, on the extreme off-chance that you run into them.”
Lenny laughed. “Kemper’s not in on this? Toooo bad—I wouldn’t mind rubbing whatevers with him again.”
Pete said, “Don’t treat this like a joke.”
Littell said, “Don’t think Sam will let you walk for the Tony job.”
Pete said, “Don’t think that Sam still likes Jack, or that he’d lift a finger to help him. Sam bought Jack West Virginia and Illinois, but that was a long time ago, and Bobby’s been goddamn unfriendly to the Outfit since then.”
Lenny weaved into the cart. Littell steadied him.
Lenny pushed him away. “Sam and Bobby must have something cooking, ’cause Sam said the Outfit’s been doing some work to help Bobby out with Cuba, but Bobby doesn’t know about it, and Sam said, ‘We sort of think he should be told.’ ”
Pete caught a quick flash:
The Whack Fidel auditions. Three Outfit biggies, bored and noncommittal.
Littell said, “Lenny, you’re drunk. You’re not making any—”
Pete cut him off. “What else did Giancana say about Bobby Kennedy and Cuba?”
Lenny leaned against the door. “Nothing. I just heard two seconds of this conversation he was having with Butch Montrose.”
“When?”
“Last week. I went to Chicago for a Teamster smoker.”
Littell said, “Forget about Cuba.” Lenny weaved and flashed the V-for-victory sign.
“Viva Fidel! Down with the U.S. imperialist insect!”
Pete slapped him.
Littell said, “ ‘Barb, this is Jack.’ And remember what we’ll do if you betray us.”
Lenny spat out some gold bridgework.
The combo played way off-key. Pete figured they were zorched on h
is Dilaudid.
The Reef Club rocked. Twist nuts had the floor shaking.
Barb danced close to chaste by her standards. Pete figured the potential gig had her distracted.
Littell commandeered a wraparound bar booth. Barb waved when she saw them walk in.
Pete drank beer. Littell drank club soda. Amplifier boom shook their table.
Pete yawned. He got a room at the Statler and slept through the day and half the evening.
Hoffa sent two grand to Fred Otash. Littell wrote a note to Hoover and sent it via Jimmy’s FBI contact.
The note said, We want to install bugs and wiretaps. The note said, We want to fuck one of YOUR MAJOR ENEMIES.
Hoffa retained Fred Turentine. Freddy was set to tap phones and plant bugs where needed.
Pete yawned. Lenny’s Bobby/Cuba pitch kept twisting through his head.
Littell nudged him. “She’s got the looks.”
“And the style.”
“How smart is she?”
“A lot smarter than my last extortion partner.”
Barb worked the “Frisco Twist” into a crescendo. Her junkie backup group kept playing like she wasn’t even there.
She walked off stage. Twist clowns jostled her across the dance floor. A horny geek followed her and scoped out her cleavage close up.
Pete waved. Barb slid into the booth next to him.
Pete said, “Miss Lindscott, Mr. Littell.”
Barb lit a cigarette. “It’s technically ‘Jahelka.’ When my mother-in-law dies, I’ll go back to ‘Lindscott.’ ”
Littell said, “I like ‘Lindscott.’ ”
Barb said, “I know. It fits my face better.”
“Have you ever worked as an actress?”
“No.”
“What about that charade with Lenny Sands and Rock Hudson?”
“I only had to fool the police and spend a night in jail.”
“Was two thousand dollars worth the risk?”
Barb laughed. “Compared to four hundred dollars for three Twist shows a night, six nights a week?”
Pete pushed his beer and pretzels aside. “You’ll make a lot more than two thousand dollars with us.”
“For doing what? Besides sleeping with some powerful man, I mean.”
Littell leaned toward her. “It’s high risk, but it’s only temporary.”
“So? The Twist is temporary and boring.”
Littell smiled. “If you met President Kennedy and wanted to impress him, how would you act?”
Barb blew three perfect smoke rings. “I’d act profane and funny.”
“What would you wear?”
“Flat heels.”
“Why?”
“Men like women they can look down to.”
Littell laughed. “What would you do with fifty thousand dollars?”
Barb laughed. “I’d wait out the Twist.”
“Suppose you get exposed?”
“Then I’ll figure that you’re worse than whoever we’re shaking down and keep my mouth shut.”
Pete said, “It won’t come to that.”
Barb said, “What won’t?”
Pete fought this urge to touch her. “You’ll be safe. This is one of those high-risk things that gets settled nice and quiet.”
Barb leaned close to him. “Tell me what ‘it’ is. I know what it is, but I want to hear you say it.”
She brushed his leg. The contact made his whole body flutter.
Pete said, “It’s you and Jack Kennedy. You’ll meet him at a party at Peter Lawford’s house in two weeks. You’ll be wearing a microphone, and if you’re as good as I think you are, that will just be the start of it.”
Barb took their hands and squeezed them. Her look said, Pinch me, am I dreaming?
“Am I some kind of Republican Party shill?”
Pete laughed. Littell laughed harder.
DOCUMENT INSERT: 2/18/62. Verbatim FBI telephone call transcript: “TAPED AT THE DIRECTOR’S REQUEST”/“DIRECTOR’S EYES ONLY.” Speaking: Director J. Edgar Hoover, Ward J. Littell.
JEH: Mr. Littell?
WJL: Yes, Sir.
JEH: Your communique was quite bold.
WJL: Thank you, Sir.
JEH: I had no idea you were employed by Mr. Hoffa and Mr. Marcello.
WJL: Since last year, Sir.
JEH: I will not comment on the attendant irony.
WJL: I would call it manifest, Sir.
JEH: That is apt. Am I correct in assuming that the ubiquitous and quite overextended Kemper Boyd secured you this employment?
WJL: Yes, Sir. You are correct.
JEH: I bear Mr. Marcello and Mr. Hoffa no ill will. I have viewed the Dark Prince’s crusade against them to be ill-conceived from the start.
WJL: They know that, Sir.
JEH: Am I correct in assuming that you have undergone an apostasy concerning the brothers?
WJL: Yes, Sir.
JEH: Am I to assume that the promiscuous King Jack is the target of your operation?
WJL: That is correct, Sir.
JEH: And the fearsome Pete Bondurant is your partner in this endeavor?
WJL: Yes, Sir.
JEH: I will not comment on the attendant irony.
WJL: Sir, do we have your approval?
JEH: You do. And you, personally, have my astonishment.
WJL: Thank you, Sir.
JEH: Is the apparatus in place?
WJL: Yes, Sir. So fax we’ve only been able to wire the Carlyle, and until our plant makes contact with the target and facilitates the affair, we don’t really know where they’ll be coupling.
JEH: If they couple at all.
WJL: Yes, Sir.
JEH: Your note mentioned certain hotels.
WJL: Yes, Sir, the El Encanto and Ambassador-East. I know that our target likes to take women to those hotels, and I know that the Bureau retains standing bugs at both locations.
JEH: Yes, although the Dark King now likes to cavort in the Presidential Suites.
WJL: I hadn’t thought of that, Sir.
JEH: I’ll have trustworthy Bureau men install the apparatus and monitor it. And I will share my tapes with you, if you forward copies of your Carlyle tapes to me.
WJL: Of course, Sir.
JEH: Have you considered wiring the first brother-in-law’s beach house?
WJL: It’s impossible, sir. Fred Turentine can’t get in to install the microphones.
JEH: When will your plant meet the Dark King?
WJL: Tomorrow night, Sir. At the beach house you just mentioned.
JEH: Is she attractive?
WJL: Yes, Sir.
JEH: I hope she’s wily and resilient and impervious to the boy’s charm.
WJL: I think she’ll do a fine job, Sir.
JEH: I’m quite anxious to hear her on tape.
WJL: I’ll forward only the best transcriptions, Sir.
JEH: You have my admiration. Kemper Boyd taught you well.
WJL: You did, too, Sir.
JEH: I will not comment on the attendant irony.
WJL: Yes, Sir.
JEH: I know that in time you’ll ask favors of me. I know that you’ll keep me abreast of the transcriptions and ask your favors Judiciously.
WJL: I will, Sir.
JEH: I misjudged you and underestimated you, and I’m glad we’re colleagues again.
WJL: So am I, Sir.
JEH: Good day, Mr. Littell.
WJL: Good day, Sir.
76
(Meridian, 2/18/62)
Shots woke him up. Rebel yells made him dive for his gun.
Kemper rolled off the bed. He heard brake squeals down on the highway—non-Lockhart Klansmen or plain old rednecks popping rounds and running.
Word is out.
There’s a Fed nigger lover in town. The Seminole Motel is packed with his spic/frog minions.
The shots were scary. The nightmare they cut off was worse.
Jack and Bobby had him under the hot lights. They
said, J’accuse—we know you’re Mob-CIA linked all the way back to ’59.
The nightmare was literal and direct. The origin was Pete’s phone call last week.
Pete talked up the Whack Fidel auditions. He said he developed a theory to explain why the Outfit nixed the hit.
Pete said Sam G. might be set to tell Bobby a secret. Hey, Mr. AG— the Outfit’s been your Cuban Cause ally for three years now.
Pete picked up a lead that strongly suggested it. Pete thinks Sam might have someone spill the secret soon. Pete thinks Sam wants to embarrass Bobby into a Mob War cease-fire.
Pete said, I’ll look into it.
Kemper got up and dry-swallowed three Dexedrine. Pete’s theory speedballed and went personal.
Bobby wants me to show him JM/Wave some time soon. He thinks my CIA ties date from 5/61 on. JM/Wave is packed with my pre-Pigs colleagues—and Cuban exiles well acquainted with organized crime figures.
Kemper shaved and dressed. The Dexedrine kicked in fast. He heard thumps next door—Laurent Guéry pounding early morning push-ups.
John Stanton pulled strings. Laurent, Flash and Juan were granted INS green cards. Néstor Chasco moved to Meridian and joined the group. The Seminole Motel was now “Adjunct” Cadre HQ.
He cashed in twenty thousand dollars’ worth of stock. Guy Banister donated matching funds. The Clip Castro Squad was now self-contained and totally autonomous.
He took voting rights reports by day. He staged assassination drills by night.
He won over quite a few local Negroes. First Pentecostal Baptist was now 84% depositioned.
Some crackers roughed up the pastor. He found them and broke their legs with a two-by-four.
Dougie Frank parceled off half his gun range. The Adjunct Cadre practiced seven nights a week.
They shot at standing and moving targets. They took recon tramps through the woods. Cuban infiltration runs would begin soon.
Juan and Flash had him close to Spanish-fluent. He could dye his hair and stain his face and go to Cuba as a covert Latin.
He could get close. He could shoot.
They all loved to talk. They drank post-practice moonshine and gabbed through half the night.
They worked up a three-language patois. They told gory campfire tales and passed around bottles.
Juan described his castration. Chasco talked up his Batista-ordered clip jobs.
Flash saw Playa Girón up close. Laurent saw the hushed-up Paris slaughter—gendarmes beat two hundred Algerians to death and dumped them in the Seine last October.