Gail sighed. "You win, like always. And you know why I haven't been wearing that mink lately?"
"No."
"I gave it to Mrs. Walter P. Kinnard. You took a big cut of her alimony, and I figured she could use some cheering up."Twenty-four hours zipped by.
Hughes kicked loose thirty grand. Pete pocketed fifteen. If the Hush-Hush Hush-Hush smear exposed the bug, he'd be covered financially. smear exposed the bug, he'd be covered financially.
Freddy bought a long-range transceiver and started looking for a house.
That Fed kept eyeballing his van. Jack K. didn't call or drop by. Freddy figured Darleen was only worth one poke.
Pete stuck by the watchdog-house phone. Geeks kept interrupting his daydreams.
Two Hush-Hush Hush-Hush stringer prospects called: ex--vice cops hipped on Hollywood lowdown. They flunked his impromptu pop quiz: Who's Ava Gardner fucking? stringer prospects called: ex--vice cops hipped on Hollywood lowdown. They flunked his impromptu pop quiz: Who's Ava Gardner fucking?
He made some calls out--and planted a new Hughes double at the Beverly Hilton. Karen Hiltscher recommended the man: her scabby wino father-in-law. Pops said he'd work for three hots and a cot. Pete booked the Presidential Suite and placed a standing room-service order: T-bird and cheeseburgers for breakfast, lunch and dinner.
Jimmy Hoffa called. He said, The Hush-Hush Hush-Hush thing sounds good, but I want MORE! Pete neglected to share his basic opinion: Jack and Darleen were just a two-minute mattress ride. thing sounds good, but I want MORE! Pete neglected to share his basic opinion: Jack and Darleen were just a two-minute mattress ride.
He kept thinking about Miami. The cabstand, colorful spics, tropical sunshine.
Miami felt like adventure. Miami felt like money.He woke up early publication morning. Gail was gone--she'd taken to avoiding him with aimless drives to the beach.
Pete walked outside. His first-press-run copy was stuffed in the mailbox, per instructions.
Dig the cover lines: "Tomcat Senator Likes Catnip! Ask Nipped-At L.A. Kittens!" Dig the illustration: John Kennedy's face on a cartoon cat's body, the tail wrapped around a blonde in a bikini.
He flipped to the piece. Gail used the pen name Peerless Politicopundit.
U.S. Senate cloakroom wags say he's far from being the most dedicatedly demonic Democrat dallier. No, Senator L.B. (Lover Boy?) Johnson probably tops political polls in that department, with Florida's George F 'Pass the Smackeroos' Smathers coming in second. No, Senator John F. Kennedy is rather a tenuously tumescent tomcat, with a tantalizingly trenchant taste for those finely-furred and felicitous felines who find him fantastically fetching themselves!
Pete skimmed the rest. Gail played it half-assed--the smear wasn't vicious enough. Jack Kennedy ogled women and "bewitched, bothered and bewildered" them with "baubles, bangles, beads" and "brilliant Boston beatitudes." No heavy-duty skank; no implied fucking; no snide jabs at Two-Minute-Man Jack.
Perk, perk, perk--his all-star feelers started twitching-- Pete drove downtown and cruised by the Hush-Hush Hush-Hush warehouse. Things looked absolutely first-glance SOP. warehouse. Things looked absolutely first-glance SOP.
Men were wheeling bound stacks out on dollies. Men were loading pallets. A line of newsstand trucks were backed up to the dock.
SOP, but: Two unmarked prowl cars were parked down the street. That ice cream wagon idling by looked dicey--the driver was talking into a hand mike.
Pete circled the block. The fuzz multiplied: four unmarkeds at the curb and two black & whites around the corner.
He circled again. The shit hit the fan and sprayed out in all directions.
Four units were jammed up to the loading dock--running full lights and siren.
Plainclothesmen piled out. A bluesuit cordon hit the warehouse with cargo hooks.
An LAPD van blocked the distribution trucks off. Swampers dropped their loads and threw their hands up.
It was fucking scandal-rag chaos. It was fucking skank-sheet Armageddon--Pete drove to the Beverly Hills Hotel. A Big Ugly Picture formed: somebody ratted off the Kennedy issue.
He parked and ran by the pooi. He saw a big crowd outside the Hughes bungalow.
They were peeping in Big Howard's bedroom window. They looked like fucking ghouls at an accident scene.
He ran up and pushed to the front. Billy Eckstine nudged him. "Hey, check this out."
The window was open. Two men were jacking up Mr. Hughes--double-teaming him with Big Verbal Grief.
Robert Kennedy and Joseph P. Kennedy Sr.
Hughes was swaddled in bed quilts. Bobby was waving a hypo. Old Joe was raging.
"...You're a pathetic lecher and a narcotics addict. I am two seconds away from exposing you to the whole wide world, and if you think I'm bluffing please note that I opened the window to let your hotel neighbors have a sneak preview of what the whole world will know if you ever allow your filthy scandal rag to write another word about my family."
Hughes cringed. His head banged the wall and sent a picture frame toppling.
Some all-star voyeurs dug the show: Billy, Mickey Cohen, some faggot Mouseketeer sporting a jumbo mouse-ear beanie.
Howard Hughes whimpered. Howard Hughes said, "Please don't hurt me."Pete drove to the Shoftel pad. The Big Ugly Picture expanded: either Gail snitched or the Feds exposed the piggyback.
He pulled up behind Freddy's van. Freddy was down on his knees in the street--cuffed to the front-bumper housing.
Pete ran over. Freddy yanked at his shackle chain and tried to stand up.
He'd scraped his wrist bloody. He'd ripped his knees raw crawling on the pavement.
Pete knelt down in front of him. "What happened? Quit grabbing at that and look at me."
Freddy did some wrist contortions. Pete slapped him. Freddy snapped to and focused in half-alert.
He said, 'The listening-post guy sent his transcripts to some Fed in Chicago and told him he was hinked on my van. Pete, this thing plays wrong to me. There's just one FBI guy working single-o, like he went off half-cocked or some--"
Pete ran across the lawn and bolted the porch. Darleen Shoftel ducked out of his way, snapped a high heel and fell on her ass.
The Big and Ugly Final Picture: Spackle-coated mikes on the floor. Two tap-gutted phones belly-up on an end table.
And SA Ward J. Littell, standing there in an off-the-rack blue suit.
It was a stalemate. You don't whack FBI men impromptu.
Pete walked up to him. He said, "This is a bullshit roust, or you wouldn't be here alone."
Littell just stood there. His glasses slipped down his nose.
"You keep flying out here to bother me. Next time's the last time."
Littell said, "I've put it together." The words came out all quivery.
"I'm listening."
"Kemper Boyd told me he had an errand at the Beverly Hills Hotel. He talked to you there, and you got suspicious and tailed him. You saw us black-bag this place and got your friend to put in auxiliary wires. Senator Kennedy told Miss Shoftel about Roland Kirpaski testifying, and you heard it and talked Jimmy Hoffa into giving you the contract."
Booze guts. This skinny stringbean cop with 8:00 a.m. liquor breath.
"You've got no proof, and Mr. Hoover doesn't care."
"You're right. I can't arrest you and Turentine."
Pete smiled. "I'll bet Mr. Hoover liked the tapes. I'll bet he won't be too pleased that you blew this operation."
Littell slapped his face. Littell said, "That's for the blood on John Kennedy's hands."
The slap was weak. Most women slapped harder.
o o o He knew she'd leave a note. He found it on their bed, next to her house keys.
I know you figured out I soft-soaped the article. When the editor didn't question it I realized it wasn't enough and called Bob Kennedy. He said he would probably be able to pull strings and get the issue pulled. Jack is sort of callous in some ways, but he doesn't deserve what you planned. I don't want to be with you any more. Please don't try to find me.
She left the clothes he bought her. Pete dumped them out in the street and watched cars drive over them.
11
(Washington, D.C., 12/18/58)
"T "To say that I am furious belittles the concept of fury. To say that I consider your actions outrageous demeans the notion of outrage."
Mr. Hoover paused. The pillow on his chair made him tower over two tall men.
Kemper looked at Littell. They sat flush in front of Hoover's desk.
Littell said, "I understand your position, Sir."
Hoover patted his lips with a handkerchief. "I do not believe you. And I do not rate the value of objective awareness nearly as high as I rate the virtue of loyalty."
Littell said, "I acted impetuously, Sir. I apologize for that."
"'Impetuous' describes your attempt to contact Mr. Boyd and foist your preposterous Bondurant suspicions on him and Robert Kennedy. 'Duplicitous' and 'treacherous' describe your unauthorized flight to Los Angeles to uproot an official Bureau operalion."
"I considered Bondurant a murder suspect, Sir. I thought that he had implemented a piggyback on the surveillance equipment that Mr. Boyd and I had installed, and I was correct."
Hoover said nothing. Kemper knew he'd let the silence build.
The operation blew from two flanks. Bondurant's girlfriend tipped Bobby to a smear piece; Ward logicked out the Kirpaski hit himself. That logic held a certain validity: Pete was in Miami concurrent with Roland.
Hoover fondled a paperweight. "Is murder a Federal offense, Mr. Littell?"
"No, Sir."
"Are Robert Kennedy and the McClellan Committee direct rivals of the Bureau?"
"I don't consider them that, Sir."
"Then you are a confused and naive man, which your recent actions more than confirm."
Littell sat perfectly still. Kemper saw his pulse hammer his shirt front.
Hoover folded his hands. "January 16, 1961, marks the twentieth anniversary of your Bureau appointment. You are to retire on that day. You are to work at the Chicago office until then. You are to remain on the CPUSA Surveillance Squad until the day you retire."
Littell said, "Yes, Sir."
Hoover stood up. Kemper stood a beat later, per protocol. Littell stood up too fast--his chair teetered.
"You owe your continued career and pension to Mr. Boyd, who was most persuasive in convincing me to be lenient. I expect you to repay my generosity by promising to maintain absolute silence regarding Mr. Boyd's McClellan Committee and Kennedy family incursion. Do you Do you promise that, Mr. Littell?" promise that, Mr. Littell?"
"Yes, Sir. I do."
Hoover walked out.
Kemper put his drawl on. "You can breathe now, son."The Mayflower bar featured wraparound banquettes. Kemper sat Littell down and thawed him out with a double scotch-on-the-rocks.
They bucked sleet walking over--there was no chance to talk. Ward took the thrashing better than he expected.
Kemper said, "Any regrets?"
"Not really. I was going to retire at twenty years, and the THP is a half-measure at best."
"Are you rationalizing?"
"I don't think so. I've had a..."
"Finish the thought. Don't let me explicate for you."
"Well... I've had a... taste of something very dangerous and good."
"And you like it."
"Yes. It's almost as if I've touched a new world."