All laughed genially. Though no money was exchanged it was decided that O’Connell, as Maheu’s colleague, would attend to the business at their end of the deal, he far more astute at such delicate operations. Maheu would serve as the go-between.
Then Rosselli explained that he now felt comfortable enough with the proposed situation to go ahead and make arrangements to introduce Maheu and O’Connell to his boss. Later, Rosselli phoned Maheu to inform him that Mr. Gold had agreed. The meeting would take place on November 25 at Miami’s Fountainbleau hotel.
Why there? The former Feds wanted to know. Mr. Gold wished to be in Florida as his unofficial god-son, Frank Sinatra, whom he had more or less inherited from his predecessor, Charley Luciano, would be performing. That sounded kosher. They agreed.
*
“Everything’s changed,” Sheffield Edwards, sweating in a way that was not characteristic of this ordinarily calm, cool and collected CIA executive, informed Bob Maheu on November 22, 1960, some eight months after their initial meeting, fourteen days following JFK’s election, three days previous to the Miami meeting, and three years to the day before JFK’s assassination.
“I’m listening,” Maheu nervously responded.
“Ike was Ike and JFK is JFK. Nearly two months to go before he takes office and already he’s making his iron will felt.”
“You’re scaring me, Shef.”
“Brace yourself! Undermining Castro is no longer an option. Jack told Dulles, Dulles told Bissell, Bissell told me, and I’m telling you: now, the operative word is ‘elimination.’”
Maheu had guessed from Edwards’ appearance this must be what was coming next. “You swore that was not in the mix,” he stammered.
“Times change, Bob. And things along with them.”
Both knew without needing to speak the words that, under Kennedy’s administration, their task would no longer be to find a non-violent way to dismiss Castro but to kill him outright.
“And it’ll be Mob boys, the CIA farming the job out to them, who will be expected to pull it off for us?”
“Right. Though our agents will oversee operations.”
“I must ask: have you’ve heard the same rumors as me?”
Edwards nodded ‘yes’. Maheu could only be referring to a widely held belief that Kennedy’s father, Joseph, had used his son’s friendship with Frank Sinatra to connect with crime boss Giancana. Following a meeting between ‘Mr. Gold’ and the elder Kennedy, the Mob—if this rumor were true—arranged for JFK to carry several key Chicago districts, as well as another in West Virginia. This arrangement cinching JFK’s electoral victory.
Closing his eyes momentarily, Shef nodded. “It’s all over D.C., of course. No one knows for certain but—“
“I know Mob people, Shef. You don’t. With them, a deal is a deal. There can’t be any reneging on promises, not ever, or they might just ...” Maheu couldn’t finish his sentence, so deeply concerned was he about the possible dire consequences.
“You know me, Bob. I’d never in a million years—”
“It’s not you I’m worried about.”
Edwards understood completely. Maheu harbored no concerns regarding Dulles, Edwards, Bissell, Esterline or any Company men. He was worried about the same thing as Edwards, already turning this possible problem over in his mind: The new wild card, that movie-star-handsome President-elect with a charming if slightly cynical look in those dazzling eyes, the killer smile that made the good grey men, quietly dedicated to the best interests of the U.S. at the expense of their own selves, wonder as to precisely what JFK was up to. And how far he dared go in manipulating people to Jack’s own ends, whatever they might be.
“Got you. Still, there are some solid reasons why this might be to our advantage. If the process was undertaken by these ... gentlemen ... that would give us a ... how to put it? ... cover story. We want Castro gone; so do they. If your Vegas associates agree to complete the sort of job they are expert at—we would of course pay generously for them to do so—The Company could find ourselves in a no-lose situation.”
“If any of their people were to blab that we were involved, we would simply deny, deny, deny.”
“Who would the American public believe? Mobsters or a trusted government agency?” Edwards shrugged. “And, if they should fail, we’ll be no worse off than before.”
“If they succeed, everybody wins.” Bob Maheu breathed in deeply. “Can I sleep on it?”
Sheffield Edwards rose and stepped around his desk, warmly dropping an arm around Maheu’s shoulder as he guided his visitor to the door. “I wouldn’t have it any other way.”
*
Back in his apartment, Robert Maheu helped himself to a double shot of scotch and set a 33 1/3 L.P. of Strauss waltzes to playing. He remained alone in the dark for hours, sometimes sitting, sometimes standing, mostly pacing back and forth; half-listening to his favorite music, running through that heady conversation endlessly in his mind, trying to gain a sense of purpose. If he agreed, spoke to Johnny Rosselli about doing the job, and it went down, Dick Tracy must forever consider himself as guilty of Castro’s death as if he had pulled the trigger.
Maheu had always been a supremely moral man. While a Georgetown law student he perceived litigation from such a point of view. There was the law and there was what he knew to be right and wrong. Whenever these concepts came into conflict with one another, his conscience suffered a total meltdown.
In the value system that this man had always lived by, there could be no more unforgivable act than the taking of another’s life, other than in war or self-defense. Even if that man happened to be a threatening adversary. Then again, Castro, whom Maheu despised, appeared ready to allow Russia to install nuclear missiles pointed at the nearby U.S. How many American lives might be lost, if such a Fail-Safe moment occurred, so that this one person might go on living?
He deeply loved his country, adored its people. If only a single American life might be saved, how could Maheu say ‘no’?
All night he wrestled with the complex issue. Perhaps the days when moral matters presented themselves in black-and-white ended with the crusade against Hitler. No matter how much Maheu longed for the return to such clear-cut simplistics he well knew all now inhabited a different world, were involved in a different sort of war. Still, war is war.
There was no doubt in Maheu’s mind whose side he was on. When he finally called Shef the next morning, after taking a stiff swig straight from the bottle to fortify himself, there could be only one possible answer to Shef Edwards’ request.
*
Maheu and O’Connell flew to Miami together but took lodging at separate hotels. At the scheduled meeting time a headwaiter who met the men at the entrance to the bar whispered that plans had been changed. The casually dressed, fleshy-faced O’Connell’s presence would not be required. That could prove to be a deal-breaker. Any such last minute ‘adjustment’ sounded suspicious.
Concerned, Maheu and O’Connell drew back and discussed the matter quickly. One option was to walk away, for safety’s sake. They didn’t guess there would be trouble, much less a gangland execution awaiting them. But the Mob thought like an animal with a brain notably different from everyday people, so the remote possibility could not be discounted. The deciding factor that caused them to agree was the importance of their mission.
So O’Connell headed back to his hotel while Maheu followed the escort to a dimly lit booth at the furthest end of the long bar. For a quarter hour, Maheu waited; then Rosselli appeared on the scene, ushering a now 52-year-old Sam ‘Gold’ Giancana into a seat directly across from Dick Tracy. This allowed the Mob boss to stare directly into Maheu’s eyes, Rosselli slipping in right alongside Maheu. As Giancana glared at Bob for several minutes, the square-jawed cop took the opportunity to do the same in return.
In his dapper dark sports jacket, thin metallic tie, dark sunglasses and Broadway Fedora, Sam looked similar to Sinatra on one of his recent album covers. First came sma
ll talk, allowing Giancana to size Maheu up. He determined that Bob Maheu’s was a sincere request, not some set-up to nab him. The air cleared; they spoke for an hour in hushed voices.
According to the unique protocol of such a meeting, “ugly” or “bad” words were never used. They discussed, like solid American businessmen, the “possible solution” to a “serious issue” that had been deemed “unacceptable” by both interests, calling for “a mutually planned solution” to the “problem.”
As to the fee, Gold considered it more than fair. Rosselli explained that once their organization decided how this project ought to proceed. Maheu’s people must be responsible for providing the means. Bob saw no problem there. Sam Giancana then pointed to a medium-sized bespectacled fellow, leaning against the bar, sipping his drink alone. Sensing that he was now being observed, the nondescript man glanced over, green eyes flashing.
Giancana nodded; the man nodded back, then turned away.
“That’s Joe,” Rosselli informed Maheu. “He’s our top courier to Cuba, headquartered in Tampa with a second office in Miami. He’ll transport any mechanisms we deem necessary, which you will of course supply. Joe will make the transport.”
“Got ya,” Maheu grimaced.
“I’m not sure you do,” Giancana confided, speaking now the sort of no-nonsense language all had up to this point patently avoided.
“If you are hoping for some sort of gangland ’hit,’” Johnny continued, “forget about it. We might have considered that before Castro’s protection developed from comical amateurs to qualified professionals. Mr. Gold will not send any of his men on a mission from which I know he cannot possibly return alive.”
“What, then?” Maheu wanted to know.
“Poison,” Giancana flatly stated.
“Botulin,” Rosselli specified. “Joe will smuggle it into Cuba. We have a number of contacts there who can administer it.”
Maheu thought that over before responding. “My clients don’t care how it’s done, just so long as the job’s completed.”
“You will supply the botulin to Mr. Rosselli, who will hand it over to Joe, who will deliver it to yet another ‘operative,’ who will then give it to the girl who will do the deed.”
“Another operative?”
“One of yours,” Rosselli explained. “This cannot and will not proceed without active participation from one of your own. Not somebody you farm things out to. A CIA man. Mr. Giancani knows that only if we hold hands, so to speak, can we be certain that one hand washes the other, if you grasp my drift.”
“I do.” Maheu understood that the Mob had no intention of being left holding the dirt-bag alone if things went south. A CIA man serving as connective tissue during the operation would assure there could be no double-cross, nor could the Company ever blow the whistle on La Casa Nostra afterwards. George would surely be the man for that. “You mentioned a girl?”
“Oh, yes. Quite irresistible.”
“Alright, then. Done deal.”
“Not quite,” Giancana firmly asserted.
Uh-oh, Mahew thought. Now comes the catch!
*
On the morning of August 4, 2008, a moment before Robert Maheu’s mortal coil ceased to exist on this earth, his fast-fading mind made one final connection. August 4 was the same day that, 46 years earlier, Marilyn Monroe expired in her West Coast apartment. Like pretty much every other man of his generation, Maheu had long harbored an extreme crush on The Blonde. Such a shame that she had to be eliminated. He of course had nothing to do with that. All the same, Bob continued to feel guilty over her death, along with all the others who, as part of the massive operation he knowingly and willingly participated in.
Marilyn’s disposal? The last favor the Mob performed for the Kennedys before that tenuous relationship all at once blew up in everyone’s faces. Could his oncoming death on that same day be mere coincidence, or was this some act of fate?
Dick Tracy never got around to deciding finally whether he, at the moment of end-game, believed in free will or predestination. A split-second later Bob Maheu’s eyes closed forever without his having an opportunity to come down one way or the other on that all-important issue, once and for all, at least for himself.
*
In the first shot of Breathless some French guy, whose name Johnny Rosselli never could recall, wandered down a Parisian boulevard, pausing at a local ’cinema’ to consider the image of Humphrey Bogart on a huge poster advertising the revival of one of that great screen tough guy’s classic films. This frog—Belmondo? Yeah, I think that’s it—unconsciously drew his hand up and over his lip in the precise manner Bogie always did when playing his most memorable gangland roles.
Unconsciously, at first, Rosselli followed suit, all at once realizing with a laugh that he had just imitated, in the reality of the theatre’s auditorium, an actor in an artsy Gallic film imitating an earlier star of Hollywood film noirs.
At that moment Johnny Handsome was ’sold’. This movie, and the man who made it, were friggin’ alright!
Rosselli had particularly appreciated the hand held camera-work and sudden, abrupt editing style. Apparently, this approach had been done on purpose in Breathless, borrowed from the unique style Johnny Handsome initiated at Mascot and Monogram twenty years earlier. That incidentally had been what Johnny’s friend meant when he mentioned this film had been dedicated to Rosselli if indirectly: before the story started, the frog, a guy named Godard, paid tribute in a title card to those lowest of the companies. Their output had been considered so much junk—many critics didn’t even bother to pay these pictures the respect of reviewing them negatively—when the little films were initially released. So now, they are ... what ... considered art? More influential on movies yet to come during the Sixties than respected big pictures from the likes of Warner Bros. and MGM?
Jeez! What goes around really does come around.
In Johnny’s case, he hadn’t had his crews film in such a manner owing to any desire to create a radical directorial style in defiance of a more sedate old Hollywood order. The case had been more simple and reality-bound: mostly, they couldn’t afford tripods. Even when the Poverty Row filmmakers had them, there wasn’t enough time to set the cameras on the devices, so tight were the shooting schedules. As to the ‘aesthetics’ of editing back then, this did not derive from an experimental artist’s desire to break the rules, only the necessity of stitching a story together from bits and pieces of film.
The French guy who wrote and directed this new flick had obviously, in his impressionable youth, seen and adored the ones Rosselli and his gang haphazardly created; today, yesterday’s lowbrow junk had been transformed into tomorrow’s high art.
When the show let out, Rosselli placed a call to Bryan Foy, oldest son of the showbiz legend Eddie Foy, one of his famed Seven Little Foys in vaudeville days. It was Foy who, as an indie producer, had helped Johnny get started in the business, before word reached Rosselli from Al Capone in Chicago to get to the Windy City fast, his unique services required at once.
Foy got a charge out of hearing about the tribute, then shared some good news of his own. If this Jack Kennedy guy won the upcoming presidential election, Foy would get to co-produce a movie about JFK’s wartime experiences to be titled PT-109.
CHAPTER EIGHT:
FIRST BLOOD
“Alright, marines: Saddle up! Let’s get back into this war.”
—John Wayne as ‘Sergeant Stryker’
in Sands of Iwo Jima (1949)
“Hello, fellas. I’m John Wayne! Pleased t’ meet ya.”
Momentarily, Lee believed he might be hearing things. Perhaps too many hours of mess duty scrambled his mind as Lee prepared eggs others would consume. To keep from going mad owing to the dull daily duty, the only work he’d been assigned since his outfit disembarked on Corregidor a week and a half earlier, during the pre-dawn darkness of January 15, 1958, L.H.O. applied arch rationality to turn drudgery into a game. ‘Ozzie’ devised a uni
que system, inserting one side of the large rectangular hand trays under bubbling eggs on the grill, flipping this concoction high into the air, catching everything as it fell back down without spilling a drop.
John Wayne? Here? I’m losing it! Maybe somebody dragged a TV set into the bombed-out WWII-era hospital we employ as our mess? I didn’t know there was one on the island but ...
From his position in the adjoining kitchen where Lee had been supervising clean-up following morning meal, he slipped out the rear screen-door, ambling around to get a look inside the cavernous building. Incredible but true, the greatest movie star ever (the only exception, at least for Lee, Frank Sinatra) stood in its center, all 6’ 5 ¾" of him, smiling graciously.
Yup. Hard as it was to believe, John Wayne held court to the delight of about thirty marines, mostly officers. The Duke jauntily shook hands with one after another. The majority made an attempt to present themselves with some semblance of normalcy in spite of this sudden happy shock to the system. Those still seated were uncertain as to whether they should rise in the presence of Hollywood royalty. Wayne would have none of that. Motioning for the boys to remain where ever they were he would humbly come around from table to table.
“Hello, marine. Great t’ meet ya.” Those majestic, world-weary eyes made clear Big John meant every word he said.
The star had never been a member of the military. Not even when others among Hollywood’s living legends rushed to enlist in 1941. Wayne confined his fighting to the silver screen. A wide gallery of glorious portraits established him as the ultimate movie symbol of American patriotism.
“Hello, Duke. The pleasure’s all ours!”
One marine hurried up with a breakfast tray. Wayne politely thanked the fellow, sitting down randomly beside two officers.
“Well, I’ll tell you,” Wayne explained when one asked how he happened to be here, “I was flying overhead, in a copter on my way to a location shoot for The Barbarian and the Geisha, when I realized: that’s Corregidor below. I’d always wanted to visit the island since ... oh, I don’t know, ten years now ... I did a film set there, Back to Bataan. Shot in Hollywood, as we mostly did it back then. Ever since, I wanted to visit.”
Patsy! : The Life and Times of Lee Harvey Oswald Page 16
