American Tabloid

by James Ellroy

  “You’ll get out soon. Some courier’s working on getting all the Americans out.”

  Trafficante lined up a make-believe putt. “Good. And I’ll set you up with a guide. He’ll drive you around and take you and the UF man to the airport. He’ll rob you before he drops you off, but that’s as good as the help gets with these fucking Reds in power.”

  A croupier supplied directions to the house—Tom Gordean threw a torch party there just last week. Jesús the guide said Mr. Tom burned a mean cane field—he was hot to revamp his fascisto image.

  Jesús wore jungle fatigues and a baseball cap. He drove a Volkswagen with a hood-mounted machine gun.

  They took dirt roads out of Havana. Jesús steered with one hand and blasted palm trees simultaneous. Sizzling cane fields lit the sky up orange-pink—torch parties were a big deal in post-Batista Cuba.

  Phone poles blipped by. Fidel Castro’s face adorned every one.

  Pete saw house lights in the distance—two hundred yards or so up. Jesús pulled into a clearing dotted with palm stumps.

  He eased in like he knew where he was going. He didn’t gesture or say one fucking word.

  It felt wrong. It felt prearranged.

  Jesús braked and doused his headlights. A torch whooshed the second they snapped off.

  Light spread out over the clearing. Pete saw a Cadillac ragtop, six spics, and a white man reeling drunk.

  Jesús said, “That is Señor Tom.”

  The spics had sawed-off shotguns. The Caddy was stuffed with luggage and mink coats.

  Jesús jumped out and jabbered spic to the spics. The spics waved to the gringo in the Volkswagen.

  The minks were piled above the door line. U.S. currency was bulging out of a suitcase.

  Pete caught on, dead solid perfect.

  Thomas Gordean was weaving. He was waving a bottle of Demerara rum. He was putting out a line of pro-Commie jive talk.

  He was slurring his words. He was dead drunk working on dead.

  Pete saw torches ready to light. Pete saw a gas can sitting on a tree stump.

  Gordean kept spritzing. He got up a fucking A-#l Commie cliché head of steam.

  Jesús huddled with the spics. They waved at the gringo again. Gordean puked on the hood of the Caddy.

  Pete slid next to the machine gun. The spics turned away and went for their waistbands.

  Pete fired. One tight swivel at their backs cut them down. The ack-ack sent a flock of birds up squawking.

  Gordean hit the ground and curled himself up fetal-tight. The bullet spread missed him by inches.

  The spics died screaming. Pete strafed their bodies into pulp. Cordite and muzzle-scorched entrails formed one putrid smell combination.

  Pete poured gas on the stiffs and the Volkswagen and torched them. A box of .50-caliber ammo exploded.

  Señor Tom Gordean was passed out cold.

  Pete tossed him in the backseat of the Caddy. The mink coats made a cozy little bed.

  He checked the luggage. He saw a shitload of money and stock certificates.

  Their flight left at dawn. Pete found a road map in the glove compartment and marked a route back to Havana.

  He got in the Caddy and punched it. French-fried palm trees provided a glow to drive by.

  He made the airport before first light. Friendly militiamen swamped El Señor Mitchum.

  Tom Gordean woke up with the shakes. Pete fed him rum-and-Cokes to keep him docile. The spics nationalized the money and furs—no big surprise.

  Pete signed Robert Mitchum autographs. Some Commie commissar escorted them to the plane.

  The pilot said, “You’re not Robert Mitchum.”

  Pete said, “No shit, Sherlock.”

  Gordean dozed off. The other passengers eyeballed them—they reeked of gasoline and liquor.

  The plane landed at 7:00 a.m. Kemper Boyd met them. He handed Pete an envelope containing five thousand dollars.

  Boyd was juuuuust a tad nervous. Boyd was more than just a tad dismissive.

  He said, “Thanks, Pete. Take that jitney into town with the other people, all right? I’ll call you in L.A. in a few days.”

  He got five grand. Boyd got Gordean and a suitcase full of stock shares. Gordean looked bewildered. Boyd looked quintessentially un-Boyd.

  Pete hopped on the jitney He saw Boyd steer Gordean to. a storage hut.

  Here’s this deserted hick-town airfield. Here’s this CIA man and this drunk, alone.

  His feelers started twitching in high fucking gear.

  25

  (Key West, 5/29/59)

  The hut was matchbook-size. He had to cram the table and two chairs in.

  Kemper handled Gordean with kid gloves. The interrogation dragged—his subject had the DTs.

  “Does your family know that you possess this United Fruit stock?”

  “What ‘family’? I’ve been married and divorced more than Artie Shaw and Mickey Rooney. I’ve got a few cousins in Seattle, but all they know is the way to the bar at the Woodhaven Country Club.”

  “Who else in Cuba knows that you own this stock?”

  “My bodyguards know. But one minute we’re drinking and getting ready to expunge a few imperialist cane fields, and the next thing I know I’m in the backseat of my car with that buddy of yours at the wheel. I’m not ashamed to admit that I’ve been on a toot, and things are pretty dim. That buddy of yours, does he carry a machine gun?”

  “I don’t think so.”

  “What about a Volkswagen?”

  “Mr. Gordean …”

  “Mr. Boyce, or whatever your name is, what’s going on? You sit me down in this shack and ransack my suitcase. You ask me these questions. You think because I’m a rich American businessman that I’m on your side. You think I don’t know how you CIA fuckers rigged the elections in Guatemala? I was on my way to cocktails with Premier Castro when your buddy shanghaied me. That’s Fidel Castro. He’s the liberator of Cuba. He’s a nice man and a wonderful basketball player.”

  Kemper laid down his stock release forms. They were superbly forged—a counterfeiter friend did the job.

  “Sign these please, Mr. Gordean. They’re reimbursement vouchers for your airfare.”

  Gordean signed in triplicate. Kemper signed the notary statement and seal-stamped all three signatures.

  His friend rigged the seal, at no extra charge.

  Gordean laughed. “CIA man/notary public. What a combo.”

  Kemper pulled his .45 and shot him in the head.

  Gordean flew off his chair. Blood sprayed out one ear. Kemper stepped on his head to stanch the spritz.

  Something rustled outside. Kemper pushed the door open with his gun.

  It was Pete Bondurant, standing there with his hands in his pockets.

  They both smiled.

  Pete drew “50/50” in the air.

  DOCUMENT INSERT: 6/11/59. Summary Report: Kemper Boyd to John Stanton. Marked: CONFIDENTIAL/HAND POUCH DELIVER.

  John:

  I delayed the writing of this communique for two reasons. One, I wanted to see a botched incident through to its conclusion before contacting you. Two, this note details a mission that I (quite frankly) blew.

  You had asked me to use my own discretion and send Pete Bondurant on a trial run to help determine his suitability for Agency contract employment. I did this, and sent Bondurant into Cuba to pull out a United Fruit executive named Thomas Gordean, a man whom Teofilio Paez described as “volatile” and “espousing the Communist line.” Bondurant succeeded in the first part of his mission. We installed Mr. Gordean at the Rusty Scupper Motel in Key West for de-briefing, and made the mistake of leaving him alone to rest. Gordean committed suicide with a .45 automatic he had secreted on his person. I summoned the Key West Police, and Bondurant and I de-briefed them. A coroner’s jury ruled Gordean’s death a suicide. Bondurant testified as to Gordean’s apparent alcoholism and depressive behavior. An autopsy confirmed that Gordean showed signs of advanced liver damage. His
body was shipped to a distant cousin in Seattle (Gordean had no immediate family).

  Should you require verification, please contact Captain Hildreth of the Key West Police. Of course, I apologize for this boondoggle. And I assure you that nothing like this will happen again.

  Sincerely,

  Kemper Boyd

  DOCUMENT INSERT: 6/19/59. Personal note: John Stanton to Kemper Boyd.

  Dear Kemper,

  Of course, I am furious. And of course you should have informed me of this snafu immediately. Thank God Gordean had no Immediate family capable of causing trouble for the Agency. That expressed, I’ll state that most likely you were to some degree a victim of mitigating circumstances. After all, as you once said, you are an attorney and a cop, not a spy.

  You’ll be pleased to know that Deputy Director Bissell is quite taken with your idea of creating an elite cadre to run the Blessington campsite. The campsite is currently under construction; your four personally selected recruits (Paez, Obregon, Delsol, Gutierrez) are undergoing further training at Langley and doing quite well. As previously stated, the Deputy Director has approved the hiring of Pete Bondurant to run the campsite. That, of course, was before the Gordean snafu. Right now, I want to wait and reconsider Bondurant.

  In conclusion, the Gordean incident sits poorly with me, but my enthusiasm for you as a contract agent remains strong. Until I tell you otherwise, undertake no more missions on your own authority.

  John Stanton

  DOCUMENT INSERT: 6/28/59. Personal note: Ward J. Littell to Kemper Boyd. “For editing and forwarding to Robert F. Kennedy.”

  Kemper,

  My anti-Mob intelligence gathering continues apace. I now have several independently gleaned indications that alternative (most likely coded) Teamster Pension Fund books do exist. Lenny Sands believes they exist. Sal D’Onofrio has heard rumors to that effect. Other sources have supplied rumors: a retired Chicago Mob man administers the books; Sam Giancana serves as the Pension Fund’s “Chief Loan Approval Officer.” As pervasive as these rumors are, I have nothing resembling corroboration. And of course I won’t, until I can suborn a cosmetic borrower and gain some kind of literal access to the Fund itself.

  And (on May 18th) I coerced a third informant into my stable. This man (a Dallas-based strip club operator/loanshark) is searching for a borrower to refer to Sal D’Onofrio and thence to Sam Giancana. I consider this man to be a mgjor informant, because he previously referred a loan seeker to Giancana and the Pension Fund. He calls me at a pay phone near my apartment every Tuesday morning; I have given him money on several occasions. He fears me and respects me to just the right degree. Like Sal D’Onofrio, he has perpetual money troubles. I believe that, sooner or later, he will supply me with a potentially subornable borrower.

  I also now have a fund of my own, i.e., an informant fund. In late May I secured an $81,000 robbery stash, one unreported to any police agency. I have paid Sal D’Onofrio $32,000 from this fund, strengthening my hold over him. Strange, but I had originally thought that Lenny Sands would be my most valued informant, but both Sal and the Dallas man have proven themselves more competent (or is it more desperate for money)? I blame you, Kemper. Setting Lenny up with Pete Bondurant and Hush-Hush was detrimental to my purposes. Lenny has seemed abstracted lately. He travels with Sal’s junket tours and moonlights for Hush-Hush, and seems to have forgotten what I hold over him. Does he taik to your friend Miss Hughes? I’d be curious to know.

  Per your instructions, I’m avoiding Court Meade and the listening post. Court and I have also formally ceased our assignment trade. I’m being careful, but I can’t help dreaming Utopian dreams. My essential dream? A John P. Kennedy Presidential Administration, with Robert Kennedy fulfilling his brother’s anti-Mob mandate. God, Kemper, wouldn’t that be heaven? Tell Mr. Kennedy he’s in my prayers.

  Yours,

  WJL

  DOCUMENT INSERT: 7/3/59. Personal note: Kemper Boyd to Robert F. Kennedy.

  Dear Bob,

  Just a short note to update you on the work of your anonymous colleague the “Chicago Phantom.”

  He’s working hard, and I hope you find it gratifying that there’s at least one human being on earth who hates Organized Crime as much as you do. But, as hard as he is working—and always within the legal guidelines you set down to me—he’s getting scant results pursuing the possibility that alternative Pension Fund books exist. The Chicago Mob is a closed circle, and he hasn’t been able to gain the inside information he hoped he would.

  Moving along. Aren’t you and Jack going to offer me some post-McClellan Committee employment?

  Yours,

  Kemper

  DOCUMENT INSERT: 7/9/59. Personal Letter: Robert F. Kennedy to Kemper Boyd.

  Dear Kemper,

  Thanks for your note on the Phantom. It is good to know that an ex-seminarian FBI man shares my anti-Mob fervor, and what most impresses me about him is that he doesn’t seem to want anything. (Jesuit sem boys are schooled in self-denial.) You, however, want everything. So, yes, Jack and I have an offer for you. (We’ll discuss details and money later.)

  We want you to stay with our organization and fill two positions. The first: traffic manager for the McClellan Committee’s legal paperwork. We’ve disbanded, but like the Phantom, I’m still afire. Let’s keep our anti-Mob and anti-Hoffa momentum going. You could be very helpful in seeing that our evidence gets into the proper investigatory hands. Secondly, Jack’s going to announce his candidacy in January. He wants you to manage security for his primary campaigns and hopefully through to November. How about it?

  Bob

  DOCUMENT INSERT: 7/13/59. Personal note: Kemper Boyd to Robert F. Kennedy.

  Dear Bob,

  I accept. Yes, unlike the Phantom I want everything. Let’s nail Jimmy Hoffa and elect Jack President.

  Kemper

  DOCUMENT INSERT: 7/27/59. Official FBI telephone call transcript: “Recorded at the Director’s Request”/“Classified Confidential 1-A: Director’s Eyes Only.” Speaking: Director Hoover, Special Agent Kemper Boyd.

  JEH: Good morning, Mr. Boyd.

  KB: Good morning, Sir.

  JEH: Your message mentioned good news.

  KB: Excellent news, Sir. The brothers have hired me on a more or less permanent basis.

  JEH: In what capacity?

  KB: I’m to supervise the routing of McClellan Committee evidence to various, grand juries and investigative agencies, and run security for Big Brother’s campaign.

  JEH: Little Brother remains persistent on the Hoffa front, then.

  KB: He’ll crucify the man sooner or later.

  JEH: Catholics have been known to go overboard with the concept of crucifixion.

  KB: Yes, Sir.

  JEH: Let’s continue on the Catholic recidivist front. Is Mr. Littell continuing to walk the straight and narrow?

  KB: Yes, Sir.

  JEH: SAC Leahy has airtelled me his Red Squad reports. He appears to be doing a satisfactory job.

  KB: You frightened him last year, Sir. He just wants to make it through to his retirement. As I’ve told you, he’s drinking quite a bit and is quite caught up in his affair with Helen Agee.

  JEH: Allow me to use “affair” as a segue point. How is your liaison with Miss Laura Hughes progressing?

  KB: I’d hardly call it a liaison, Sir.

  JEH: Mr. Boyd, you are talking to the world’s nonpareil bullshit artist and master of subterfuge. As good as you are at it, and you are brilliantly good, I am better. You are fucking Laura Hughes, and I’m sure you would fuck all the acknowledged Kennedy sisters and old Rose Kennedy herself if you thought it would ingratiate you with Jack. There. That said, what does Miss Hughes have to say about the family?

  KB: She limits her anecdotes to her father, Sir. She’s quite vitriolic on the topic of her father and his friends.

  JEH: Continue.

  KB: Apparently Joe and his old friend Jules Schiffrin secreted Mexican illegals across the borde
r during the ’20s. They used the men as set construction help when Joe owned the RKO Studio. Joe and Schiffrin used the women sexually, hired them out as domestics, took half their pay for room-and-board, then turned them over to the Border Patrol and had them deported. Schiffrin took a number of the women back to Chicago with him and opened up a whorehouse that catered to mobsters and politicians exclusively. Laura says Joe made a movie surreptitiously at the whorehouse. It’s Huey Long and two Mexican midgets with oversized breasts.

  JEH: Miss Hughes is a vivid anecdotist. What does she say about the brothers?

  KB: She’s guarded about them.

  JEH: As you yourself are.

  KB: I’m fond of them, yes.

  JEH: I think you’ve set limits to your betrayal. I think you’re unaware of how deeply enthralled you are with that family.

  KB: I keep things compartmentalized, Sir.

  JEH: Yes, I’ll credit you with that. Now, let’s move to your Cuban emigre compartment. Do you recall telling me that you had access to Cuban exile intelligence?

  KB: Of course, Sir. I’ll be sending a detailed summary report along soon.

  JEH: Laura Hughes must be quite expensive.

  KB: Sir?

  JEH: Don’t act disingenuous, Kemper. It’s quite obvious the CIA has recruited you. Three paychecks, my lord.

  KB: Sir, I keep things compartmentalized.

  JEH: You certainly do, and far be it from me to upset those compartments. Good day, Mr. Boyd.

  KB: Good day, Sir.

  DOCUMENT INSERT: 8/4/59. Hush-Hush stringer report: Lenny Sands to Pete Bondurant.

  Pete,

  It’s strange, but every homo in captivity seems to want to bite my tush these days, which is unusual because I’ve been playing some pretty square rooms. As you know, I’ve been working my wop gig with Sal D’Onofrio. We’ve been playing Reno, Vegas, Tahoe, Gardena and some Lake Michigan cruise boats that feature gambling. I’ve been running into fruits galore, a regular Layfayette Escad (butt) drill of fruitness. 1)—Delores’ Drive-In on Wilshire & La Cienega in L.A. employs all fruit carhops moonlighting as male prosties. A frequent customer: Adlai (Lay?) Stevenson, 2-time prez’l candidate with pinko (Lavender?) leanings Mr. Hughes probably disapproves of. 2)—Dave Garroway of TV’s Today Show was recently popped for honking young boys in NYC’s Times Square. It was (hush?) hushed up, but “Dave the Slave” as he’s known on the fag circuit was recently spotted at an all-male tomcat house outside Vegas. 3)—I ran into an off-duty Marine Corps lance-corporal in Tahoe. He said he knows a gunnery-sergeant running a fruit roller ring out of Camp Pendleton. It works this way: handsome young jarheads prowl Silverlake (The Swish Alps?) & the Sunset Strip & entrap homos. They don’t put out & shake the fruits down for $. I called the gunnery sgt & wired him a C-note. He spilled on some celebrity fruitcakes the fruit roller ring glommed onto. Dig this: Walter Pidgeon (12″ wang) bangs boys at a plushly-furnished fag crib in the Los Feliz district. Also, British matinee idol Larry (the Fairy?) Olivier recently took the law into his own hands when he groped a Marine MP at the Wiltern Theatre. Other homos ED’d by the Fruit Roller Corps include Danny Kaye, Liberace (big surprise), Monty Clift & conductor Leonard Bernstein. Hey, have you noticed I’m starting to write in the Hush-Hush style? More later.