by James Ellroy
“You’re thinking Lenny’s this big Hollywood insider. You’re thinking he might know some women we could use as bait.”
“Right. And if he doesn’t come through, at least we’re here in Los Angeles.”
“Which is the best place on earth to find shakedown-type women.”
Littell sipped coffee. “Right. And Lenny was my informant once. I’ve got a hold on him, and if he doesn’t cooperate, I’ll squeeze him with it.”
Pete cracked some knuckles. “He’s a homo. He shanked this made guy in an alley behind some fruit bar.”
“Lenny told you that?”
“Don’t look so hurt. People have this tendency to tell me things they don’t want to.”
Littell dumped his cup in the sink. Hoffa paced outside the door.
Pete said, “Lenny knows Kemper. And I think he’s tight with that Hughes woman that Kemper had a thing with.”
“Lenny’s safe. If worse comes to worse, we can squeeze him with the Tony Iannone job.”
Pete rubbed his neck. “Who else knows we’re planning this?”
“Nobody. Why?”
“I was wondering if it was common knowledge all over the Outfit.”
Littell shook his head. “You, me and Jimmy. That’s the loop.”
Pete said, “Let’s keep it that way. Lenny’s tight with Sam G., and Sam’s been known to go apeshit when people get rough with him.”
Littell leaned against the stove. “Agreed. And I won’t tell Carlos, and you won’t tell Trafficante and those other Outfit guys you and Kemper deal with. Let’s keep this contained.”
“Agreed. A few of those guys hung me and Kemper out to dry on something a couple of weeks ago, so I’m not prone to tell them much of anything.”
Littell shrugged. “They’ll find out in the end, and they’ll be pleased with the results we get. Bobby’s been riding them, too, and I think we can safely say that Giancana will find whatever we had to do to Lenny justified.”
Pete said, “I like Lenny.”
Littell said, “So do I, but business is business.”
Pete traced dollar signs on the stove. “What kind of money are we talking about?”
Littell said, “Twenty-five thousand a month, with your expenses and Freddy Turentine’s fee worked in. I know you’ll need to travel for your CIA job, and that’s fine with both Jimmy and me. I’ve done wire jobs for the Bureau myself, and I think that between you, me and Turentine, we’ll be able to cover all our bases.”
Hoffa banged on the door. “Why don’t you guys come out here and talk to me? This tête-à-tête shit is wearing me thin!”
Pete steered Littell back to the laundry room. “It sounds good. We find a woman, wire a few pads and fuck Jack Kennedy where it hurts.”
Littell pulled his arm free. “We need to check Lenny’s Hush-Hush reports. We might get a lead on a woman that way.”
“I’ll do it. I might be able to get a look at the reports Howard Hughes keeps at his office.”
“Do it today. I’ll be staying at the Ambassador until we get things set up.”
The door shook—Jimmy had his tits in a twist.
Littell said, “I want to bring Mr. Hoover in on this.”
“Are you insane?”
Littell smiled, kiss-my-ass condescending. “He hates the Kennedys like you and I do. I want to re-establish contact, leak a few tapes to him and have him in my corner as a wedge to help out Jimmy and Carlos.”
Not so insane—
“You know he’s a voyeur, Pete. Do you know what he’d give to have the President of the United States fucking on tape?”
Hoffa barged into the kitchen. His shirt was dotted with doughnut sprinkles—every color of the rainbow.
Pete winked. “I’m starting not to hate you so much, Ward.”
Hughes’ business office was marked RESTRICTED ACCESS now. Mormon goons flanked the door and checked IDs with some weird scanner gizmo.
Pete dawdled by the parking lot gate. The guard chewed his ear off.
“Us non-Mormons call this place Castle Dracula. Mr. Hughes we call the Count, and we call Duane Spurgeon—he’s the head Mormon—Frankenstein, ’cause he’s dying of cancer and looks like he’s dead already. I remember when this building wasn’t full of religious crackpots, and Mr. Hughes came in in person, and he didn’t have this big germ phobia and these crazy plans to buy up Las Vegas, and he didn’t get blood transfusions like Bela Lugosi—”
“Larry—”
“—and he actually talked to people, you know? Now the only people he talks to besides the Mormons are Mr. J. Edgar Hoover himself and Lenny the Hush-Hush guy. You know why I’m talking so much? Because I work the gate all day and pick up scuttlebutt, and the only non-Mormon people I see are the Filipino janitor and this Jap switchboard girl. Mr. Hughes can still wheel and deal, though, I got to say that. I heard he’s pushed the TWA divestment price way up, so when he gets the gelt he can funnel it straight into some account he’s holding, like some kind of zillion-dollar ‘buy up Vegas’ fund …”
Larry ran out of breath. Pete whipped out a hundred-dollar bill.
“They keep Lenny’s stringer reports in the file room, right?”
“Right.”
“There’s nine more of these if you get me in there.”
Larry shook his head. “That’s impossible, Pete. We got virtually an all-Mormon staff here. Some of the guys are Mormon and ex-FBI, and Mr. J. Edgar Hoover himself helped pick them.”
Pete said, “Lenny’s in L.A. full-time now, right?”
“Right. He gave up his place in Chicago. I heard he’s writing Hush-Hush as some kind of restricted mimeo sheet.”
Pete forked over the hundred. “Look up his address for me.”
Larry checked his Rolodex and plucked a card. “It’s 831 North Kilkea, which isn’t that far from here.”
A hospital van pulled up. Pete said, “What’s that?”
Larry whispered. “Fresh blood for the Count. Certified Mormon-pure.”
The new gig felt good, but strictly second-string. The main gig should be WHACK FIDEL.
Santo and Company quashed it. They acted bored, like the Cause meant jackshit.
WHY?
He cut his shooters loose. Kemper took his boys back to Mississippi.
Laurent Guéry went with them. Kemper tapped his own stock fund for Ops cash. Kemper was acting weirdly persistent lately.
Pete turned on to Kilkea. 831 was your standard West Hollywood four-flat.
The standard two-story Spanish-style building. The standard two units per floor. The standard beveled glass doors that your standard B&E guys drooled for.
There was no garage at the back—the tenants had to park at the curb. Lenny’s Packard was nowhere in sight.
Pete parked and walked up to the porch. All four doors showed slack at the door-doorjamb juncture.
The street was dead. The porch was dead quiet. The mail slot for the left downstairs unit read “L. Sands.”
Pete snapped the lock with his pocketknife. An inside light hit him straight off.
Lenny planned to stay out after dark. He could prowl the pad for four solid hours.
Pete locked himself in. The crib spread out off a hallway—maybe five rooms total:
He checked the kitchen, the dinette and the bedroom. The pad was nice and quiet—Lenny eschewed pets and stay-at-home bun boys.
An office connected to the bedroom. It was cubbyhole size—a desk and a row of file cabinets ate up all the floor space.
Pete checked the top drawer. It was one fat mess—Lenny jammed it full of overstuffed folders.
The folders contained 100% U.S. prime-cut skank.
Published Hush-Hush skank and unpublished skank tips. Skank logged in since early ’59—the all-time Skank Hit Parade.
Boozer skank, hophead skank, homo skank. Lezbo skank, nympho skank, miscegenation skank. Political skank, incest skank, child molester skank. The one skank problem: the female skankees were too skanki
ly well known.
Pete spotted some non-sequitur skank: a real skankeroo report dated 9/12/60. A Hush-Hush editorial memo was attached to the page.
Lenny,
I don’t see this one as a feature or anything else. If it went to arrest & trial, great, but it didn’t. The whole thing seems skewed to me. Plus, the girl’s a nobody.
Pete read the report. Skewed?—no shit.
Lenny “Skank Man” Sands, verbatim:
I learned that gorgeous redhead singer-dancer Barb Jahelka (the lead attraction in her ex-husband Joey Jahelka’s “Swingin’ Dance Revue”) was arrested on August 26th as part of an extortion scheme levied against Rock Hudson.
It was a photo job. Hudson and Barb were in bed at Rock’s house in Beverly Hills when a man snuck in and managed to snap several pictures with infra-red film. A few days later Barb demanded that Hudson pay her 10 thousand dollars or the pictures would be circulated everywhere.
Rock called private detective Fred Otash. Otash called the Beverly Hills PD, and they arrested Barb Jahelka. Hudson then went soft hearted and refused to press charges. I like this for the 9/24/60 issue. Rock’s a hot ticket these days, and Barb’s a real dish. (I’ve got bikini pictures of her we can use.) Let me know, so I can formally write the piece up.
Skewed?—no shit, Sherlock.
Rock Hudson was a fruitfly with no yen for cooze. Fred Otash was an ex-cop Hollywood lapdog. Dig the skewed postscript: Freddy’s phone number doodled right there on the report.
Pete grabbed the phone and dialed it. A man answered, “Otash.”
“It’s Pete Bondurant, Freddy.”
Otash whistled. “This has to be interesting. The last time you made a sociable phone call was never.”
“I’m not starting now.”
“This sounds like we’re talking about money. If it’s your money for my time, I’m listening.”
Pete checked the report. “In August of ’60 you allegedly helped Rock Hudson out of a jam. I think the whole thing was a setup. I’ll give you a thousand dollars to tell me the story.”
Otash said, “Go to two thousand and throw in a disclaimer.”
Pete said, “Two thousand. And if push comes to shove, I’ll say I got the information elsewhere.”
Funny noise hit the line. Pete ID’d it: Freddy tapping his teeth with a pencil.
“Okay, Frenchman.”
“Okay, and?”
“Okay, and you’re right. The setup was Rock was afraid of being exposed as a queer, so he cooked up a deal with Lenny Sands. Lenny brought in this number Barb Jahelka and her ex-husband Joey, and Barb and Rock got between the sheets. Joey faked a break-in and took some pictures, Barb made a fake extortion demand, and Rock fake called me in.”
“And you fake called the Beverly Hills PD.”
“Right. They popped Barb for extortion one, then Rock got fake sentimental and dropped the charges. Lenny wrote the thing up for Hush-Hush, but for some reason it never got published. Lenny tried to leak the story to the legit press, but nobody would touch it, because half the goddamn country knows Rock’s a homo.”
Pete sighed. “The whole caper went nowhere.”
Otash sighed. “That’s correct. Rock paid Barb and Joey two Gs apiece, and now you’re paying me an extra two just to tell you the whole sorry tale.”
Pete laughed. “Tell me about Barb Jahelka while you’re at it.”
“All right. My take on Barb is that she’s slumming, but she doesn’t know it. She’s smart, she’s funny, she looks good and she knows she’s not the next Patti Page. I think she’s from the Wisconsin boonies, and I think she did six months honor farm for maryjane possession about four or five years ago. She used to have a thing going with Peter Lawford”—
Jack’s brother-in-law—
“and she treats her ex-husband Joey, who’s a piece of shit, exactly the way he ought to be treated. I’d have to say she likes kicks, and I’ll bet she’d tell you she likes danger, but my take is she’s never been tested. If you’re interested in her whereabouts, try the Reef Club in Ventura. The last I heard, Joey Jahelka was fronting some kind of cut-rate Twist show up there.”
Pete said, “You like her, Freddy. You’re an open book.”
“So are you. And while we’re being candid, let me heartily recommend that girl for whatever kind of shakedown you’ve got in mind.”
The Reef Club was all driftwood and fake barnacles. The clientele was mostly college kids and low-rent hipsters.
Pete snagged a table just off the dance floor. Joey’s Swingin’ Twist Revue went on in ten minutes.
Wall speakers churned out music. Twist geeks flailed and bumped asses. Pete’s table vibrated and shook the head off his nice glass of beer.
He called Karen Hiltscher before he left L.A. Sheriff’s R&I had a sheet on one Barbara Jane (Lindscott) Jahelka.
She was born 11/18/31, in Tunnel City, Wisconsin. She had a valid California driver’s license. She went down on a reefer beef circa 7/57.
She did six months County time. She was suspected of shanking a bull dyke at the Hall of Justice Jail. She was married—8/3/54–1/24/58—to:
Joseph Dominic Jahelka, born 1/16/23, New York City. New York State convictions: statch rape, flimflam, forging Dilaudid prescriptions.
Joey Jahelka was probably a slavering hophead. He’d probably drool for the Dilaudid he just copped back in L.A.
Pete sipped beer. The hi-fi blared jungle-bunny music. A loudspeaker blared, “Ladies and gentlemen, the Reef Club is proud to present for your twisting pleasure—Joey Jahelka and his Swingin’ Twist Revue!!!”
Nobody cheered. Nobody applauded. Nobody stopped twisting.
A trio jumped on stage. They wore calypso shirts and mismatched tuxedos. Pawnshop tags dangled off their equipment.
They set up. The twisters and table crowd ignored them. A jukebox tune bled into their opener.
A high-school kid played tenor sax. The drummer was a bantamweight pachuco. The guitar man matched Joey’s R&I stats.
The greasy little hump was half on-the-nod. His socks were de-elasticized way below his ankles.
They played loud, shitty music. Pete felt the wax in his ears start to crumble.
Barb Jahelka slinked up to the mike. Barb oozed healthy pulchritude. Barb was no show-biz-subspecies junkie.
Tall Barb. Lanky Barb. That sparkly red bouffant was no fucking dye job.
Dig that tight, low-cut gown. Dig the heels that put her over six feet.
Barb sang. Barb had weak pipes. The combo drowned her out every time she reached for a high note.
Pete watched. Barb sang. Barb DANCED—Hush-Hush would tag it HOT, HOT, HOTSVILLE.
Some male twisters stopped twisting to dig on the big rangy redhead. One girl poked her partner—You get your eyes off of her!
Barb sang weak-voiced and monotonous. Barb put out unique gyrations flat-out concurrent.
She kicked her shoes off. She thrust her hips out and popped seams down one leg.
Pete watched her eyes. Pete tapped the envelope in his pocket.
She’d read the note. The money would hook her in. She’d give Joey the dope and urge him to get lost.
Pete chain-smoked. Barb lost a breast and tucked it back before the Twist fiends noticed.
Barb smiled—oops!—dazzling.
Pete passed the envelope to a waitress. Twenty dollars guaranteed transmittal.
Barb danced. Pete shot her something like a prayer: Please be able to TALK.
He knew she’d be late. He knew she’d close the club and let him sweat for a while. He knew she’d call Freddy O. for a quick rundown of his pedigree.
Pete waited at an all-night coffee shop. His chest hurt—Barb twisted him through two packs of cigarettes.
He called Littell an hour ago. He said, Let’s meet at Lenny’s at 3:00—I think I might have found our woman.
It was 1:10 now. He might have called Littell just a tad premature.
Pete sipped coffee and checked his wat
ch every few seconds. Barb Jahelka walked in and spotted him.
Her skirt and blouse looked half-assed demure. No-makeup did nice things to her face.
She sat down across from him. Pete said, “I hope you called Freddy.”
“I did.”
“What did he tell you?”
“That he’d never mess with you. And that your partners always make money.”
“Is that all he said?”
“He said you knew Lenny Sands. I called Lenny, but he wasn’t home.”
Pete pushed his coffee aside. “Did you try to kill that dyke you shivved?”
Barb smiled. “No. I wanted to stop her from touching me, and I didn’t want it to cost me the rest of my life.”
Pete smiled. “You didn’t ask me what this is all about.”
“Freddy already gave me his interpretation, and you’re paying me five hundred dollars for a chat. And by the way, Joey says, ‘Thanks for the taste.’ ”
A waitress hovered. Pete shooed her away. “Why do you stay with him?”
“Because he wasn’t always a drug addict. Because he arranged to have some men who hurt my sister taken care of.”
“Those are good reasons.”
Barb lit a cigarette. “The best reason is I love Joey’s mom. She’s senile, and she thinks we’re still married. She thinks Joey’s sister’s kids are our kids.”
Pete laughed. “Suppose she dies?”
“Then the day of the funeral is the day I say goodbye to Joey. He’ll have to get a new girl singer and a new chauffeur to drive him to his Nalline tests.”
“I bet that’ll break his heart.”
Barb blew smoke rings. “Over’s over. That’s a concept junkies don’t understand.”
“You understand it.”
“I know. And you’re thinking it’s a weird thing for a woman to get.”
“Not necessarily.”
Barb stubbed out her cigarette. “What’s this all about?”
“Not yet.”
“When?”
“Soon. First, you tell me about you and Peter Lawford.”
Barb toyed with her ashtray. “It was brief and ugly, and I broke it off when Peter kept pestering me to go to bed with Frank Sinatra.”
“Which you didn’t feel like doing.”
