American Tabloid

by James Ellroy

  Teo Paez cupped his desk phone. “Line two, Pete. It’s Mr. Santo.”

  Pete picked up casual slow. “Hi, Boss.”

  Santo said the words. Santo came through right on cue.

  “Wilfredo Delsol fucked me. He’s hiding out, and I want you to find him.”

  “What did he do?”

  “Don’t ask questions. Just find him and do it right now.”

  Néstor let him in. He’d turned the living room into an instant junkie pigsty.

  Dig the syringe in plain view. Dig the candy bars mashed into the carpet. Dig that white powder residue on every flat cutting surface.

  Dig Wilfredo Olmos Delsol: dope-swacked on a plush-velour couch.

  Pete shot him in the head. Néstor chopped off three of his fingers and dropped them in an ashtray.

  It was 5:20. Santo wouldn’t buy a one-hour search-and-find. They had time to reinforce the lie.

  Néstor split—Boyd had work for him back in Mississippi. Pete tamped down his nerves with deep breaths and a dozen cigarettes.

  He visualized it. He got the details straight in his head. He put his gloves on and did it.

  He dumped the icebox.

  He slashed the couch down to the springs.

  He ripped the living-room walls out in a mock dope-search frenzy.

  He burned cooking spoons.

  He formed heroin into snort lines on a glass-topped coffee table.

  He found a discarded lipstick and smeared it on some filter-tip butts.

  He slashed Delsol with a kitchen knife. He scorched his balls with a wood-burning tool he found in the bedroom.

  He dipped his hands in Delsol’s blood and wrote “Traitor” on the living-room wall.

  It was 8:40 p.m.

  Pete ran down to a pay phone. Real live fear juked his performance.

  Delsol’s dead—tortured—I got a tip on his hideout—he was strung-out—dope everywhere—somebody trashed the place—I think he was on a toot with some whores—Santo, tell me, what the fuck is this all about?

  80

  (Washington, D.C., 5/7/62)

  Littell made business calls. Mr. Hoover gave him a tap scrambler to insure that his calls stayed private.

  He called Jimmy Hoffa at a pay phone. Jimmy was profoundly tap-phobic.

  They discussed the Test Fleet taxi fraud case. Jimmy said, Let’s bribe some jurors.

  Littell said he’d send him a jury list. He told Hoffa to have front men make the bribe offers.

  Jimmy said, What’s shaking with the shakedown?

  Littell reported, ALL SYSTEMS GO. Baby Jimmy said, Let’s squeeze Jack now!!!

  Littell said, Be patient. We’ll squeeze him at the optimum time.

  Jimmy threw a goodbye fit. Littell called Carlos Marcello in New Orleans.

  They discussed his deportation case. Littell stressed the need for tactical delays.

  “You beat the Federal government by frustrating them. You exhaust them and make them rotate attorneys on and off your case. You try their patience and resources, and stall the hell out of them.”

  Carlos got the point. Carlos asked a truly silly goodbye question.

  “Can I get a tax deduction on my Cuban bag donations?”

  Littell said, “Regretfully, no.”

  Carlos signed off. Littell called Pete in Miami.

  He picked up on the first ring. “This is Bondurant.”

  “It’s me, Pete.”

  “Yeah, Ward. I’m listening.”

  “Is something wrong? You sound agitated.”

  “Nothing’s wrong. Is something wrong with our deal?”

  “Nothing’s wrong. I’ve been thinking of Lenny, though, and I keep thinking he’s too close to Sam for my liking.”

  “You think he’d spill to Sam?”

  “Not exactly. What I’m thinking is—”

  Pete cut him off. “Don’t tell me what you’re thinking. You’re running this show, so just tell me what you want.”

  Littell said, “Call Turentine. Have him fly out to L.A. and tap Lenny’s phone as an added precaution. Barb’s out there, too. She’s appearing at a place in Hollywood called the Rabbit’s Foot Club. Have Freddy check on her and see how she’s holding up.”

  Pete said, “This sounds good to me. Besides, there’s other things I don’t want Sam to make Lenny do.”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “Cuban stuff. You wouldn’t be interested.”

  Littell checked his calendar. He saw writ-submission dates running straight into June.

  “Call Freddy, Pete. Let’s not sit on this.”

  “Maybe I’ll meet him in L.A. I could use a change of scenery.”

  “Do it. And let me know when the tap’s in.”

  “I will. See you, Ward.”

  Littell hung up. The scrambler blinked and broke off his line of thought.

  Hoover accepted him now. Their courtly moments were over. Hoover reverted to his standard curt behavior.

  Hoover expected him to beg.

  Please reinstate Helen Agee in law school. Please let my leftist friend out of prison.

  He’d never beg.

  Pete was nervous. He had a hunch that Kemper Boyd forced Pete into things he couldn’t control.

  Boyd collected acolytes. Boyd felt at one with Cuban killers and poor Negroes. Kemper’s gloss seduced Pete. The Cuban mess pushed them far beyond their ken.

  Carlos said they cut a deal with Santo Trafficante. Their potential profit made Carlos laugh. He said Santo would never pay them that much money.

  Carlos embraced the Cuban mess. Carlos said Sam and Santo wanted to cut their losses.

  Net loss. Net gain. Profit potential.

  He had the Fund books. He needed to clear a stretch of time and develop a strategy to exploit them.

  Littell turned his chair around and looked out the window. Cherry blossoms brushed the glass—close enough to touch.

  The phone rang. Littell tapped the speaker switch. “Yes?”

  A man said, “This is Howard Hughes.”

  Littell almost giggled. Pete told these hilarious Dracula tales—

  “This is Ward Littell, Mr. Hughes. And I’m very pleased to talk to you.”

  Hughes said, “You should be pleased. Mr. Hoover has shared your impeccable credentials with me, and I intend to offer you $200,000 a year for the privilege of entering my employ. I will not require you to move to Los Angeles, and we will communicate solely by letter and telephone. Your specific duties will be to handle the writ work in my painfully protracted TWA divestment suit, and to help me purchase Las Vegas hotel-casinos with the profits I expect to accrue when I finally divest TWA. Your Italian connections will prove invaluable in this regard, and I will expect you to ingratiate yourself with the Nevada State Legislature and help me devise a policy to insure that my hotels remain Negro- and germ-free—”

  Littell listened.

  Hughes continued.

  Littell didn’t even try to respond.

  81

  (Los Angeles, 5/10/62)

  Pete held the flashlight. Freddy replaced the dial housing. The work went down bite-your-nails nervous and slow.

  Freddy fucked with some loose wires. “I hate Pacific Bell phones. I hate night jobs and working in the dark. I hate bedroom extensions, because the goddamn cords get tangled up behind the goddamn bed.”

  “Don’t complain, just do it.”

  “My screwdriver keeps jamming. And are you sure Littell wants us to tap both extensions?”

  Pete said, “Just do it. Two extensions and a pickup box outside. We’ll stash it in those shrubs by the driveway. If you quit complaining, we can be out of here in twenty minutes.”

  Freddy gouged his thumb. “Fuck. I hate Pacific Bell phones. And Lenny don’t have to use his home phones to rat us. He can rat us in person or rat us from a pay phone.”

  Pete gripped down on the flashlight. The beam wiggled and jumped.

  “You fucking stop complaining, or I’ll
shove this fucking thing up your ass.”

  Freddy flinched and bumped a shelf. A Hush-Hush clipping file went flying.

  “All right, all right. You been jumpy since you got off the airplane, so I’ll only say it once. Pacific Bell phones are the shits. When you tap their lines, half the time the incoming callers can hear clicks. It’s fucking unavoidable. And who’s going to monitor the pickup box?”

  Pete rubbed his eyes. He was nursing an on-and-off migraine since the night he killed Wilfredo Delsol.

  “Littell can get some Feds to watch the box. We only need to check it every few days.”

  Freddy bent a lamp over the phone. “Go watch the door. I can’t work with you standing over me.”

  Pete walked into the living room. His headache popped him right between the eyes.

  He popped two aspirin. He washed them down with Lenny’s cognac, straight from the bottle.

  The stuff went down smooth. Pete knocked back a short refill.

  His headache de-torqued. The veins above his eyes stopped pulsing.

  Santo bought the charade so far. Santo never said how Delsol fucked him.

  Santo said Sam G. got fucked, too. He didn’t mention hijacked dope or fifteen dead men. He didn’t say some big Outfit guys cozied up to Fidel Castro.

  He said he had to cut the Cadre loose.

  “Just for now, Pete. I’ve heard there’s Federal pressure coming down. I want to extricate out of narcotics for a while.”

  The man just imported two hundred pounds of Big “H.” The man was talking up extrication with a straight face.

  Santo showed him a police report. The Miami fuzz bought the charade. They considered it one grisly dope killing—with assumed Cuban exile perpetrators.

  Boyd and Néstor went back to Mississippi. The dope was stashed in forty safe-deposit boxes.

  They resumed their Whack Castro training. They didn’t care that the Outfit dug Fidel now. They didn’t seem to know that there were men who could make them stop.

  Their fear wasn’t screwed on tight.

  His was.

  They didn’t know you don’t fuck with the Outfit.

  He did.

  He always sucked up to men with REAL power. He never broke the rules they set. He had to do what he did—but he didn’t know WHY.

  Santo swore vengeance. Santo said he’d find the dope thieves—whatever it cost, whatever it took.

  Boyd thought they could sell the dope. Boyd was wrong. Boyd said he’d snitch the Mob-Agency links. Boyd said he could level out Bobby’s rage.

  He wouldn’t do it. He couldn’t do it. He’d never risk losing stature with the Kennedys.

  Pete took another drink. His three shots killed a third of the bottle. Freddy lugged his tools out. “Let’s go. I’ll drive you back to your hotel.”

  “You go. I want to take a walk.”

  “Where to?”

  “I don’t know.”

  The Rabbit’s Foot Club was a hotbox—four walls trapping smoke and stale air. Underaged Twisters ruled the dance floor—a big liquor-law infraction.

  Joey and the boys played half on-the-nod. Barb was singing some dippy wah-wah tune. A single sad-ass hooker sat at the bar.

  Barb spotted him. She smiled and fumbled some lyrics.

  The only half-private booth in the room was occupied. Two Marines and two high-school girls—ripe for eviction.

  Pete told them to shove off. They caught his size and did it. The girls left their fruity rum drinks on the table.

  Pete sat down and sipped at them. His headache leveled off a bit more. Barb closed with a weak “Twilight Time” cover.

  A few Twisters clapped. The combo dispersed backstage. Barb walked straight over and joined him.

  Pete slid close to her. Barb said, “I’m surprised. Ward said you were in Miami.”

  “I thought I’d come out and see how things were going.”

  “You mean you thought you’d check up on me?”

  Pete shook his head. “Everybody thinks you’re solid. Freddy Turentine and I came out to check on Lenny.”

  Barb said, “Lenny’s in New York. He’s visiting a friend.”

  “A woman named Laura Hughes?”

  “I think so. Some rich woman with a place on Fifth Avenue.”

  Pete toyed with his lighter. “Laura Hughes is Jack Kennedy’s half-sister. She used to be engaged to that man Kemper Boyd that Jack told you about. Boyd was Ward Littell’s FBI mentor. My old girlfriend Gail Hendee slept with Jack on his honeymoon. Lenny gave Jack speech lessons back in ’46.”

  Barb took one of Pete’s cigarettes. “You’re saying this is all too cozy for words.”

  Pete gave her a light. “I don’t know what I’m saying.”

  Barb tossed her hair back. “Did Gail Hendee work gigs with you?”

  “Yes.”

  “Divorce gigs?”

  “That’s right.”

  “Was she as good as me?”

  “No.”

  “Were you jealous that she slept with Jack Kennedy?”

  “Not until Jack fucked me personally.”

  “What are you saying?”

  “That I had a personal stake in the Bay of Pigs.”

  Barb smiled. Bar light twinkled off her hair.

  “Are you jealous of Jack and me?”

  “If I hadn’t heard the tapes I might have been.”

  “What are you saying?”

  “That you’re not giving him anything real.”

  Barb laughed. “This nice Secret Service man always drives me back to where I’m staying. We stopped for pizza last time.”

  “You’re saying that’s real?”

  “Only compared to an hour with Jack.”

  The jukebox fired up. Pete reached over and pulled the plug. Barb said, “You blackmailed Lenny into this.”

  “He’s used to getting blackmailed.”

  “You’re nervous. You’re tapping your knee against the table, and you don’t even know you’re doing it.”

  Pete stopped. His fucking foot started twitching to compensate.

  Barb said, “Does our thing scare you?”

  Pete jammed his knees down steady. “It’s something else.”

  “Sometimes I think you’ll kill me when all this is over.”

  “We don’t kill women.”

  “You killed a woman once. Lenny told me.”

  Pete flinched. “And you cozied up to Joey so he’d buy hits on those guys who raped your sister.”

  She didn’t flinch. She didn’t move. She didn’t show a fucking ounce of fear.

  “I should have known you’d be the one to care.”

  “What are you saying?”

  “That I wanted to see if Jack cared enough to do the checking that you did.”

  Pete shrugged. “Jack’s a busy man.”

  “So are you.”

  “Does it bug you that Johnny Coates is still alive?”

  “Only when I think of Margaret. Only when I think that she’ll never let a man touch her.”

  Pete felt the floor dip.

  Barb said, “Tell me what you want.”

  Pete said, “I want you.”

  They took a room at the Hollywood-Roosevelt. The Grauman’s Chinese marquee blipped their window.

  Pete tripped out of his pants. Barb pulled off her Twist gown. Loose rhinestones hit the floor—Pete gouged his feet on them.

  Barb kicked his holster under the bed. Pete pulled the covers down. The stale perfume stuck to the sheets made him sneeze.

  She raised her arms and unhooked her necklace. He saw the white-powdered stubble where she shaved.

  He pinned her wrists to the wall. She saw what he wanted and let him taste her there.

  The taste stung. She flexed her arms so he could have it all.

  He felt her nipples. He smelled the sweat dripping off her shoulders.

  She pushed her breasts up to him. The big veins and big freckles looked like nothing he’d ever seen. He kissed them and bi
t them and pushed her into the wall with his mouth.

  Her breath went crazy. Her pulse tapped his lips. He slid his hands down her legs and put a finger inside her.

  She pushed him off. She stumbled to the bed and lay down crossways. He spread her legs and knelt on the floor between them.

  He touched her stomach and her arms and her feet. He felt a pulse every place he touched. She had big veins all over, pulsing out of red hair and freckles.

  He jammed his hips into the mattress. The movement got him so hard it hurt.

  He tasted her hair. He felt the folds underneath it. He made her pulse go crazy with little bites and nuzzles.

  She buckled and thrashed off his mouth. She made crazy funny sounds.

  He came without her even touching him. He shook and sobbed and kept tasting her.

  She spasmed. She bit through the sheets. She lulled and spasmed, lulled and spasmed, lulled and spasmed. Her back arched and slammed the mattress into the box springs.

  He didn’t want it to end. He didn’t want to lose the taste of her.

  82

  (Meridian, 5/12/62)

  The air conditioner short-circuited and died. Kemper woke up sweaty and congested.

  He swallowed four Dexedrine. He started building lies immediately.

  I didn’t tell you about the links, because:

  I didn’t know myself. I didn’t want Jack to get hurt. I only found out recently, and I thought it best to let sleeping dogs lie.

  The Mob and the CIA?—it boggled my mind when I learned.

  The lies felt weak. Bobby would investigate and trace his own links back to ’59.

  Bobby called last night. He said, “Meet me in Miami tomorrow. I want you to show me around JM/Wave.”

  Pete called from L.A. a few minutes later. He heard a woman humming a Twist tune in the background.

  Pete said he just talked to Santo. Santo told him to hunt down the dope heisters.

  “He said find them, Kemper. He said don’t kill them under any circumstances. He didn’t seem too concerned that I might find out the deal was Castro-financed.”

  Kemper told him to rig another forensic charade. Pete said, I’ll fly to New Orleans and get started. Call me at the Olivier House Hotel or Guy Banister’s office.