American Tabloid

by James Ellroy

  Kemper mixed a speedball and snorted it. The coke piggybacked the Dexedrine straight to his head.

  He heard cadence counts outside. Laurent pushed the Cubans through calisthenics every morning.

  Flash and Juan came up to his chest. Néstor could fit in his knapsack.

  Néstor shanked a redneck yesterday. All the man did was nick his fender. Néstor had the post-heist screaming mimis.

  Néstor fled. The cracker survived. Flash said Néstor stole a speedboat and headed for Cuba.

  Néstor left a note. It said, Save my share of the stuff. I’ll be back when Castro’s dead.

  Kemper showered and shaved. His little pick-me-up had the razor jumping.

  Lies wouldn’t come.

  Bobby wore dark glasses and a hat. Kemper convinced him to tour JM/Wave incognito.

  The AG with shades and a stingy-brim fedora. The AG as Rat Pack reject.

  They strolled the facility. Bobby’s getup inspired odd looks. Contract men walked by and waved hello.

  Lies wouldn’t come.

  They toured at a leisurely pace. Bobby kept his famous voice to a whisper. A few Cubans recognized him and played along with the ruse.

  Kemper showcased the Propaganda Section. A case officer rattled off statistics. Nobody said, Jack Kennedy is a vacillating sob sister.

  Nobody dropped Mob names. Nobody dropped hints that they knew Kemper Boyd before the Bay of Pigs invasion.

  Bobby liked the air recon plans. The communications room impressed him.

  Lies wouldn’t come. Details wouldn’t mesh with any degree of verisimilitude.

  They toured the Map Section. Chuck Rogers walked up, hale-hearty. Kemper steered Bobby away from him.

  Bobby used the men’s room and stormed out in a huff. Somebody scrawled anti-Kennedy remarks above the urinals.

  They walked over to the Miami U cafeteria. Bobby bought them coffee and sweet rolls.

  College kids carried trays past their table. Kemper forced himself not to fidget—the Dexedrine was surging especially strong.

  Bobby cleared his throat. “Say what you’ve been thinking.”

  “What?”

  “Say that coastal harassment and intelligence gathering aren’t enough. Tell me we need to assassinate Fidel Castro for the three hundredth time and get it out of your system.”

  Kemper smiled. “We need to assassinate Fidel Castro. And I’ll memorize your response, so you won’t have to say it again.”

  Bobby said, “You know my response. I hate redundancy, and I hate this hat. How does Sinatra manage it?”

  “He’s Italian.”

  Bobby pointed to some coeds in short shorts. “Don’t they have a dress code here?”

  “The code is as little as possible.”

  “I should tell Jack. He could address the student body.”

  Kemper laughed. “I’m glad to see that you’ve become more accepting.”

  “More discerning, maybe.”

  “And more specifically disapproving?”

  “Touché.”

  Kemper sipped coffee. “Who’s the man been seeing?”

  “Some fluff. And a Twist performer Lenny Sands introduced him to.”

  “Who isn’t fluff?”

  “Let’s say she’s mentally overqualified for some cheap dance craze.”

  “You’ve met her?”

  Bobby nodded. “Lenny brought her to Peter Lawford’s house in Los Angeles. I got the impression that she thinks a few steps ahead of most people, and Jack always calls me from the Carlyle to say how smart she is, which is not what Jack usually comments on in a woman.”

  Lenny, the Twist, L.A.—a puzzling little triad.

  “What’s her name?”

  “Barb Jahelka. Jack was on the phone with her this morning. He said he called her at 5:00 a.m. L.A. time, and she still managed to come off smart and funny.”

  Pete called from L.A. last night. A woman was humming “Let’s Twist Again.”

  “What is it about her that you disapprove of?”

  “Probably just the fact that she doesn’t behave like most of Jack’s quickies.”

  Pete was a shakedown man. Lenny was an L.A. show-biz reptile.

  “Do you think she’s dangerous in some way?”

  “Not exactly. I’m just suspicious because I’m the attorney general of the United States, and suspiciousness goes with the job. Why do you care? We’ve given this woman two minutes more than she deserves.”

  Kemper crumpled his coffee cup. “I was just steering talk away from Fidel.”

  Bobby laughed. “Good. And no, you and our exile friends cannot assassinate him.”

  Kemper stood up. “Do you want to look around some more?”

  “No. I’ve got a car picking me up. Do you want a lift to the airport?”

  “No. I have to make some phone calls.”

  Bobby took off his shades. A coed recognized him and squealed.

  Kemper commandeered a vacant JM/Wave office. The switchboard put him through to LAPD R&I direct.

  A man picked up. “Records and Information. Officer Graham.”

  “Dennis Payne, please. Tell him it’s Kemper Boyd, long distance.”

  “Hold on, please.”

  Kemper scribbled up a scratch pad. Payne came on the line posthaste.

  “Mr. Boyd, how are you?”

  “I’m fine, Sergeant. You?”

  “Fair to middling. And I’ll bet you have a request to make.”

  “I do. I need you to check for a rap sheet on a white female named Barbara Jahelka, probable spelling J-A-H-E-L-K-A. She’s probably twenty-two to thirty-two, and I think she lives in Los Angeles. I also need you to check for an unlisted number. The name is either Lenny Sands or Leonard J. Seidelwitz, and it’s probably a West Hollywood listing.”

  Payne said, “I copy. You hold, okay? This might take a few minutes.”

  Kemper held. His pick-me-up was inducing mild palpitations.

  Pete didn’t state his L.A. business. Lenny was extortable and bribable.

  Payne came back on the line. “Mr. Boyd? We’ve got two positives.”

  Kemper grabbed a pen. “Keep going.”

  “The Sands number is OL5-3980, and I got a felony marijuana possession on the girl. She’s the only Barbara Jahelka in our files, and her DOB matches up to what you told me.”

  “Disposition?”

  “She was arrested in July ’57. She did six months and topped out two years of summary probation.”

  It was inconclusive information.

  “Would you check for something more recent? FI cards or arrests that didn’t go to arraignment?”

  Payne said, “Will do. I’ll check with the Sheriff’s and our other local municipals, too. If the girl’s been in trouble since ’57, we’ll know.”

  “Thanks, Sergeant. I appreciate it.”

  “Give me an hour, Mr. Boyd. I should have something or nothing by then.”

  Kemper disconnected. The switchboard patched him in to Lenny’s L.A. number.

  It rang three times. Kemper heard faint tap clicks and hung up.

  Pete was a shakedown man. Pete was a bug/tap man. Pete’s bug/tap partner was the celebrated Fred Turentine.

  Freddy’s brother owned a TV repair shop in L.A. Freddy worked there between wire jobs.

  Kemper called Los Angeles information. An operator gave him the number. He fed it to the JM/Wave switchboard and told the girl to put him through.

  The line hissed and crackled. A man picked up on the first ring. “Turentine’s TV. Good morning.”

  Kemper faked a lowlife growl. “Is Freddy there? This is Ed. I’m friends with Freddy and Pete Bondurant.”

  The man coughed. “Freddy’s in New York. He was here a few days ago, but he went back.”

  “Shit. I need to send him something. Did he leave an address?”

  “Yeah, he did. Wait … let’s see … yeah, it’s 94 East 76th Street, New York City. The number’s MU6-0197.”

  Kemper
said, “Thanks. I appreciate it.”

  The man coughed. “Tell Freddy hi. Tell him his big brother says to stay out of trouble.”

  Kemper hung up. The office tilted in and out of focus.

  Turentine was lodged near 76th and Madison. The Carlyle Hotel was on the northeast corner.

  Kemper dialed the switchboard and gave the girl Lenny’s number one more time.

  She reconnected him. He heard three rings and three tiny tap clicks.

  A woman answered. “Mr. Sands’ residence.”

  “Is this Mr. Sands’ service?”

  “Yes, sir. And Mr. Sands can be reached in New York City. The number is MU6-2433.”

  Laura’s number.

  Kemper disconnected and redialed the switchboard. The girl said, “Yes, Mr. Boyd.”

  “Get me New York City, please. The number is MU6-0197.”

  “Please hang up, sir. All my circuits are busy, but I’ll put your call through in a second.”

  Kemper leaned on the cutoff button. The pieces fit— circumstantially, instinctively—

  The phone rang. He jerked the receiver up.

  “Yes?”

  “What do you mean, ‘Yes?’? The operator placed your call to me.”

  Kemper wiped a line of sweat off his forehead. “That’s right, she did. Is this Fred Turentine?”

  “That’s right.”

  “This is Kemper Boyd. I work with Pete Bondurant.”

  Silence stretched a solid beat too long.

  “So you’re looking for Pete?”

  “That’s right.”

  “Well … Pete’s in New Orleans.”

  “That’s right. I forgot.”

  “Well … why’d you think he’d be here?”

  “It was just a hunch.”

  “Hunch, shit. Pete said he wasn’t giving out this number.”

  “Your brother gave it to me.”

  “Well … shit … he wasn’t supposed—”

  “Thanks, Fred. I’ll call Pete in New Orleans.”

  The line went dead. Turentine hung up dead finessed and dead scared.

  Kemper watched the second hand circle his watch. His shirt sleeves were soaked clear through.

  Pete would do it. Pete wouldn’t do it. Pete was his longtime partner, which constituted proof of—

  Nothing.

  Business was business. Jack got between them. Call it the Triangle Twist: Jack, Pete and Barb what’s-her-name.

  Kemper dialed the switchboard. The operator redialed the LAPD.

  Payne answered. “Records and Information.”

  “It’s Kemper Boyd, Sergeant.”

  Payne laughed. “And an hour to the second.”

  “Did you find out anything else?”

  “Yeah, I did. Beverly Hills PD arrested the Jahelka girl for extortion in August 1960.”

  Jesus God—

  “Details?”

  “The girl and her ex-husband tried to shake down Rock Hudson with some sex pictures.”

  “Of Hudson and the girl?”

  “That’s correct. They demanded some money, but Hudson went to the police. The girl and her ex were arrested, but Hudson retracted the charges.”

  Kemper said, “It stinks.”

  Payne said, “To high heaven. A friend of mine on the BHPD said the whole thing was some sort of ploy to establish Hudson as a pussy hound, when he’s really some kind of homo. He heard a rumor that Hush-Hush was behind the whole thing.”

  Kemper put the phone down. His little palpitations almost cut his breath off.

  LENNY—

  He caught a 1:45 connector to La Guardia. He popped four Dexedrine and chased them with two in-flight martinis.

  The flight took three and a half hours. Kemper shredded cocktail napkins and checked his watch every few minutes.

  They landed on time. Kemper caught a cab outside the terminal. He told the driver to cruise by the Carlyle and drop him at 64th and Fifth.

  Rush-hour traffic crawled. The Carlyle run ate up an hour.

  94 East 76th Street was fifty yards from the hotel. It was an ideal apartment/listening-post location.

  The cabbie swung south and dropped him outside Laura’s building. The doorman was busy with a tenant.

  Kemper ran into the lobby. An old lady held the elevator for him.

  He hit “12.” The old lady backed away. He saw his gun in his hand and tried to remember unholstering it.

  He tucked it in his waistband. The old lady hid behind a huge handbag. The ride up took forever.

  The door opened. Laura had redecorated the foyer—a complete French Provincial makeover.

  Kemper walked through it. The elevator zoomed up behind him. He heard laughter on the terrace.

  He ran toward the sound. Throw rugs snagged under his feet. He took the last hallway at a sprint and knocked over two lamps and an end table.

  They were standing. They were holding drinks and cigarettes. They looked like they weren’t quite breathing.

  Laura, Lenny and Claire.

  They looked funny. They looked like they didn’t quite know him.

  He saw his gun out. He saw the trigger at half-pull.

  He said something about shaking down Jack Kennedy.

  Claire said “Dad?” like she wasn’t quite sure.

  He aimed at Lenny.

  Claire said, “Dad, please.”

  Laura dropped her cigarette. Lenny flicked his cigarette at him and smiled.

  The tip burned his face. Ashes singed his suitcoat. He steadied his aim and pulled the trigger.

  The gun jammed.

  Lenny smiled.

  Laura screamed.

  Claire’s scream made him turn tail and run.

  83

  (New Orleans, 5/12/62)

  Bullshit flowed bilateral. Banister’s office was submerged in right-wing rebop.

  Guy said the Klan bombed some churches. Pete said Heshie Ryskind had cancer.

  Boyd’s Clip Castro Team was all-time elite. Dougie Frank Lockhart was one elite gun runner.

  Pete said Wilfredo Delsol fucked Santo Junior on a dope deal. The fucker got fucked backed by fucker or fuckers unknown.

  Banister sipped bourbon. Pete goosed the charade along. Say, Guy, what have you heard about this?

  Guy said he heard bubkes. No shit, Sherlock—this line of talk is all shuck and jive.

  Pete sprawled in a chair and played with a tall Jack Daniel’s. He took little medicinal sips for migraine relief.

  New Orleans was hot. The office sucked in heat. Guy sat behind his desk and peeled sweat off his forehead with a switchblade.

  Pete kept drifting back to Barb. He couldn’t hold a non-Barb line of thought for more than six seconds.

  The phone rang. Banister dug through desk debris and caught it.

  “Yeah? … Yeah, he’s here. Hold on a second.”

  Pete stood up and snagged the phone off the desk. “Who’s this?”

  “It’s Fred. And don’t you fucking lose your temper for what I’m gonna tell you.”

  “You just calm down, then.”

  “You can’t calm down when you got a fucking concussion. You can’t calm down—”

  Pete walked the phone to the far end of the office. The cord stretched taut.

  “Calm down, Freddy. Just tell me what happened.”

  Freddy caught his breath. “Okay. Kemper Boyd called the post this morning. He said he was looking for you, but I knew he was lying. Now, he came by—in person—an hour ago. He knocked on the door looking like a crazy man. I didn’t let him in, and I saw him practically knock down an old lady and get into this cab she was getting out of.”

  The phone cord almost snapped. Pete stepped back and cut it some slack.

  “And that’s it?”

  “Fuck no!”

  “Freddy, what are you say—”

  “I’m saying Lenny Sands came by a few minutes later. I let him in because I figured he knew what Boyd was up to. He brained me with a chair and sacked the
place. He stole all the tapes and written transcripts and took off. I woke up after, shit—I don’t know, half an hour. I went by the Carlyle and saw ail these police cars out front. Pete, Pete, Pete—”

  His legs dipped. The wall caught him.

  “Pete, it was Lenny. He kicked the door in and trashed the Kennedy suite. He pulled out the microphones, and fucking escaped out a fire door. Pete, Pete, Pete—

  “Pete, we’re fucked—

  “Pete, it had to be Lenny—

  “Pete, I wiped down the post and moved out all my equipment and—”

  The connection died—Pete twitched and jerked the cord out of the wall.

  Boyd knew he was in New Orleans. Boyd would catch the first available flight down.

  The gig was burned. Boyd and Lenny collided and fucked things up somehow.

  The Feds knew by now. The Secret Service knew. Boyd couldn’t go to Bobby to explain—his Mob ties compromised him.

  Boyd would come here. Boyd knew he was staying at the hotel across the street.

  Pete sipped bourbon and played every Twist song on the jukebox. A waitress swooped by with regular refills.

  A cab would pull up. Boyd would get out. He’d intimidate the desk clerk and gain entrance to room 614.

  Boyd would find a note. He’d obey the instructions. He’d carry the tape recorder over here to his booth at Ray Becker’s Tropics.

  Pete watched the door. Every Twist tune brought Barb back that much stronger.

  He called her in L.A. two hours ago. He told her the gig was blown. He told her to drive down to Ensenada and hole up at the Playa Rosada.

  She said she’d do it. She said, “We’re still on, aren’t we?”

  He said, “Yes.”

  The bar was hot. New Orleans held the patent on heat. Thunderstorms hit and burned themselves out before you could blink.

  Boyd walked in. Pete screwed a silencer to his magnum and placed it on the seat next to him.

  Boyd was carrying the tape recorder in a suitcase. He had a .45 automatic pressed to his leg.

  He walked up. He sat down across from Pete and put the suitcase on the floor.

  Pete pointed to it. “Take the machine out. It’s running on batteries, and there’s a tape looped in already, so all you have to do is turn it on.”

  Boyd shook his head. “Put the gun in your lap on the table.”

  Pete did it. Boyd said, “Now unload it.”

  Pete did it. Boyd popped the clip out of his piece and wrapped both guns in the tablecloth.