I expressed great astonishment at such Agency activities in view of the bad reputation of Maheu and the horrible judgment of using a man of Giancana’s background for such a project. The Attorney General shared the same views.
From an out-of-channels note written by Hugh Montague to Richard Helms two days later:
Had a talk with the Sibling. Sibling said he had seen Buddha and would never forgive us for this one. Said the worst was that Buddha insinuates, although not for the record, that it was the Labor Lord who first put Sir Chipmunk up to offering us Rapunzel and his warren of friends. I replied that this, while not verifiable (shades of A. J. Ayer), did have to be mind-boggling, and the remark enabled me to traverse the abominable abyss just long enough to get out of his office. We are having to bury so much under the carpet that I fear the lumps will soon be felt by the common toe.
In the margin are my penciled notes:
the Labor Lord—Hoffa, doubtless
Sir Chipmunk—can only be Maheu
On May 14, five days after Hoover had visited Bobby Kennedy, William Harvey, on instructions from Harlot, called Sheffield Edwards to say that should the Attorney General inquire, he could be informed that no employment of Roselli was being contemplated. Edwards said he would put a memo to that effect in his files.
Now that there was a piece of paper pointing in the wrong direction, Harvey contacted Roselli, who said that the pills had gotten through to Cuba. “Let’s use them,” said Harvey.
During all of this period, FBI surveillance of Giancana intensified.
MODENE: I feel ready to throw up before we even leave for the airport. I know there will be FBI men waiting for us, and I have learned to recognize them. They stand out like penguins.
WILLIE: You are exaggerating.
MODENE: When a person has one thing on his mind, and only one thing, he stands out in a crowd. From the moment we approach the gate, I can see them. They used to follow us quietly, but now they come up and speak loudly. They want everyone to hear them. “What do you do for a living, Giancana?” they ask. “That’s easy,” Sam tells them, “I own Chicago. I own Miami. I own Las Vegas.” It happened twice in a row as we were getting on a plane. Sam began to think he was in control of it. “They’ve got no answer, Modene,” he told me. “They are working on salary, and that’s the end of their story.”
WILLIE: Well, I guess he knows something about how to give it right back.
MODENE: Yes, but he doesn’t know when to stop. The last time we took a trip together, Sam changed the ending. He said, “I own Chicago, I own Miami, I own Las Vegas. What do you own, empty pockets?”
Well, he happened to make this remark to the one FBI man we can always count on running into in Chicago, a big fellow with a crew cut who scares me. He is always so tense. He obviously wants to lay hands on Sam. The moment Sam spoke the words “empty pockets” this agent’s eyes started boiling. I don’t know how to express it otherwise. He turned right around and said to all the passengers waiting to get on the plane, “Here is Sam Giancana. Look at him. He is the most notorious cheap hoodlum in the world. He is scum. You are going to be sitting on this plane with the most complete piece of filth you will ever see in your life.”
They had never done anything like this to Sam before. “Shut your mouth,” he said, “or I’ll take you on myself.”
I was frozen. Sam is half the agent’s size. And the agent got the most frightening look. “Oh, Sam,” he said, “throw the first punch. Please throw the first punch.” He was almost crying he was saying it so softly.
Sam managed to control himself. He turned his back on the agent and did his best to ignore him, but the big fellow kept saying, “Please, Sammy-boy, take a poke. Take the first poke, you yellow piece of filth.” I’m not certain, but I know Sam had to be frightened. He turned as pale under his suntan as if he had a skin beneath the skin. “I can’t get on this plane,” he said to me. “I can’t sit for three hours.”
WILLIE: What about your bags?
MODENE: I made the mistake of saying just that to him. “Let’s get out of here,” he shouted, and we started down the corridor with the FBI men yelling and screaming at us as if they were as crazy as reporters. And the agent kept muttering in a low voice so only we could hear, “Two pounds of shit in a one-pound bag.”
WILLIE: I can’t believe FBI men would be so crude.
MODENE: It is my experience that they get a little unbalanced around Sam. I think they are very angry that they don’t have anything on him they can prove. Sam is too smart for them. Even under these circumstances, he actually got the last word. As we were stepping into a cab, Sam turned to the big agent and said, “You lit a fire tonight that will never go out.”
“Is that a threat?” the man asked.
“No,” said Sam, quietly and politely. “It is a statement of fact.” The agent actually blinked his eyes.
Then the FBI followed our cab all the way to Sam’s house, but Sam didn’t care. “They can wait outside all night and get bit by mosquitoes.” We went downstairs to his office which he says is 100-percent wiretap-proof and he called some of his people and told them to come over.
WILLIE: Wouldn’t the FBI spot them walking in?
MODENE: What does it matter? They’ve seen the same people meet with Sam a hundred times. If they can’t hear what is being said, what can they gain?
WILLIE: You have really learned how it works.
MODENE: I am full of love for Sam.
WILLIE: I think you are.
MODENE: I am.
WILLIE: Then you are really over Jack?
MODENE: I am full of love for Sam. He told me that he never confided in a woman in his life, but that I was not like others and he could talk to me.
WILLIE: Tell me. What did he confide?
MODENE: I don’t know if I can. I promised Sam I wouldn’t use my own line anymore, and now I am breaking the promise. But I just can’t stand those pay phones.
WILLIE: I thought your line is swept clean.
MODENE: Even so!
WILLIE: Tell me. I can feel that your line is clean.
MODENE: Sam said he hated Bobby Kennedy. That he has hated him ever since he had to go up before the McClellan Committee back in 1959 when Bobby was their Special Counsel. You know how witnesses say, “I refuse to answer on the grounds that it might incriminate me”? Well, Sam was worried about that. Apparently, he had such a bad time in school. He could not learn how to read. He said he still wants to giggle when he has to read aloud. Bobby Kennedy kept asking questions like “Did you dispose of the victim by burying him in concrete?” and Sam would try to read aloud from his card about not incriminating himself, but would giggle. Bobby then said: “I thought only little girls giggled.”
Sam told me he still gets the sweats when he remembers. It was in spite of Bobby that he worked for Jack. Sam assumed that Jack would call off the FBI. That would be his revenge on Bobby. Only it didn’t work out.
WILLIE: Is Sam angry with Sinatra?
MODENE: He is furious. Sam thinks I don’t know a word of Sicilian but I have a very good ear and I have picked up a little. Whenever his people say farfalletta, they are talking about Sinatra.
WILLIE: What do they mean?
MODENE: Farfalletta is a butterfly.
WILLIE: How did you find out?
MODENE: Because Sam’s people use their hands a lot to express a thought.
WILLIE: Yes, but how did you know that they were talking about Frank?
MODENE: Because they also say Sinatra. Or Frankie. While they are using their hands. This night, it was obvious to me that Sam was telling them how disgusted he is with Sinatra. A couple of them started to talk about squashing the butterfly. They would mash their palms on the table. Sam just gave a diabolical grin. I know that grin. It means he is going to make money where no one else could. When the night was over, Sam said, “I decided to put the skinny guinea to work.” (May 20, 1962)
From an FBI report, June 10, 1962, Spe
cial Agent Rowse:
TO: Office of the Director
RE: Giancana
SUBJECT booked Frank Sinatra, Dean Martin, Sammy Davis, Jr., Eddie Fisher, and Joey Bishop to do full-week engagements at Villa Venice, a roadhouse in NW outskirts of Chicago, believed to be owned by SUBJECT. Pursuant to such infusion of talent, SUBJECT also enjoys profits from the now heavy traffic at his all-night gambling shop established in a warehouse two blocks away from Villa Venice. Gambling revenues are returning SUBJECT estimated $1,500,000 a month for a duration of three months. Information from a reliable witness is that each entertainer receives only a fraction of his regular stipend, inasmuch as they were invited to Chicago by Sinatra.
Excerpt from AURAL transcript, June 12, 1962:
WILLIE: Did you read about Jack’s birthday party at Madison Square Garden?
MODENE: Of course.
WILLIE: I saw it on television.
MODENE: I wasn’t watching.
WILLIE: Marilyn Monroe was fabulous. She sang “Happy Birthday, Mr. President.” Modene, she was sewn into a dress that has to be an engineering feat.
MODENE: Marilyn Monroe is having an affair with Jack.
WILLIE: You know for sure?
MODENE: I can tell.
WILLIE: Are you upset?
MODENE: Why should I be?
WILLIE: Oh, come on, Modene!
MODENE: No. When something ends, it is finished. I don’t miss Jack Kennedy. I am angry.
WILLIE: I thought you said it was coming to an end anyway.
MODENE: Well, it was. It was certainly over once J. Edgar Hoover jumped into it. Jack called me the same afternoon and said it was the last phone call either of us could make through the White House switchboard, but then—I will say this for him—he gave me a private line at the White House I could use for emergencies.
WILLIE: Did you try the special number?
MODENE: I wasn’t going to. But then the FBI started visiting me at my apartment in Los Angeles. That was embarrassing to my roommates. I mean, they could see that these weren’t two boyfriends coming over for a drink.
WILLIE: I would have thought that was the least of your problems. You hardly ever see your roommates.
MODENE: The FBI makes me very nervous. I have attacks of vertigo these days. It is frightful. I hardly do a flight anymore. Sam has got my schedule down to three a month, but when I do work, I get the staggers. Once, I had the dropsies. Three trays in one flight.
WILLIE: Oh, no.
MODENE: I finally decided to use the special line. I asked Jack to call off the FBI, but he wouldn’t. He kept telling me that Sam was the person they were after, and I should just laugh into their faces. “I can’t,” I told him. “They are too much for me.” At that point, Jack got openly irritated. “Modene,” he said, “you are a grown woman and you are going to have to take care of this on your own.” “You mean,” I asked, “you and your brother don’t have the power to call off the FBI?” “Yes, we do,” he said, “but the cost might prove excessive. You just take care of it and leave my mind free for some reasonably important things that are going on, believe it or not.” And you know, he said it in just that flat sarcastic Boston accent of his. I cringe at the way he said, “Believe it or not.”
15
Tokyo
August 15, 1962
Dear Rick,
It’s been too long since I have written to you, but I’ve held off, waiting for good things to tell. I’m afraid, however, that I am living through one upsetting death after another, and you can throw in a couple of FBI visits to spice the gloom. I must say I am fairly good by now at wearing Special Agents out, and, of course, the Far East version of the Buddha Gang is composed of reasonably civilized fellows, who realize that in the Far East, they are just serving as liaison. So they respect my feelings.
Another of my old friends, however, has become an intruder in the dust. William Faulkner died early last month. While I can’t claim the pleasure of having seen much of him lately, I do remember one glorious evening back in 1946 right after the war when Dashiell Hammett and Faulkner and myself were drinking at Twenty-One. Do you know, for two hours Faulkner didn’t say a word. I’m not even sure he was listening. Once in a while, we would nudge him, and he would raise his head and say, “The secret, gentlemen, is that I am just a farmer.” Well, Dash would rarely give you more than a smile, but even he had to roar over this, as if Faulkner had made the wisest, most humorous remark in the world. I was feeling so sad Bill had died that I made the mistake of telling Mary.
“Oh, Cal, come off it,” she said, “you can’t claim that you’ve lost a bosom pal. Why, you haven’t even had a letter from the man in fifteen years.”
“Yes,” I said, “but he was a great writer.”
“You know,” said Mary in that voice she gets when the question is already decided for her, “he was a great writer, I suppose, but I simply cannot read him. He is one of those people who pack everything up so tightly inside themselves, that, oh, my dear, they do nothing but make strange noises.”
Thank God, I don’t strike women. I would have laid hands on a man for less than that remark. I am frankly worried about my temper. You see, those words of Mary’s went around in my head until I decided she was not really talking about Faulkner but trying to tell me something about her Japanese businessman whom I have sent back to the woodwork, or the bamboo mats, or wherever he is skulking, but to speak of people like Bill Faulkner as all packed up inside and making strange noises when she was obviously thinking of her Japanese mooey-mooey had me sweating my palms.
Maybe it is all these deaths. Too many friends have bought the last look. Do you know that what deranges the mind most in the hours after combat is remembering the expression that comes to men’s faces as they die. Often that expression never belonged to them before. So I brood over the demise of people I care about. I confess to wondering what their last expression might have been.
Now it is Marilyn Monroe. Her suicide on August 5, yes, just ten days ago, has preoccupied me. Did you know that Allen Dulles proposed sending me to visit Miss Monroe in Hollywood in 1955? Wanted me to talk her into starting a romance with Sukarno. Allen may have been bewitched by a conversation he had once with Marlene Dietrich. She confided to our Great White Case Officer that she regretted not meeting Hitler in the thirties because she was certain she could have “humanized” him and thereby saved tens of millions of lives. Well, I would have vulcanized Hitler in preference to humanizing him, but Marlene doubtless knows a thing or two I don’t. Allen, in any event, put the thought in his special kit bag and was ready to let Sukarno have a little go with Marilyn Monroe. I believe I did mention this to you once in passing. Allen, I hope you realize, was serious, and so, soon enough, was I. What a treat of an assignment! You get something like that once every ten years. I didn’t give a damn about Sukarno. It was the thought of meeting Marilyn. I would have had to convince the lady of the patriotic importance of the job, and that might have entailed capturing her heart. I studied her movies, I can tell you. I saw Gentlemen Prefer Blondes three times, and once in a while, Allen would say, “I haven’t forgotten about you and Miss Monroe.”
Well, by the time he got around to it, we were in 1956, and it was too late. Marilyn was not in Hollywood but New York, and was having the love affair of the year with Arthur Miller. What a waste. I always thought I could have been her sweet daddy dynamite. Now she’s dead.
The next is upsetting. I am keeping tight rein on my imagination, but I am not in the least certain that she was not murdered. We have a case officer here who is on good terms with Forensics in the Tokyo Police—since the coroner in Los Angeles, Thomas Noguchi, is also Japanese, Forensics was able to obtain a copy for me.
Now, Rick, I am not a ghoul. You know that much about your booze-ridden father—yes, I am drinking at this moment, love to drink while composing a letter to you, oldest son—and I don’t feel the need to defend myself. I will tell you that I had to get ahold of that co
roner’s report. Call it instinct, call it the product of close to twenty years in Intelligence, but I felt a gut-ache about it.
Rick, I have perused it, and it is a time bomb. Coroner’s report shows that Marilyn had enough barbiturates in her bloodstream to kill two healthy women, yet nothing in her stomach. One tablespoon of a “brown mucoid liquid.” That’s not nearly enough. You cannot take the forty-plus pills necessary to raise the barbiturate in your blood to such a level and show no more than one tablespoon in the stomach. She was injected.
Now, you know she was having an affair with Jack Kennedy. Conceivably with Bobby as well. I cannot rid myself of the suspicion that if she was threatening to blow the whistle on one or both of those boys, they might have come to an executive decision.
Did they pack her in? I hate the very thought of it. The average President of the United States often commits what history will later judge to be serious human error. After all, presidents are loose in the high energy of world events. To kill an individual woman, however. That is anathema. I reject the idea. But it comes back to keep me awake. I hate the Kennedy brothers. Indecisiveness at the Bay of Pigs was one thing, but cutting off a lovely lady’s life—no! I try to reason it through. Did they? I am in doubt. I think they could have done it. Am I off on a mental bender? If so, it may be due to the climate of opinion among Agency folk out here. Down in South Vietnam (where Rough and Tough are now serving) they take to Kennedy a little more because of his afición for the Green Berets, but not up here in General MacArthur land. Agency people in Tokyo do not see all that wide a distinction between Kennedy and Castro. (Pinko, pinko!) The Bay of Pigs has left an ineradicable bitter taste. So, yes, I’m not alone in walking around with this terrible suspicion. You can hear it all through the North Asia Command. Son, I now have the mental equivalent of a tumor in my head, and it won’t come out until I figure this one through. I am looking into Marilyn’s demise.
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