Harlot's Ghost

by Norman Mailer

  “That fact brought back my suspicions of the Kennedys. For if there was a wiretap, there was bound to be bedside chatter. It would substantiate the claim that there was carnal congress with the lady. But, again, my reason prevailed over animus and ire. I had to decide that the media would never allow the power of the presidency to be breached by any accusation, no matter how well documented, that would be delivered by a neurotic actress waving a telltale tape furnished by a labor racketeer.

  “Then, it came to me. It had to be Jimmy Hoffa who arranged the cold-blooded, calculated extermination of Marilyn Monroe. No one in the universe hated Bobby Kennedy as much as Jimmy Hoffa. Since Marilyn had at least five specialists I can name who were available for prescribing pills, and there must be twenty others I don’t know, Hoffa found a way to induce one of these practitioners, doubtless by getting something on the guy, to agree to the deed. Hoffa had a slew of private detectives to return him that kind of information.

  “Voilà! Hoffa’s doctor of choice visited Marilyn and injected her fatally. Since everyone knew she was unstable, the public would certainly believe that she had committed suicide. The first headlines would announce that in screamers. Forty-eight hours later, however, when the evidence didn’t add up, the press would begin to hint at foul play. By the end of a week, the accumulation of evidence would clearly suggest that she had been injected, which is to say, murdered.”

  “You are not supposing that the Kennedys would have been named in the headlines?”

  “No. But keep in mind that a few thousand people in Washington, in L.A., and in New York were already witting to the gossip that Marilyn had a fling with Jack and Bobby both. Can you conceive of the whispering after her death? I bet Hoffa figured that half of our nation would catch up with the idea that not only was she murdered, but certain people were trying to make it look like suicide. Hoffa would have succeeded in setting off a whispering campaign pointed to the Kennedys. Try winning an election with that festering underneath.”

  “Why then,” I asked, “does everyone still think it is a suicide?”

  “Because Hoffa miscalculated. He anticipated every detail but one. Ever since he came into office, Jack has been charming up the police chief of every major city he visits. He gets them to believe that once the ’64 elections are history, J. Edgar Hoover will be encouraged to resign. Top cop in each major city begins to think he might be the next head of the FBI. I think the moment that Los Angeles chief saw how the evidence on Marilyn was pointing toward murder, he took some pains to have it declared a suicide. He wasn’t going to allow the Kennedy name to be washed about. What?—lose all chance of becoming Buddha’s replacement? Hoffa certainly underrated the Kennedys.”

  Kittredge, it was an incredible lunch. Before it was over, a man and a woman, two of the tallest, slimmest, most stylish English people I have ever seen came in. The woman was carrying a white toy poodle, and on greeting the maître d’hôtel, she handed it over. “Take care of Bouffant like a good dear, will you, Romain?” she said in that absolutely unselfconscious English accent that can never be acquired, not even by marriage. And Romain, a darn superior headwaiter up to now, set the beastie down on the sacred carpet of the Tour d’Argent and began to address it in a French variant of baby talk, “Ow, Bouffie, how are you, delightful dog!” and then rose to his feet, signaled to a waiter to watch over the creature (for the next two hours, presumably), and escorted the Viscount and the Viscountess, or whoever they were, to a table by a window over the Seine. Halifax whispered, “Wouldn’t you love to get on spanking good terms with her?” No erectile lapses in the air for him right now.

  I have written this long letter in all the pleasure of talking to you. In a few minutes, Halifax, whose room is down the hall, will knock on my door and we will go out to meet our man. I wish I could tell you more. Will indeed someday.

  I feel blessed. How much I love you. It lifts my soul above horror, adventure, and surprise.

  Devotedly,

  Harry

  36

  CUBELA, WEARING A TAN SPORT JACKET AND BROWN PANTS, CAME INTO THE Bistro de la Mairie accompanied by a man in a blue yachting jacket, gray flannels, and horn-rimmed glasses—LYME—who nodded to us and walked out. But for three workingmen standing at the bar by the entrance, we had the place to ourselves, all of the dark floor, dark walls, round bar tables, and one disinterested waiter.

  Cubela walked toward us like a heavyweight coming into the ring. My father had described him as tall, but he was heavier than I had expected and his mustache was full, powerful, and pessimistic. He would have been a good-looking man if his face had not been puffy from drink.

  “Mr. Scott,” said Cubela to my father, who promptly replied, “Señor General, this is Mr. Edgar.” I nodded.

  Cubela sat down with solemn grace. He would have an Armagnac, he decided. We said no more until the waiter brought it, whereupon Cubela took a taste and asked in a heavy Spanish accent, “Il n’y a rien de mieux?” to which our waiter allowed that it was the brand of Armagnac the café served. Cubela nodded in displeasure, and waved him away.

  “You have brought the letter?” he asked. Cal nodded. “I would like to see it, Mr. Scott.” His English was superior to his French.

  The letter was brief, but composed by us with no small care. One of the experts at GHOUL had forged the handwriting on stationery that carried the embossed seal of the Attorney General’s office.

  November 20, 1963

  This is to assure the bearer that in recognition of his successful efforts to bring about a noteworthy and irreversible change in the present government of Cuba, the powers of this office, and all collateral loyalties attendant thereto, will be brought to bear in full support of his high political aims.

  Robert F. Kennedy

  Cubela read it over, took out a pocket English dictionary, looked up the definition of several words, and frowned. “This letter does not fulfill the understanding arrived at in our last meeting, Mr. Scott.”

  “I would say it takes care of your specific requests completely, Señor General. You need only contemplate the meaning of ‘irreversible change.’”

  “Yes,” said Cubela, “that addresses half of the fundamental understanding, but where does it say that the older brother of the signatory is well disposed toward me?”

  Cal took back the letter and read aloud, “‘The power of this office and all collateral loyalties attendant thereto . . .’ I think you will find that is a clear reference to the sibling.”

  “Sibling? Sibling?”

  “El hermano,” I said.

  “It is very abstract. In effect, you ask me to accept your promise on faith.”

  “Even as we accept your promises,” said Cal.

  Cubela showed small pleasure in being overtaken. “Whether you trust me or not, you will go back to your home in Washington. For me to trust you, however, means that I must risk my life.” He withdrew a magnifying glass from his jacket pocket, and a clipping from a magazine. I could see that it was a printed sample of Robert Kennedy’s handwriting.

  For several minutes, Cubela compared the script in the letter to the sample in his clipping. “Good,” he said at last, and stared carefully at both of us. “I would ask you a question, Mr. Scott. As you know, I once shot a man in a nightclub. In fact, I assassinated him.”

  “I thought you detest the word.”

  “I do. And now,” he said in Spanish, “I will explain why. It is not because of some fracture of my nervous system that is unable to bear the enunciation of such syllables because that might recall to me the expression on a dying man’s face—no, that is what my detractors would claim, but no truth is there. I am a calm man possessed of pundonor. I have depth of resolve. I see myself as the future comandante of the tragic island that is my nation. For these reasons, I detest the word. The assassin, you see, not only destroys his victim but the part of himself that contains his larger ambitions. Can you ask me to believe that the President of the United States and his brothe
r are ready to help the political career of a man whom they must talk about during the privacy of their own councils as a half-crazy hired thug?”

  “In a time of turmoil,” said Cal, “your past will matter less than your heroism. It is your heroic actions in the next few months that will bring you to public view.”

  “Are you saying that your sponsors will accept me in such circumstances?”

  “That is exactly what I am saying.”

  He sighed heavily. “No,” he said, “you are saying that at the summit of the mountain, there are no guarantees.”

  Cal was silent. After a while, he said, “As a man of intelligence, you know that one cannot control political weather absolutely.”

  “Yes,” said Cubela, “I must be prepared to take all chances. Of necessity. Yes, I am prepared,” he said, and let out his breath with such a burst that I realized he was ready to perform the assassination today. “Let us concern ourselves with equipment,” he said.

  “The telescope is ready,” stated my father.

  “You are speaking, I presume, of the rifle I have described that has a range of accuracy up to five hundred yards, equipped with a Bausch and Lomb telescopic sight of two and one-half times magnification?”

  My father, in reflex, tapped on his glass through the length of this speech. Then he reached forward across the table, put his hand on Cubela’s arm, and nodded profoundly, although he did not say a word.

  “I will accept your concern for precautions,” said Cubela. “Forgive me. Now, may I inquire into delivery?”

  “Mr. Lyme will service your location.”

  “I like Mr. Lyme,” said Cubela.

  “I am pleased to hear that he is likeable,” said Cal.

  “The telescope will fit into an attaché case?”

  “No,” said Cal, but added “do you play pool?”

  “Billiards.”

  “The case we will hand over to you looks like the kind that is used to carry a billiard cue. The kind of cue, of course, that comes in two pieces.”

  “Excellent,” said Cubela. “And the other detail?”

  “Yes,” said Cal. “The piece of sophisticated equipment. The surprise. I have it on my person.”

  “May I see it?”

  Cal removed a ballpoint pen from his tweed jacket and clicked the button. A hypodermic needle sprang forth. He clicked the button a second time and a thread of liquid darted from the needle like a wall lizard’s tongue. “It’s only water,” said Cal, “but this pen has been designed for use with the common reagent . . .” He removed an index card from his pocket and held it up. It read: BLACKLEAF 40.

  “Where do I find such as that?” asked Cubela.

  “In any chemical supply house. It is a common reagent employed for insects.”

  “Of all sizes?”

  Cal nodded again. “Most effective.”

  Cubela took the ballpoint pen and pressed the button several times until all the water had been ejected. “It is a toy,” he said with some petulance.

  “No,” answered Cal, “it is a sophisticated instrument. The needle is so fine that one does not feel it entering the skin.”

  “You are asking me to walk up to the subject and inject him?”

  “The needle is so fine that it causes no pain. It attracts no attention whatsoever.”

  Cubela looked at both of us with contempt. “Your gift is a device for a woman. She sticks her tongue in the man’s mouth and puts the needle in his back. I am not about to use such tactics. It is shameful to eliminate one’s enemy in that manner. One does not attack a serious Cuban with a hat pin. I would be subject to ridicule. And rightly so.”

  He stood up. “I will accept the carrying case with the billiard cue from Mr. Lyme. But this I reject.” He was about to depart, then stopped. “No,” he said, “I will take reception of it after all,” and he put it in his breast pocket.

  My father surprised me by his next remark. “For yourself?” he asked.

  He nodded. “If the large effort fails, I have no wish to live through the immediate consequences.”

  “Cómo no,” said Cal.

  Cubela shook his hand, then mine. His hands were cold. “Salud!” he said, and walked out.

  “We’ll get the billiard cue to him in Veradero,” said Cal. “He has a little villa on the beach, three hundred yards away from the beach house that the subject—as he calls him—inhabits on vacation. I hate to say it, but I am getting my hopes up for this fellow. He could deliver a present before Christmas.” Cal let out his breath. “Do you mind paying the bill? I need to take a walk.” He paused. “We should leave separately in any event.”

  “All right,” I said. “I’ll follow you back to the hotel.”

  Through the café window, I could see the lights on the street. The November evening had long passed, and at 7:00 P.M. it was now dark enough for midnight.

  I did not know exactly how I felt, but then I was not in a situation where it was automatic to comprehend one’s reactions. In truth, I wanted Rolando Cubela to kill Fidel Castro; I hoped that Helms, Harlot, and Cal were not merely sending out a provocation to the DGI. No, I wanted an execution to be there at the end of the road. I did not begin to have the profound hatred for the Maximum Leader that Hunt or Harlot or Harvey or Helms or Allen Dulles, or Richard Bissell, or Richard Nixon, or, for that matter, my father or Bobby Kennedy contained; no, there was a part of me that kept thinking of Castro as Fidel, yet I was looking for the death of Fidel. I would mourn Fidel if we succeeded, mourn him in just the way a hunter is saddened by the vanished immanence of the slain beast. Yes, one fired a bullet into beautiful animals in order to feel nearer to God: To the extent that we were criminal, we could approach the cosmos only by stealing a piece of the Creation—yes, I understood all of this and wanted Cubela to be an effective assassin rather than a ploy of the DGI whom we, in turn, would use in a superior ploy. A successful assassin was worth a hundred provocations.

  I sat at my table alone, finishing the cognac I had not touched during the interview. Then I began to notice that the few workingmen standing at the bar had gathered around the café radio. It had been playing bal musette dance music for the last hour, but now a commentator’s voice could be heard. I could not discern what was being said. The tone of voice, however, was urgent.

  In another minute, the waiter came up to me. “Monsieur,” he said, “vous-êtes Américain?”

  “Mais oui.”

  He was a tired, weary, gray-faced waiter, well over fifty, and wholly unremarkable in appearance, but his eyes looked at me with profound compassion.

  “Monsieur, il y a des mauvaises nouvelles. Des nouvelles étonnants.” Now, he put his hand gently on mine. “Votre President Kennedy a été frappé par un assassin à Dallas, Texas.”

  “Is he alive?” I asked, and then repeated, “Est-il vivant?”

  The waiter said, “On ne sait rien de plus, monsieur, sauf qu’il y avait une grande bouleversement.”

  37

  THE NEW REPUBLIC, DEC. 7, 1963

  BY JEAN DANIEL

  Havana, Nov. 22, 1963

  It was about 1:30 in the afternoon, Cuban time. We were having lunch in the living room of the modest summer residence which Fidel Castro owns on magnificent Veradero Beach, 120 kilometers from Havana. The telephone rang, a secretary in guerrilla garb announced that Mr. Dorticos, President of the Cuban Republic, had an urgent communication for the Prime Minister. Fidel picked up the phone and I heard him say: “Cómo? Un atentado?” (“What’s that? An attempted assassination?”) He turned to us to say that Kennedy had just been struck down in Dallas. Then he went back to the telephone and exclaimed in a loud voice, “Herido? Muy gravemente?” (“Wounded? Very seriously?”)

  He came back, sat down, and repeated three times the words: “Es una mala noticia.” (“This is bad news.”) He remained silent a moment, awaiting another call with further news. He remarked while we waited that there was an alarmingly sizable lunatic fringe in American society an
d that this deed could equally well have been the work of a madman or a terrorist. Perhaps a Vietnamese? Or a member of the Ku Klux Klan? The second call came through: The President of the United States was still alive. There was hope of saving him. Fidel Castro’s immediate reaction was: “If they can, he is already reelected.” He pronounced these words with satisfaction.

  Now it was nearly two o’clock and we got up from the table and settled ourselves in front of a radio to get the NBC network in Miami. As the news came in, his physician, René Vallejo, would translate it for Fidel: Kennedy wounded in the head; pursuit of the assassin; murder of a policeman; finally the fatal announcement—President Kennedy is dead. Then Fidel stood up and said to me: “Everything is changed. Everything is going to change . . .. All will have to be rethought. I’ll tell you one thing: at least Kennedy was an enemy to whom we had become accustomed. This is a serious matter; an extremely serious matter.”

  After the quarter hour of silence observed by all the American radio stations, we once more tuned in on Miami; the silence had only been broken by a re-broadcasting of the American national anthem. Strange indeed was the impression made on hearing this hymn ring out in the house of Fidel Castro in the midst of a circle of worried faces. “Now,” Fidel said, “they will have to find the assassin quickly, but very quickly, otherwise, you watch and see, they will try to put the blame on us for this thing.”

  38

  AT THE PALAIS ROYAL, THE WOMAN ON DUTY AT THE DESK WAS WEEPING. In my room, the telephone seemed more of a presence than the bed, the window, the door, or myself. I took out a folded slip of paper from a recess of my wallet, and gave the number to the hotel operator, who told me that the overseas line had been accomblé for the last half hour, but she would try. Within less than a minute, my phone rang. The call was waiting. The line was no longer accomblé.

  “Modene,” I said, “it’s Harry.”