American Tabloid

by James Ellroy

  JEH: Continue.

  KB: Gretzler was Mr. H.’s partner in the alleged Sun Valley land fraud. He—

  JEH: You said “was.” You’re assuming Gretzler is dead?

  KB: I’m certain he’s dead.

  JEH: Continue.

  KB: He disappeared on the afternoon of November 26th. He told his secretary he was going to meet a “sales prospect” at Sun Valley and never returned. The Lake Weir Police found his car in a swamp marsh nearby, but they haven’t been able to locate a body. They canvassed for witnesses and turned up a man who was driving by Sun Valley on the Interstate at the same time the “sales prospect” was to meet Gretzler. The man said he saw a man parked on the Sun Valley access road. He said the man averted his face when he drove by, so it’s doubtful he could identify him. He did describe him, however. Six foot four or five, “huge,” two hundred and forty pounds. Dark hair, thirty-five to forty. I’m thinking it—

  JEH: Your old friend Peter Bondurant. He’s singularly outsized, and he’s on that list of Mr. H.’s known associates that I gave you.

  KB: Yes, Sir. I checked airline and car rental records in Los Angeles and Miami and turned up a Hughes Aircraft charge that I’m certain Bondurant made. I know he was in Florida on November 26th, and I’m circumstantially certain that Mr. H. hired him to kill Gretzler. I know that you and Howard Hughes are friends, so I thought I’d inform you of this before I told Little Brother.

  JEH: Do not inform Little Brother under any circumstances. The status of your investigation should remain thus: Gretzler is missing, perhaps dead. There are no leads and no suspects. Pete Bondurant is invaluable to Howard Hughes, who is a valuable friend of the Bureau. Mr. Hughes recently purchased a scandal magazine to help disseminate political information favorable to the Bureau, and I do not want his feathers ruffled. Do you understand?

  KB: Yes, Sir.

  JEH: I want you to fly to Los Angeles on a Bureau charge and tweak Pete Bondurant with your suspicions. Get a favor from him, and cloak your friendly overtures with the knowledge that you can hurt him. And when your Committee duties permit, go back to Florida and clean up potential loose ends on the Gretzler front.

  KB: I’ll wrap up here and fly to L.A. late tomorrow.

  JEH: Good. And while you’re in Los Angeles, I want you to bug and wire Miss Darleen Shoftel’s home. If Big Brother contacts her, I want to know.

  KB: She won’t voluntarily assent, so I’ll have to rig her apartment sub rosa. Can I bring in Ward Littell? He’s a great wire man.

  JEH: Yes, bring him in. This reminds me that Littell has been coveting a Top Hoodlum Squad spot for some time. Do you think he’d like a transfer as a reward for this job?

  KB: He’d love it.

  JEH: Good, but let me be the one to inform him. Goodbye, Mr. Boyd. I commend you for work well done.

  KB: Thank you, Sir. Goodbye.

  4

  (Beverly Hills, 12/4/58)

  Howard Hughes cranked his bed up a notch. “I can’t tell you how lackluster the last two issues have been. Hush-Hush is a weekly now, which increases the need for interesting gossip incrementally. We need a new dirt digger. We’ve got you for story verification, Dick Steisel for legal vetting and Sol Maltzman to write the pieces, but we’re only as good as our scandals, and our scandals have been chaste and ridiculously dull.”

  Pete slouched in a chair and thumbed last week’s issue. On the cover: “Migrant Workers Carry VD Plague!” A co-feature: “Hollywood Ranch Market—Homo Heaven!”

  “I’ll keep at it. We’re looking for a guy with unique fucking qualifications, and that takes time.”

  Hughes said, “You do it. And tell Sol Maltzman that I want a piece entitled ‘Negroes: Overbreeding Creates TB Epidemic’ on next week’s cover.”

  “That sounds pretty far-fetched.”

  “Facts can be bent to conform to any thesis.”

  “I’ll tell him, Boss.”

  “Good. And while you’re out …”

  “Will I get you some more dope and disposable hypos? Yes, sir!”

  Hughes flinched and turned the TV on. “Sheriff John’s Lunch Brigade” hit the bedroom—squealing tots and cartoon mice the size of Lassie.

  Pete strolled out to the parking lot. Lounging upside his car like he owned it: Special Agent Kemper Fucking Boyd.

  Six years older and still too handsome to live. That dark gray suit had to run four hundred clams easy.

  “What is this?”

  Boyd folded his arms over his chest. “This is a friendly errand for Mr. Hoover. He’s concerned about your extracurricular work for Jimmy Hoffa.”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “I’ve got an ‘in’ on the McClellan Committee. They’ve got some pay phones near Hoffa’s house in Virginia rigged to register slug calls. That cheap fuck Hoffa makes his business calls from public booths and uses slugs.”

  “Keep going. Your slug call pitch is bullshit, but let’s see where you’re taking it.”

  Boyd winked—brass-balled motherfucker.

  “One, Hoffa called you twice late last month. Two, you bought a round-trip L.A.-to-Miami ticket under an assumed name and charged it to Hughes Aircraft. Three, you rented a car at a Teamster-owned rent-a-car outlet and were maybe seen waiting for a man named Anton Gretzler. I think Gretzler’s dead, and I think Hoffa hired you to clip him.”

  They’d never find a corpse: he tossed Gretzler in a swamp and watched gators eat him.

  “So arrest me.”

  “No. Mr. Hoover doesn’t like Bobby Kennedy, and I’m sure he wouldn’t want to upset Mr. Hughes. He can live with you and Jimmy on the loose, and so can I.”

  “So?”

  “So let’s do something nice for Mr. Hoover.”

  “Give me a hint. I’m just dying to roll over.”

  Boyd smiled. “The head writer at Hush-Hush is a Commie. I know Mr. Hughes appreciates cheap help, but I still think you should fire him immediately.”

  Pete said, “I’ll do that. And you tell Mr. Hoover that I’m a patriotic guy who knows how friendship works.”

  Boyd waltzed off—no nod, no wink, suspect dismissed. He walked two car rows over and bagged a blue Ford with a Hertz bumper sticker.

  The car pulled out. Boyd fucking waved.

  Pete ran to the hotel phone bank and called information. An operator shot him the main Hertz number.

  He dialed it. A woman answered: “Good morning, Hertz Rent-a-Car.”

  “Good morning. This is Officer Peterson, LAPD. I need a current customer listing on one of your cars.”

  “Has there been an accident?”

  “No, it’s just routine. The car is a blue ’56 Ford Fairlane, license V as in ‘Victor,’ D as in ‘dog,’ H as in ‘Henry,’ four-nine-zero.”

  “One minute, Officer.”

  Pete held the line. Boyd’s McClellan pitch danced around in his head.

  “I have your listing, Officer.”

  “Shoot.”

  “The car was rented to a Mr. Kemper C. Boyd, whose current Los Angeles address is the Miramar Hotel in Santa Monica. The invoice says the charge is to be billed to the U.S. Senate Select Committee on Investigations. Does that help?—”

  Pete hung up. His head dance went stereophonic.

  Strange: Boyd in a Committee-rented car. Strange because: Hoover and Bobby Kennedy were rivals. Boyd as FBI man and Committee cop?—Hoover would never allow him to moonlight.

  Boyd was stylish working on slick—and a good man to front friendly warnings.

  A good man to spy on Bobby?—“Maybe” working on “Yes.”

  Sol Maltzman lived in Silverlake—a dive above a tux rental joint.

  Pete knocked. Sol opened up, pissed—this knock-kneed geek in Bermuda shorts and a T-shirt.

  “What is it, Bondurant? I’m very busy.”

  “Bohn-dew-rahn”—the little Commie prick said it French-style.

  The pad reeked of cigarettes and cat litter. Manila folders dripped off every s
tick of furniture; a wooden cabinet blocked the one window.

  He’s got Hollywood dirt files. He’s just the type to hoard scandal skank.

  “Bohn-dew-rahn, what is it?”

  Pete grabbed a folder off a lamp stand. Press clippings on Ike and Dick Nixon—snoresville.

  “Put that down and tell me what you want!”

  Pete grabbed his neck. “You’re fired from Hush-Hush. I’m sure you’ve got some dirt files we can use, and if you point them out and save me trouble, I’ll tell Mr. Hughes to shoot you some severance pay.”

  Sol flipped him off—the double bird, twirling at eye level.

  Pete let him go. Dig his neck: 360’d by a jumbo hand print.

  “I’ll bet you keep the good stuff in that cabinet.”

  “No! There’s nothing in there you’d want!”

  “Open it for me, then.”

  “No! It’s locked, and I’m not giving you the combination!”

  Pete kneed him in the balls. Maltzman hit the floor gasping. Pete tore his shirt off and stuffed a wad of fabric in his mouth.

  Check that TV by the couch—gooood audial cover.

  Pete turned it on full blast. A car huckster hit the screen, screaming shit about the new Buick line. Pete pulled his piece and shot the padlock off the cabinet—wood chips sprayed out craaaazy.

  Three files fell out—maybe thirty skank pages total.

  Sol Maltzman shrieked through his gag. Pete kicked him unconscious and turned the TV down.

  He had three files and a bad case of the post-strongarm hungries. The ticket was Mike Lyman’s and the Steak Lunch De-Luxe.

  Dirt De-Luxe pending: Sol wouldn’t hoard bum information.

  Pete took a back booth and noshed a T-bone and hash browns. He laid the folders out for easy perusal.

  The first file featured document photos and typed notes. No Hollywood gossip; no Hush-Hush feature ammo.

  The pix detailed bankbook tallies and an income tax return. The tax filer’s name came off familiar: Mr. Hughes’ pal George Killebrew, some Tricky Dick Nixon flunky.

  The name on the bankbook was “George Killington.” The 1957 deposit total was $87,416.04. George Killebrew’s reported income for the year: $16,850.00.

  A two-syllable name change—hiding over seventy grand.

  Sol Maltzman wrote: “Bank employees confirm that Killebrew deposited the entire $87,000 in five to ten thousand dollar cash increments. They also confirm that the tax identification number that he gave was false. He withdrew the entire amount in cash, along with six thousand odd dollars in interest, closing out the account before the bank sent out its standard notification of interest income to the Federal tax authorities.”

  Unreported income and unreported bank interest. Bingo: felony tax fraud.

  Pete made a late snap-connection.

  The House Committee on Un-American Activists fucked Sol Maltzman. Dick Nixon was a HUAC member; George Killebrew worked for him.

  File #2 featured blow-job pix galore. The suckee: a teenage pansy. The sucker, Sol Maltzman identified: “HUAC counsel Leonard Hosney, 43, of Grand Rapids, Michigan. My soul-debilitating work for Hush-Hush finally paid off in the form of a tip proffered by a bouncer at a male brothel in Hermosa Beach. He took the photos and assured me that the boy is a minor. He will be supplying additional documentation photos in the near future.”

  Pete chained a cigarette butt to tip. The Big Picture came into focus.

  The files were Sol’s revenge against HUAC. It was some kind of fucked-up penance: Sol wrote right-wing-slanted smears and stashed this shit for belated payback.

  File #3 packed more photos: of canceled checks, deposit slips and bank notes. Pete shoved his food aside—this was smear bait supreme.

  Sol Maltzman wrote: “The political implications of Howard Hughes’ 1956 loan of $200,000 to Richard Nixon’s brother Donald are staggering, especially since Nixon is expected to be the 1960 Republican Presidential nominee. This is a clear-cut case of an immensely wealthy industrialist buying political influence. It can be circumstantially supported by serving up many verifiable examples of Nixon-initiated policy directly beneficial to Hughes.”

  Pete rechecked the evidence pix. The verification was solid—straight down the line.

  His food was cold. He’d sweated his shirt starched to wilted.

  Insider knowledge was a big fucking blast.

  His day was all aces and 8’s—some dead man’s hand he couldn’t play or fold.

  He could hold onto the Hughes/Nixon dirt. He could let Gail take Sol’s job at Hush-Hush—she’d done magazine work before—she was tired of divorce shakedowns anyway.

  The HUAC staff was aces flush, but MONEY angles eluded him. Kemper Boyd’s walk-on had his antenna feelers perk-perk-perking.

  Pete drove to the Miramar Hotel and staked out the parking lot. Boyd’s car was stashed back by the pool. Lots of women in swimsuits were out sunning—surveillance conditions could be worse.

  Hours dragged by. The women came and went. Dusk hampered and shut down the view.

  Miami crossed his mind—tiger-striped cabs and hungry gators.

  6:00 p.m., 6:30, 7:00. 7:22: Boyd and Ward Fucking Littell walking by the pool.

  They got into Boyd’s rent-a-car. They pulled out onto Wilshire eastbound.

  Littell was Joe Scaredy Cat to Boyd’s Cool Cat. Memory Lane: those Feds and him shared a history.

  Pete eased into traffic behind them. They did a two-car rollout: east on Wilshire, Barrington north to Sunset. Pete dawdled back and leap-frogged lanes—mobile bird-dog jobs jazzed him.

  He was good. Boyd was unhip to the tail—he could tell.

  They cruised east on Sunset: Beverly Hills, the Strip, Hollywood. Boyd turned north on Alta Vista and parked—midway down a block of small stucco houses.

  Pete slid to the curb three doors up. Boyd and Littell got out; a streetlamp lit their moves.

  They put on gloves. They grabbed flashlights. Littell unlocked the trunk and picked up a tool box.

  They walked up to a pink stucco house, picked the lock and entered.

  Flashlight beams crisscrossed the windows. Pete U-turned and spotted the curb plate: 1541 North.

  It had to be a bug/wire job. FBI men called B&E’s “black baggers.”

  The living-room lights snapped on. The fuckers were going at it brazen.

  Pete grabbed his reverse book off the backseat. He skimmed it by the dashboard light.

  1541 North Alta Vista matched to: Darleen Shoftel, HO3-6811.

  Bug jobs took about an hour—he could run her through R&I. He saw a phone booth back at the corner—he could call and watch the house simultaneous.

  He walked down and buzzed the County line. Karen Hiltscher picked up—he recognized her voice immediately.

  “Records and Information.”

  “Karen, it’s Pete Bondurant.”

  “You knew it was me after all this time?”

  “I guess it’s just one of those voices. Look, can you run somebody for me?”

  “I suppose, even though you’re not a deputy sheriff anymore, and I really shouldn’t.”

  “You’re a pal.”

  “I sure am, especially after the way you—”

  “The name’s Darleen Shoftel. That’s D-A-R-L-E-E-N, S-H-O-F-T-E-L. The last known address I have is 1541 North Alta Vista, Los Angeles. Check all—”

  “I know what to do, Pete. You just hold the line.”

  Pete held. House lights blinked up the block—covert Feds at work.

  Karen carne back on. “Darleen Shoftel, white female, DOB 3/9/32. No wants, no warrants, no criminal record. She’s clean with the DMV, but West Hollywood Vice has a blue sheet on her. There’s one notation, dated 8/14/57. It says that a complaint was filed against her by the management at Dino’s Lodge. She was soliciting for acts of prostitution at the bar. She was questioned and released, and the investigating detective described her as a ‘high-class call girl.’ ”

  “That’s al
l?”

  “That’s not bad for one phone call.”

  Pete hung up. He saw the house lights blip off and checked his watch.

  Boyd and Littell walked out and loaded their car. Sixteen minutes flat—a black-bag world record.

  They drove away. Pete leaned against the booth and worked up a scenario.

  Sol Maltzman was working up his own scheme, unknown to the Feds. Boyd was in town to warn him on the Gretzler hit and hot-wire a call girl’s pad. Boyd was a glib liar: “I’ve got an ‘in’ on the McClellan Committee.”

  Boyd knew he clipped Gretzler—a McClellan Committee witness. Boyd told Hoover he clipped Gretzler. Hoover said, That’s no skin off my ass.

  Boyd’s car: McClellan Committee-vouchered. Hoover: well-known Bobby Kennedy hater and subterfuge king. Boyd, smooth and educated: probably a good infiltration man.

  Question #1: Did the infiltration tie in to the wire job? Question #2: If this turns into money, who signs my paycheck?

  Maybe Jimmy Hoffa—the McClellan Committee’s chief target. Fred Turentine could piggyback the Fed wiring and pick up every word the Feds did.

  Pete saw $$$’s—like a 3-across slot-machine jackpot.

  He drove home to the watchdog pad. Gail was on the portico—her cigarette tip bobbed and dipped, like she was pacing.

  He parked and walked up. He kicked an overflowing ashtray and spilled butts on some prize rosebushes.

  Gail backed away from him. Pete kept his voice soft and low.

  “How long have you been out here?”

  “For hours. Sol was calling every ten minutes, begging for his files. He said you stole some files of his and pushed him around.”

  “It was business.” “He was frantic. I couldn’t listen.”

  Pete reached for her arms. “It’s cold out. Let’s go inside.”

  “No. I don’t want to.”

  “Gail—”

  She pulled away. “No! I don’t want to go back in that big awful house!”

  Pete cracked some knuckles. “I’ll take care of Sol. He won’t bother you anymore.”

  Gail laughed—shrill and weird and something else. “I know he won’t.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I mean he’s dead. I called him back to try to calm him down, and a policeman answered the phone. He said Sol shot himself.”