American Tabloid

by James Ellroy

  “No.”

  “Because you can’t expel what you haven’t admitted?”

  Laura pulled out a cigarette case. “I started smoking because most of the sisters did. They had cases like this, so Mr. Kennedy gave me one.”

  “Mr. Kennedy?”

  “Or Joe. Or Uncle Joe.”

  Kemper smiled. “My father went broke and killed himself. He willed me ninety-one dollars and the gun he did it with.”

  “Uncle Joe will leave me a good deal more than that.”

  “What’s the current stipend?”

  “A hundred thousand dollars a year and expenses.”

  “Did you decorate this apartment to resemble the Kennedys’ suite at the Carlyle?”

  “Yes.”

  “It’s beautiful. Sometimes I think I could live in hotel suites forever.”

  She walked away from him. She turned on her heels and disappeared down a museum-width hallway.

  Kemper let five minutes pass. The apartment was huge and quiet—he couldn’t get his bearings.

  He worked his way left and got lost. Three corridors led him back to the same pantry; the four entrances to the dining room had him spinning in circles. He hit intersecting hallways, a library, wings—

  Traffic sounds straightened him out. He heard foot scuffs on the terrace behind the grand piano.

  He walked over. The terrace would swallow up his kitchen at least twice.

  Laura was leaning against the railing. A breeze ruffled her robe.

  She said, “Did Jack tell you?”

  “No. I figured it out myself.”

  “You’re lying. The Kennedys and a friend of mine in Chicago are the only ones who know. Did Mr. Hoover tell you? Bobby says he doesn’t know, but I’ve never believed him.”

  Kemper shook his head. “Mr. Hoover doesn’t know. Lenny Sands told a Chicago FBI man who’s a friend of mine.”

  Laura lit a cigarette. Kemper cupped his hands around the match.

  “I never thought Lenny would tell a soul.”

  “He didn’t have much choice. If it’s any consol—”

  “No, I don’t want to know. Lenny knows bad people, and bad people can make you say things you don’t want to.”

  Kemper touched her arm. “Please don’t tell Lenny you met me.”

  “Why, Mr. Boyd?”

  “Because he’s embarrassingly well connected.”

  “No, you don’t understand. I’m asking you what you’re doing here.”

  “I saw you at Joe Kennedy’s party. I’m sure you can fill in the rest yourself.”

  “That’s not an answer.”

  “I couldn’t very well ask Jack or Bobby for your number.”

  “Why not?”

  “Because Uncle Joe wouldn’t approve, and Bobby doesn’t entirely trust me.”

  “Why?”

  “Because I’m embarrassingly well connected.”

  Laura shivered. Kemper draped his suitcoat around her shoulders.

  She pointed to his holster. “Bobby told me the McClellan people don’t carry guns.”

  “I’m off duty.”

  “Did you think I’d be so bored and indolent that you could just ring my bell and seduce me?”

  “No, I thought I’d buy you dinner first.”

  Laura laughed and coughed smoke. “Is Kemper your mother’s maiden name?”

  “Yes.”

  “Is she alive?”

  “She died in a nursing home in ’49.”

  “What did you do with the gun your father left you?”

  “I sold it to a classmate in law school.”

  “Does he carry it?”

  “He died on Iwo Jima.”

  Laura dropped her cigarette in a coffee cup. “I know so many orphans.”

  “So do I. You’re sort of one your—”

  “No. That’s not true. You’re just saying it to make points with me.”

  “I don’t think it’s much of a stretch.”

  She snuggled into his suitcoat. The sleeves flopped in the wind.

  “Repartee is one thing, Mr. Boyd, and the truth is another. The truth is my robber-baron father fucked my movie-star mother and got her pregnant. My movie-star mother had already had three abortions and didn’t want to risk a fourth. My movie-star mom disowned me, but my father enjoys flaunting me in front of his legitimate family once a year. The boys like me because I’m provocative, and they think I’m nifty because they can’t fuck me, because I’m their half-sister. The girls hate me because I’m a coded message from their father that says men can fuck around, but women can’t. Do you get the picture, Mr. Boyd? I have a family. My father put me through boarding school and several colleges. My father supports me. My father informed his family of my existence when Jack brought me home from a Harvard alumni mixer as the unwitting pawn in a rather vicious ploy I had initiated to assert myself into the family. Imagine his surprise when Father said, ‘Jack, you can’t fuck her, she’s your half-sister. ’ Little Bobby, twenty and Calvinistic, overheard the conversation and spread the word. My father figured what the hell, the word’s out, and invited me to stay for dinner. Mrs. Kennedy had a rather traumatic reaction to all of this. Our ‘embarrassingly well connected’ friend Lenny Sands was giving Jack speech lessons for his first congressional campaign, and was at the house for dinner. He stopped Rose from making a scene, and we’ve been sharing secrets ever since. I have a family, Mr. Boyd. My father is evil and grasping and ruthless and willing to destroy anybody who so much as looks the wrong way at the children he publicly acknowledges. And I hate everything about him except the money he gives me and the fact that he would probably destroy anybody who tried to hurt me as well.”

  Car horns bleeped long and shrill. Laura pointed down at a line of taxis. “They perch there like vultures. They always make the most noise when I’m playing Rachmaninoff.”

  Kemper unholstered his piece. He honed in on a sign marked Yellow Cabs Only.

  He braced his arm on the railing and fired. Two shots sheared the sign off the signpost. The silencer went thwack—Pete was a good ordnance supplier.

  Laura whooped. Cabbies gestured up, spooked and bewildered.

  Kemper said, “I like your hair.”

  Laura untied it. The wind made it dance.

  They talked.

  He told her how the Boyd fortune evaporated. She told him how she flunked out of Juilliard and flopped as a socialite.

  She called herself a musical dilettante. He called himself an ambitious cop. She recorded Chopin on a vanity label. He sent Christmas cards to car thieves he arrested.

  He said he loved Jack but couldn’t stand Bobby. She called Bobby deep Beethoven and Jack Mozart most glib. She called Lenny Sands her one true friend and didn’t mention his betrayal. He said his daughter, Claire, shared all his secrets.

  Devil’s Advocate snapped on automatically. He knew exactly what to say and what to omit.

  He called Mr. Hoover a vindictive old queen. He portrayed himself as a liberal pragmatist hitched to the Kennedy star.

  She revived the orphanhood theme. He described the three-daughter combine.

  Susan Littell was judgmental and shrill. Helen Agee was courageous and impetuous. His Claire was too close to know just yet.

  He told her about his friendship with Ward. He said he wanted a younger brother for keeps—and the Bureau gave him one. He said Ward worshiped Bobby. She said Bobby sensed that Uncle Joe was evil and chased gangsters to compensate for his patrimony.

  He hinted at his own lost brother. He said the loss made him push Ward in odd ways.

  They talked themselves exhausted. Laura called “21” and had dinner sent up. The Chateaubriand and wine made her drowsy.

  They left it unspoken.

  Not tonight—next time.

  Laura fell asleep. Kemper walked through the apartment.

  Two circuits taught him the layout. Laura told him the maid needed a map. The dining room could feed a small army.

  He called t
he Agency’s Miami Ops number. John Stanton picked up immediately.

  “Yes?”

  “It’s Kemper Boyd. I’m calling to accept your offer.”

  “I’m very pleased to hear that. I’ll be in touch, Mr. Boyd. We’ll have lots to discuss.”

  “Good night, then.”

  “Good night.”

  Kemper walked back to the drawing room. He left the terrace curtains open—skyscrapers across the park threw light on Laura.

  He watched her sleep.

  21

  (Chicago, 1/22/59)

  Lenny’s spare fuck-pad key unlocked the door. Littell hacked the jamb down to the bolt to fake a forensically valid burglar entry.

  He broke the blade off his pen knife. The B&E shakes had him hacking too hard.

  His trial break-in taught him the floor plan. He knew where everything was.

  Littell shut the door and went straight for the golf bag. The $14,000 was still tucked inside the ball pocket.

  He put his gloves on. He allotted seven minutes for cosmetic thievery.

  He unplugged the hi-fi.

  He emptied drawers and ransacked the medicine cabinet.

  He dumped a TV, a toaster and the golf bag by the door.

  It looked like a classic junkie-pad boost. Butch Montrose would never suspect anything else.

  Kemper Boyd always said PROTECT YOUR INFORMANTS.

  He pocketed the money. He carried the swag to his car, drove it to the lake and dumped it in a garbage-strewn tide pool.

  Littell got home late. Helen was asleep on his side of the bed.

  Her side was cold. Sleep wouldn’t come—he kept replaying the break-in for errors.

  He drifted off around dawn. He dreamed he was choking on a dildo.

  He woke up late. Helen left him a note.

  School bodes. What time did you get home? For a (dismayingly) liberal FBI man you certainly are a zealous Communist chaser. What do Communists do at midnight?

  Love, love, love,

  H

  Littell forced down coffee and toast. He wrote his note on plain bond paper.

  Mr. D’Onofrio,

  Sam Giancana has issued a contract on you. You will be killed unless you repay the $12,000 you owe him. I have a way for you to avoid this. Meet me this afternoon at 4:00. The Kollege Klub, 1281 58th, Hyde Park.

  Littell put the note in an envelope and added five hundred dollars. Lenny said the junket tour had concluded—Sal should be back at home.

  Kemper Boyd always said SEDUCE YOUR INFORMANTS WITH MONEY.

  Littell called the Speedy-King Messenger Service. The dispatcher said he’d send a courier right over.

  Mad Sal was prompt. Littell pushed his rye and beer aside.

  They had the whole row of tables to themselves. The college kids at the bar wouldn’t be able to hear them.

  Sal sat down across from him. His flab rolls jiggled and hiked his shirt up over his belly button.

  He said, “So?”

  Littell pulled his gun and held it in his lap. The table covered him.

  “So what did you do with that five hundred?”

  Sal picked his nose. “I got down on the Blackhawks versus the Canadiens. Ten o’clock tonight that five hundred is a thousand.”

  “You owe Giancana eleven thousand more than that.”

  “So who the fuck told you?”

  “A reliable source.”

  “You mean some Fed snitch cocksucker. You’re a Fed, right? You’re too candy-ass looking to be anything else, and if you was CPD or the Cook County Sheriff’s, I’d’ve bought you off by now, and I’d be fucking your wife and cornholing your snotnose little boy while you was off at work.”

  “You owe Giancana twelve thousand dollars that you don’t have. He’s going to kill you.”

  “Tell me something I don’t know.”

  “You killed a colored boy named Maurice Theodore Wilkins.”

  “That accusation is stale bread. It is fucking rebop you got out of some file.”

  “I just turned an eyeball witness.”

  Sal dug into his ears with a paper clip. “That is horse pucky. Feds don’t investigate nigger homicides, and a little birdie told me that that kid was killed by an unknown assailant in the basement of the church rectory he stole from. The birdie said the assailant waited for the priests to go to a ball game, and then he cut the nigger boy up with a chainsaw after he made the nigger boy blow him. The birdie said there was lots of blood, and the assailant took care of the stink with altar wine.”

  Kemper Boyd always said NEVER SHOW FEAR OR DISGUST.

  Littell laid a thousand dollars on the table. “I’m prepared to pay off your debt. In two or three installments, so Giancana won’t suspect anything.”

  Sal grabbed the money. “So I take it, so I don’t take it. For all I know, Mo might decide to whack me ’cause he’s jealous of my good looks.”

  Littell cocked his gun. “Put the money down.”

  Sal did it. “So?”

  “So are you interested?”

  “So if I’m not?”

  “So Giancana clips you. So I put out the word that you killed Tony Iannone. You’ve heard the rumors—Tony got whacked outside a homo joint. Sal, you’re an open book. Jesus, ‘blow’ and ‘cornhole.’ I think you developed a few habits in Joliet.”

  Sal ogled the cash. Sal smelled like tobacco sweat and Aqua Velva lotion.

  “You’re a loan shark, Sal. What I’m asking for won’t be too far out of line.”

  “S-s-so?”

  “So I want to get at the Teamsters’ Pension Fund. I want you to help me push somebody up the ladder. I’ll find a man with a pedigree looking for a loan, and you help me set him up with Sam and the Fund. It’s that simple. And I’m not asking you to snitch anybody.”

  Sal ogled the money.

  Sal popped sweat.

  Littell dropped three thousand dollars on the pile.

  Sal said, “Okay.”

  Littell said, “Take it to Giancana. Don’t gamble with it.”

  Sal gave him the bah-fungoo sign. “Stow the lecture. And remember I fucked your mother, which makes me your daddy.”

  Littell stood up and roundhoused his revolver. Mad Sal caught the barrel square in the teeth.

  Kemper Boyd always said COW YOUR INFORMANTS.

  Sal coughed up blood and gold fillings. Some kids at the bar watched the whole thing, bug-eyed.

  Littell stared them down.

  22

  (Miami, 2/4/59)

  The boat was late.

  U.S. Customs agents crowded the dock. The U.S. Health Service had a tent pitched in the parking lot behind it.

  The refugees would be X-rayed and blood-tested. The contagious ones would be shipped to a state hospital outside Pensacola.

  Stanton checked his passenger manifest. “One of our on-island contacts leaked us a list. All the deportees are male.”

  Waves hit the pilings. Guy Banister flicked a cigarette butt at them.

  “Which implies that they’re criminals. Castro’s getting rid of plain old ‘undesirables’ under the ‘politically undesirable’ blanket.”

  Debriefing huts flanked the dock. U.S. Border Patrol marksmen crouched behind them. They had first-hint-of-trouble/shoot-to-kill orders.

  Kemper stood above the front pilings. Waves smashed up and sprayed his trouser legs.

  His specific job was to interview Teofilio Paez, the ex-security boss for the United Fruit Company. A CIA briefing pouch defined UF: “America’s largest, most long-established and profitable in-Cuba corporation and the largest on-island employer of unskilled and semi-skilled Cuban National workers. A long-standing bastion of Cuban anti-Communism. Cuban National security aides, working for the company, have long been effective in recruiting anti-Communist youth eager to infiltrate left-wing worker’s groups and Cuban educational institutions.”

  Banister and Stanton watched the skyline. Kemper stepped into a breeze and let it ruffle his hair.

 
; He had ten days in as a contract agent—two briefings at Langley and this. He had ten days in with Laura Hughes—the La Guardia shuttle made trysting easy.

  Laura felt legitimate. Laura went crazy when he touched her. Laura said brilliant things and played Chopin con brio.

  Laura was a Kennedy. Laura spun Kennedy tales with great verve.

  He hid those stories from Mr. Hoover.

  It felt like near-loyalty. It felt near-poignant—and Hoover-compromised.

  He needed Mr. Hoover. He continued to feed him phone reports, but limited them to McClellan Committee intelligence.

  He rented a suite at the St. Regis Hotel, not far from Laura’s apartment. The monthly rate was brutal.

  Manhattan got in your blood. His three paychecks totaled fifty-nine thousand a year—nowhere near enough to sustain the life he wanted.

  Bobby kept him busy with boring Committee paperwork. Jack had dropped hints that the family might have post-Committee work for him. His most likely position would be campaign security boss.

  Jack enjoyed having him around. Bobby continued to vaguely distrust him.

  Bobby wasn’t up for grabs—and Ward Littell knew it.

  He talked to Ward twice a week. Ward was ballyhooing his new snitch—a bookie/loan shark named Sal D’Onofrio.

  Cautious Ward said he had Mad Sal cowed. Angry Ward said Lenny Sands was now working for Pete Bondurant.

  Angry Ward knew that he set it up.

  Ward sent him intelligence reports. He edited out the illegalities and forwarded them to Bobby Kennedy. Bobby knew Littell solely as “The Phantom.” Bobby prayed for him and marveled at his courage.

  Hopefully, that courage was tinged with circumspection. Hopefully, that boy on the morgue slab taught Ward a few things.

  Ward was adaptable and willing to listen. Ward was another orphan—raised in Jesuit foster homes.

  Ward had good instincts. Ward believed that “alternative” Pension Fund books existed.

  Lenny Sands thought the books were administered by a Mob elder statesman. He’d heard that cash was paid for loan referrals that resulted in large profits.

  Littell might be stalking big money. It was potential knowledge to hide from Bobby.

  He did hide it. He cut every Fund reference from the Phantom’s reports.