American Tabloid

by James Ellroy

  His “Protestants for Kennedy” motorcade passed by. On time to the minute—and prepaid at fifty dollars a car.

  Kemper turned on the TVs and paced between them. History beamed out in crisp black & white.

  CBS called Jack a first ballot shoo-in. ABC flashed panning shots—a big Stevenson demonstration just erupted. NBC featured a prissy Eleanor Roosevelt: “Senator Kennedy is simply too young!”

  ABC ballyhooed Jackie Kennedy. NBC showed Frank Sinatra working the delegate floor. Frankie was vain—Jack said he spray-painted his bald spot to cut down camera glare.

  Kemper paced and flipped channels. He caught a late-afternoon potpourri.

  Convention analysis and a baseball game. Convention interviews and a Marilyn Monroe movie. Convention shots, convention shots, convention shots.

  He caught some nice shots of Jack’s HQ suite. He saw Ted Sorensen, Kenny O’Donnell and Pierre Salinger.

  He met Salinger and O’Donnell once only. Jack pointed out Sorensen—“the guy who wrote Profiles in Courage for me.”

  It was “compartmentalization” classically defined. Jack and Bobby knew him—but no one else really did. He was just that cop who fixed things and got Jack women.

  Kemper wheeled the TVs together. He created a tableau: Jack in closeups and mid-shots.

  He turned the room lights off and dimmed the volume. He got three images and one homogeneous whisper.

  Wind ruffled Jack’s hair. Pete called Jack’s head of hair his chief attribute.

  Pete refused to discuss the Littell assault. Pete sidestepped the issue to talk money.

  Pete called him while Littell was still in the hospital. Pete got right to the point.

  “You’re jazzed on the Pension Fund books, and so’s Littell. You’re goosing him to find them, so you can work a money angle on it. I say, after the election we both brace Littell. Whatever the angle is, we split the profit.”

  Pete emasculated Ward. Pete delivered the “scare” that he said he would.

  He called Littell at the hospital. Ward compartmentalized his response.

  “I don’t trust you on this, Kemper. You can get the forensic particulars from the Bureau, but I’m not telling you WHO or WHY.”

  The WHERE was Lake Geneva, Wisconsin. The location had to be Pension Fund pertinent. “I don’t trust you on this” could only mean one thing: Lenny Sands was talking trash to Littell.

  Pete knew compartmentalization. Ward and Lenny knew it. John Stanton said the CIA coined that particular concept.

  John called him in D.C. in mid-April. He said Langley just erected a compartmental wall.

  “They’re cutting us off, Kemper. They know about our Cadre business, and they approve, but they will not budget us one nickel. We’re on salary as Blessington campsite staff, but our actual Cadre business has been excommunicated.”

  It meant no CIA cryptonyms. No CIA acronyms. No CIA code names and no CIA initial/oblique-sign gobbledegook.

  The Cadre was purely compartmentalized.

  Kemper flipped channels with the sound off. He got a gorgeous juxtaposition: Jack and Marilyn Monroe on adjoining TV screens.

  He laughed. He snapped to the ultimate tweak-Hoover embellishment.

  He picked up the phone and dialed the daily weather number. He got a monotone buzz—barely audible.

  He said, “Kenny? Hi, it’s Kemper Boyd.” He waited four seconds. “No, I need to talk to the senator.”

  He waited fourteen seconds. He said, “How are you, Jack?”—bright and cheerful.

  He waited five seconds to allow for a plausible reply. He said, “Yes, everything is set up with the escort.”

  Twenty-two seconds. “Yes. Right. I know you’re busy.”

  Eight seconds. “Yes. Tell Bobby I’ve got the security people at the house all set up.”

  Twelve seconds. “Right, the purpose of this call is to see if you want to get laid, because if you do, I’m expecting calls from a few girls who’d love to meet you.”

  Twenty-four seconds. “I don’t believe it.”

  Nine seconds. “Lawford set it up?”

  Eight seconds. “Come on, Jack. Marilyn Monroe?”

  Eight seconds. “I’ll believe it if you tell me not to send my girls over.”

  Six seconds. “Jesus Christ.”

  Eight seconds. “They’ll be disappointed, but I’ll extend the raincheck.”

  Eight seconds. “Right. Naturally, I’ll want details. Right. Goodbye, Jack.”

  Kemper hung up. Jack and Marilyn bumped television heads.

  He just created Voyeur/Wiretap Heaven. Hoover would cream his jeans and maybe even spawn some crazy myth.

  48

  (Beverly Hills, 7/14/60)

  Wyoming went for Bad-Back Jack. The delegates went stone fucking nuts.

  Hughes doused the volume and scrunched up on his pillows. “He’s nominated. But that’s a far cry from being elected.”

  Pete said, “Yes, sir.”

  “You’re being deliberately obtuse. ‘Yes, sir’ is not the proper response, and you’re sitting there in that chair being deliberately disrespectful.”

  A commercial blipped on: Yeakel Oldsmobile, the voters’ choice!

  “How’s this? ‘Yes, sir, Jack’s got a nice head of hair, but your man Nixon will thrash him soundly in the general election. ’ ”

  Hughes said, “It’s better, but I detect a certain impertinence.”

  Pete cracked his thumbs. “I flew out because you said you needed to see me. I brought you a three-month supply of shit. You said you wanted to discuss some subpoena dodging strategy, but all you’ve done so far is rant about the Kennedys.”

  Hughes said, “That is gross impertinence.”

  Pete sighed. “Get your Mormons to show me the door, then. Get Duane Spurgeon to score you dope in violation of six trillion fucking state and Federal statutes.”

  Hughes flinched. His IV tubes stretched; his blood bottle wiggled. Vampire Howard: sucking in transfusions to assure his germ-free longevity.

  “You’re a very cruel man, Pete.”

  “No. Like I told you once before, I’m your very cruel man.”

  “Your eyes have gotten smaller and crueler. You keep looking at me strangely.”

  “I’m waiting for you to bite my neck. I’ve been around the block a few times, but this new Dracula kick of yours is something to see.”

  Hughes fucking smiled. “It’s no more amazing than you fighting Fidel Castro.”

  Pete smiled. “Was there something important you wanted to talk about?”

  The convention flashed back on. Bad-Back Jack supporters whooped and swooned.

  “I want you to vet the subpoena-avoidance plans my Mormon colleagues have devised. They’ve come up with some ingenious—”

  “We could have done it over the phone. You’ve been holding the TWA paperwork off since ’57, and I don’t think the Justice Department gives a shit anymore.”

  “Be that as it may, I now have a specific reason to avoid divesting TWA until the most opportune moment.”

  Pete sighed. Pete said, “I’m listening.”

  Hughes tapped his drip gizmos. A blood bottle drained red to pink.

  “When I finally divest, I want to use the money to buy hotel-casinos in Las Vegas. I want to accumulate large, undetectable cash profits and breathe wholesome, germ-free desert air. I’ll have my Mormon colleagues administer the hotels, to insure that Negroes who might pollute the environment are politely but firmly discouraged from entering, and I’ll create a cash-flow base that will allow me to diversify into various defense-industry areas without paying taxes on my seed money. I’ll—”

  Pete tuned him out. Hughes kept spritzing numbers: millions, billions, trillions. Jack the K. was on TV—spritzing “Vote for Me!” with the sound down.

  Pete ran numbers in his head.

  There’s Littell in Lake Geneva—chasing the Pension Fund. There’s Jules Schiffrin—a well-respected Chi-Mob graybeard. Jules just might have
the Pension books stashed at his pad.

  Hughes said, “Pete, you’re not listening to me. Quit looking at that puerile politician and give me your full attention.”

  Pete hit the off switch. Jack the Haircut faded out.

  Hughes coughed. “That’s better. You were looking at that boy with something like admiration.”

  “It’s his hair, Boss. I was wondering how he got it to stand up like that.”

  “You have a short memory. And I have a short fuse where ironic answers are concerned.”

  “Yeah?”

  “Yes. You might recall that two years ago I gave you thirty thousand dollars to try to compromise that boy with a prostitute.”

  “I remember.”

  “That’s not a complete answer.”

  “The complete answer is Things change.’ And you don’t think America’s going to get between the sheets with Dick Nixon when they can cozy up to Jack, do you?”

  Hughes pushed himself upright. His bed rails shook; his IV rig teetered.

  “I own Richard Nixon.”

  Pete said, “I know you do. And I’m sure he’s real grateful for that loan you floated his brother.”

  Dracula got the shakes. Dracula got his dentures snagged up on the roof of his mouth.

  Dracula got some words out. “I—I—I’d forgotten that you knew about that.”

  “A busy guy like you can’t remember everything.”

  Drac reached for a fresh hypo. “Dick Nixon’s a good man, and the entire Kennedy family is rotten down to the core. Joe Kennedy’s been lending gangsters money since the ’20s, and I know for a fact that the infamous Raymond L. S. Patriarca owes him the very shirt off his back.”

  He had the Nixon loan documented. He could feed the dope to Boyd and curry big-time favor with Jack.

  Pete said, “Like I owe you.”

  Hughes beamed. “I knew you’d see my point.”

  49

  (Chicago, 7/15/60)

  Littell studied his new face.

  His weak jawline was rebuilt with pins and bone chips. His weak chin was smashed into a cleft. The nose he always hated was flattened and ridged.

  Helen said he looked dangerous. Helen said his scars put hers to shame.

  Littell stepped back from the mirror. Shifting light gave him new angles to savor.

  He limped now. His jaw clicked. He put on twenty pounds in the hospital.

  Pete Bondurant was a cosmetic surgeon.

  He had a bold new face. His old pre-Phantom psyche couldn’t live up to it.

  He was afraid to move on Jules Schiffrin. He was afraid to confront Kemper. He was afraid to talk on the phone—little line clicks popped in his ears.

  The clicks could be jaw-pin malfunctions. The clicks could be audial DTs.

  He was six months short of retirement. Mal Chamales said the Party needed lawyers.

  A TV boomed next door. John Kennedy’s acceptance speech faded into applause.

  The Bureau discontinued their assault inquiry. Hoover knew that he could sabotage Boyd’s Kennedy incursion.

  Littell stepped close to the mirror. The scars above his eyebrows furrowed.

  He couldn’t stop looking.

  50

  (Miami/Blessington, 7/16/60–10/12/60)

  Pete turned forty on a speedboat run to Cuba. He led a raid on a militia station and took sixteen scalps.

  Ramón Gutiérrez sketched up a Cadre mascot: a pit bull with an alligator snout and razor-blade teeth. Ramón’s girlfriend sewed up mascot shoulder patches.

  A printer fashioned mascot calling cards. “FREE CUBA!” roared out of the Beast’s mouth.

  Carlos Marcello carried one. Sam G. carried one. Santo Junior handed out dozens to friends and associates.

  The Beast craved blood. The Beast craved Castro’s beard on a stick.

  Training cycles pushed through Blessington. The invasion plan mandated new ordnance. Dougie Frank Lockhart purchased surplus landing craft and “invaded” Alabama once per cycle.

  The Gulf Coast simulated Cuba. Trainees hit the beach and scared the shit out of sunbathers.

  Dougie Frank trained troops full-time. Pete trained troops part-time. Chuck, Fulo and Wilfredo Delsol ran the cabstand.

  Pete led speedboat runs into Cuba. Everybody went along—except Delsol.

  The Obregón kill snipped part of his balls. Pete didn’t judge him—losing blood kin in a flash was no picnic.

  Everybody sold dope.

  The Cadre supplied spook junkies exclusively. The Miami PD implicitly approved. Narco Squad payouts served as disapproval insurance.

  A redneck gang tried to crash their turf late in August. One geek shot and killed a Dade County deputy.

  Pete found the guy—holed up with seventy grand and a case of Wild Turkey. He took him out with Fulo’s machete and donated the cash to the deputy’s widow.

  Profits zoomed. The % system worked slick as shit—fat stipends went to Blessington and Guy Banister. Lenny Sands ran the Hush-Hush propaganda war. Purple prose bopped the Beard every week.

  Dracula called weekly. He spouted broken-record bullshit: I want to buy up Las Vegas and render it germ-free! Drac was half lucid and half nuts—and only really cagey where coin was concerned.

  Boyd called bi-weekly. Boyd was Bad-Back Jack’s security boss and head pimp.

  Mr. Hoover kept chasing him with phone calls. Kemper kept avoiding them. Hoover wanted him to slip Jack some hot-wired pussy.

  Boyd called it a sprint: Avoid The Man until Jack becomes The Man.

  Hoover hot-wired Boyd’s L.A. hotel suite. Kemper shot him some spicy misinformation: Jack the K is banging Marilyn Monroe!

  Hoover bought the lie. An L.A. agent told Boyd that Monroe was now under intense surveillance: bug/taps and six full-time men.

  Said agents were baffled. Jack the Haircut and MM have not been in contact.

  Pete laughed himself silly. Dracula confirmed the rumor: Marilyn and Jack were one hot item!!!!

  Boyd said he skin-searched all Jack’s girls.

  Boyd said Kennedy and Nixon were running neck-and-neck.

  Pete didn’t say, I’ve got dirt. I can SELL it to Jimmy Hoffa; I can GIVE it to you to smear Nixon with.

  Jimmy’s a colleague. Boyd’s a partner. Who’s more pro-Cause—Jack or Nixon?

  Tricky Dick was hotly anti-Beard. Jack was vocal but still short of rabid.

  John Stanton called Nixon “Mr. Invasion.” Kemper said Jack would green-light all invasion plans.

  Boyd’s key campaign issue was COMPARTMENTALIZATION.

  Ike and Dick knew the Agency and the Mob were Cuba-linked. The Kennedys didn’t know—and might or might not be told if Jack bags the White House.

  Who decides whether to spill?—Kemper Cathcart Boyd himself. The deciding factor: moralist Bobby’s perceived influence on Big Brother.

  Bobby could scut all Mob/CIA ties. Bobby could scut the Boyd/ Bondurant casino incentive deal.

  Jack or Dick—one very tough call.

  The smart bet: Don’t smear seasoned Red-baiter Nixon. Not so smart, but sexy: Smear him and put Jack in the White House. Vote Boyd. Vote the Beast. Vote Fidel Castro’s beard on a stick.

  DOCUMENT INSERT: 10/13/60. FBI memorandum: Chicago SAC Charles Leahy to Director J. Edgar Hoover. Marked: CONFIDENTIAL/DIRECTOR’S EYES ONLY.

  Sir,

  The pro-Communist derogatory profile on SA Ward J. Littell is now complete. This memo supplants all previous confidential reports pertaining to Littell, with itemized evidence documents to follow under separate cover.

  To briefly update you on recent developments:

  1.—Claire Boyd (daughter of SA Kemper C. Boyd and longtime Littell family friend) was contacted and agreed not to tell her father of the interview. Miss Boyd stated that last Christmas SA Littell made obscenely disparaging anti-Bureau, anti-Hoover remarks and praised the American Communist Party.

  2.—There are no leads in the Littell assault investigation. We still do not know what L
ittell was doing in Lake Geneva, Wisconsin.

  3.—SA Littell’s mistress, Helen Agee, was spot-surveilled for a two-week period last month. Several of Miss Agee’s University of Chicago Law School professors were quizzed about her political statements. We now have four confirmed reports that Miss Agee has also been publicly critical of the Bureau. One professor (Chicago Office informant #179) stated that Miss Agee railed against the FBI for their failure to solve a “simple assault case up in Wisconsin” and went on to call the Bureau “the American Gestapo that got my father killed and turned my lover into a cripple.” (A U of C dean is going to recommend that Miss Agee’s graduate school grant funding be rescinded under provisions of a student loyalty statement that all law school enrollees sign.)

  In conclusion:

  I think it is now time to approach SA Littell. I await further orders.

  Respectfully,

  Charles Leahy

  Chicago SAC

  DOCUMENT INSERT: 10/15/60. FBI memorandum: Director J. Edgar Hoover to SAC Charles Leahy.

  Mr. Leahy,

  No approach on SA Littell until I so direct.

  JEH

  51

  (Chicago, 10/16/60)

  His hangover was brutal. Bad dreams left him schizy—every man in the diner looked like a cop.

  Littell stirred his coffee. His hands shook. Mal Chamales toyed with a sweet roll and shook almost as hard.

  “Mal, you’re leading up to something.”

  “I’m in no position to be asking favors.”

  “If it’s an official FBI favor, you should know that I retire exactly three months from today.”

  Mal laughed. “Like I said, the Party always needs lawyers.”

  “I’d have to pass the Illinois Bar first. It’s either that or move to D.C. and practice Federal law.”

  “You’re not much of a leftist sympathizer.”

  “Or a Bureau apologist. Mal—”

  “I’m up for a teaching job. The word’s out that the State Board of Ed’s breaking the blacklist. I want to cover my bets, and I was thinking you could edit your reports to show that I quit the Party.”

  The tall man at the counter looked familiar. The man loitering outside did, too.