American Tabloid

by James Ellroy

  JFK: Oh, God. I hate unresolved mysteries.

  BJ: Next time.

  JFK: How do you know there’ll be a next time?

  BJ (laughing): I know what kind of interest I’m capable of sustaining.

  JFK: You’re good, Barb. You’re damn good.

  BJ: I want to see if it’s possible to know a man in one hour, once-a-month increments.

  JFK: You’ll never make an untoward demand of me, will you?

  BJ: No. I will not.

  JFK: God bless you.

  BJ: Do you believe in God?

  JFK: Only for public appearances. Now, ask me a question.

  BJ: Do you have somebody who finds women for you?

  JFK (laughing): Not really. Kemper Boyd’s probably the closest thing, but he makes me a tad uncomfortable, so I haven’t really used him since the Inauguration.

  BJ: Who’s Kemper Boyd?

  JFK: He’s a Justice Department lawyer. You’d like him. He’s wildly good-looking and rather dangerous.

  BJ: Are you jealous of him? Is that why he makes you uncomfortable?

  JFK: He makes me uncomfortable because his one great regret is that he’s not a Kennedy, which is quite a tough regret to respect. He’s been dealing with some of those lowlife exiles for Bobby’s Study Group, and I think in some ways he’s no better than they are. He just went to Yale Law School, latched onto me and proved himself useful.

  BJ: Pimps ingratiate themselves with authority. God, look at Peter.

  JPK: Kemper’s no Peter Lawford, I’ll say that for him. Peter’s got no soul to sell, and Kemper sold his at a pretty steep price and didn’t even know it.

  BJ: How so?

  JPK: I can’t go into details, but he threw over the woman he was engaged to to curry favor with me and my family. You see, he came from money, but his father lost it all and killed himself. He’s living out some unsavory fantasy with me, and once you recognize it, the man becomes hard to take.

  BJ: Let’s talk about something else.

  JPK: How about Tunnel City, Wisconsin, in 1948?

  BJ: To be continued.

  JPK: Shit.

  BJ: I like cliffhangers.

  JPK: I don’t. I hated movie serials when I was a boy.

  BJ: You should install a wall clock here. That way, you won’t have to sneak looks at your watch.

  JPK: You’re droll. Hand me my trousers, would you?

  BJ: Here.

  Single door slam deactivates mike. Transcript close: 6:33 p.m., April 8, 1962.

  77

  (Miami, 4/15/62)

  The cop was late. Pete killed time doodling up dispatch sheets.

  He drew little hearts and arrows. He wrote out words Lenny and Barb said and underlined them for emphasis.

  The words were strong. Cabstand bustle washed over him like total fucking silence.

  Lenny’s words spawned a theory. The Outfit wants Bobby K. to know they’ve been helping out with Cuba. Bobby hasn’t been told yet. If he knew, he would have fungooed Kemper Boyd. If he knew, he would have snipped all known Mob-CIA ties.

  The Outfit knows that Bobby doesn’t want a Fidel hit. They refused to fund the shooter team for just that reason.

  His theory simmered for weeks. He ran guns to exile camps and Kemper worked his two gigs in Mississippi. Kemper was out to depilatory the Beard—his lack of Mob sanction did not seem to bother him one bit.

  Barb was out to trim Jack the Haircut.

  The cop was late. Pete drifted into Barb Overdrive.

  Her words were accumulating—on tape and in print. He had the best words memorized.

  Fred Turentine was running the Carlyle bug post—an apartment off 76th and Madison. A Barb Fucks Jack tape/print library was now in the works. Littell’s Hoover ploy succeeded. Feds wired the Presidential Suites at the El Encanto and Ambassador-East.

  Mr. Hoover was their extortion colleague. Feds checked the Carlyle suite once a week—let’s keep those bedroom mikes tucked out of sight.

  Jack K. was a six-minute bed jockey. Jack K. was a big fucking loudmouth.

  Jack called Cuban exiles “lowlifes.” Jack called Kemper Boyd a pathetic social climber.

  The cop was late. Pete drew more hearts and arrows.

  He had a new theory. Dig it: Barb’s talking to Jack and to ME.

  Barb says she won’t leave Joey Jahelka—“because he arranged to have some men who hurt my sister taken care of.” Barb won’t tell Jack the whole story.

  Barb hints that big intrigue went down in May ’48.

  Barb knows he’ll play the tapes and read the transcripts. Barb wants him to fill in the blanks. Jack won’t press too hard for answers—she’s just one of his three million steady fucks.

  Barb knows he’s an ex-cop. Barb knows he can find out.

  He called the Wisconsin State Police. He had Guy Banister initiate Fed queries. The whole thing took forty-eight hours.

  5/11/48:

  Margaret Lynn Lindscott is gang-raped in Tunnel City, Wisconsin. She IDs her attackers: William Kreuger, Thomas McCandless, Fritz Schott, and John Coates. No charges are filed. All four boys have unshakable alibis.

  1/14/52:

  William Kreuger is shot and killed in Milwaukee. The “mugging-homicide” remains unsolved.

  7/4/52:

  Thomas McCandless is shot and killed in Chicago. The “assumed professional hit” remains unsolved.

  1/23/54:

  Fritz Schott disappears. A decomposed body is found near Des Moines—maybe or maybe not his. Three shell casings are discovered nearby. The “assumed gunshot homicide” remains unsolved.

  John Coates is alive and well. He’s a cop in Norman, Oklahoma.

  Pete unlocked his desk and pulled out the magazine. There’s Barb at twenty-five—a pulchritudinous Miss Nugget.

  Barb seduced Mob-allied Joey Jahelka. Barb got him to finagle hits on the men who raped her sister.

  John Coates was still alive. The Mob did not clip cops without big provocation.

  Grateful Barb married Joey. Grateful Barb carried the debt.

  The cop was late. Pete studied the foldout for the ten millionth time.

  They airbrushed her breasts. They powdered her freckles. The picture didn’t nail her smarts and je ne sais quoi.

  Pete put the magazine away. Pete doodled up another dispatch sheet.

  He called Barb once a week. He tossed out little love checks—You don’t really dig Jack, do you?

  She didn’t. She dug the allure—but Jack was just a six-minute erection and some chuckles.

  The shakedown was proceeding. Turentine flew out to L.A. and checked up on Lenny Sands. Freddy said Lenny was solid. Freddy said Lenny would never rat off the operation.

  He played the Barb tapes over and over. He reran Lenny’s blurt almost as much.

  Three major Mob contributors abandoned the Cuban Cause. Littell said Carlos Marcello was the only Outfit big who still cared.

  Why?

  His guess was MONEY.

  Pete kept his nose down for two months straight. His theory percolated.

  He kept playing theoretical match-ups. He kept linking Cuban Cause and Outfit personnel. Last week he made a big theoretical jump.

  November 1960.

  Wilfredo Olmos Delsol is seen talking to pro-Castro agents. Wilfredo Olmos Delsol was recently seen:

  Driving a new car. Wearing new threads. Showing off new women.

  He hired a Miami cop to spot-tail Delsol. The man reported back.

  Delsol met with hinky Cubans six nights running. Their license plates were fake number/fake tag counterfeits.

  The cop tailed the men to their pads. The pads were rented under obvious fake names. The Cubans were pro-Castro agents with no visible means of support.

  The cop glommed a phone-company snitch. He paid him five hundred dollars and told him to steal Delsol’s recent phone bills.

  The cop said his snitch succeeded. The cop was late with the goods.

  Pete doodled. He dre
w little hearts and arrows, ad fucking infinitum.

  Sergeant Carl Lennertz showed up a full hour late. Pete waltzed him out to the parking lot.

  They exchanged envelopes. The transaction went down in two seconds flat.

  Lennertz took off. Pete opened his envelope and pulled out two sheets of paper.

  The Florida Bell man delivered. Delsol made four months’ worth of suspicious phone calls.

  He called Santo and Sam G. at their unlisted numbers. He called six pro-Castro front groups a total of twenty-nine times.

  Pete felt his pulse go snap/crackle/pop.

  He drove to Delsol’s house. The puto’s new-money Impala was parked on the front lawn.

  He boxed it in with his car. He slashed the tires with his pocket knife. He wedged a porch chair under the front doorknob. He ripped a cord off an outside air cooler and balled it around his right fist.

  He heard running water and music inside the house.

  Pete walked around to the back. The kitchen door stood ajar.

  Delsol was washing dishes. The geek was snapping his dishrag to a mambo beat.

  Pete waved. Delsol waved soapy hands—Come on in.

  A little radio was perched on the sink ledge. Perez Prado was cranking out “Cherry Pink and Apple Blossom White.”

  Pete walked in. Delsol said, “Hola, Pedro.”

  Pete sucker-punched him. Delsol jackknifed. Pete dropped the radio in the sink.

  Water fizzed. Pete kicked Delsol in the ass and shot him into sink water up to his elbows.

  He screamed. He pulled his arms out and cut loose with this godawful shriek.

  Steam whooshed through the kitchen—dig that baby mushroom cloud.

  Pete shoved the dishrag in his mouth. Delsol’s arms were scorched bright red and hairless.

  “You’ve been calling Trafficante, Giancana and some pro-Castro guys. You’ve been seen with some left-wing Cubans, and you’ve been spending money.”

  Delsol flipped him off. Dig that firecracker-red “Fuck You” finger.

  “I think most of the Outfit’s quits on the Cause, and I want to know why. You put all this together or your face goes into the water.”

  Delsol spat the rag out. Pete lashed his hands with the air-cooler cord and rabbit-punched him back into the suds.

  He spun in sideways. Juiced-up water splashed all over him.

  He screamed and pulled his arms out. Pete dragged him to the fridge and buried his hands in ice cubes.

  Stabilize, fucker—don’t go into shock.

  Pete dumped loose cubes into a bowl. Delsol untied the cord with his teeth and wiggled his hands in.

  The sink water bubbled and fizzed. Pete lit a cigarette to kill the charred-flesh stink.

  Delsol slumped into a chair. His cardiac flush subsided—the puto radiated good resistance.

  Pete said, “Well?”

  Delsol hugged the bowl with his knees. Ice popped out and hit the floor.

  Pete said, “Well?”

  “Well, you killed my cousin. Did you think I would always stay loyal?”

  His voice stayed just short of a whimper. Spics withstood pain with the best.

  “That’s not the answer I wanted.”

  “I thought it was a good answer for a man who killed his own brother by mistake.”

  Pete picked up a kitchen knife. “Tell me what I want to hear.”

  Delsol double-flipped him. Dig those two “Fuck You” fingers shedding skin down to the knuckle.

  Pete stabbed the chair. The blade ripped a trouser seam half an inch from Delsol’s balls.

  Delsol pulled the knife loose and dropped it on the floor. Pete said, “Well?”

  “Well, I suppose I must tell you.”

  “Keep going, then. Don’t make me work so hard.”

  Delsol smiled. Delsol was exhibiting fucking epic machismo. “You were right, Pedro. Giancana and Mr. Santo have abandoned La Causa.”

  “What about Carlos Marcello?”

  “No. He is not with them. He is still enthusiastic.”

  “What about Heshie Ryskind?”

  “He is not with them either. I have heard he is very ill.”

  “Santo is still backing the Cadre.”

  Delsol smirked. Blisters started bubbling up on his arms.

  “I think he will withdraw his support soon. I am certain it will happen.”

  Pete chained cigarettes. “Who else has betrayed the Cadre?”

  “I do not consider what I did betrayal. The man you used to be would not consider it that, either.”

  Pete flipped his cigarette in the sink. “Just answer my questions. I don’t want to hear your extraneous comments.”

  Delsol said, “All right. I am the only one in this.”

  “ ‘This’?”

  Delsol shivered. A big blister on his neck popped and spritzed blood.

  “Yes. This is what you thought it was.”

  “Explain it for me, then.”

  Delsol stared at his hands. “I mean that Mr. Santo and the others have gone over to Fidel. They are just pretending enthusiasm for La Causa, to impress Robert Kennedy and other powerful officials. They are hoping Kennedy will learn about their support and not try to hurt them so hard. Raúl Castro is selling them heroin very cheaply. In exchange, they have given him information on the exile movement.”

  Heroin was MONEY. His theory was confirmed straight down the line.

  “Keep going. I know there’s more.”

  Delsol did a little blank-face number. Pete stared at him. Pete held the stare and held it and held it—

  Delsol blinked. “Yes, there is more. Raúl is trying to convince Fidel to let Mr. Santo and the others reopen their casinos in Havana. Mr. Santo and Mr. Sam promised they would inform Raúl on the progress at JM/Wave and try to warn them of any assassination attempts on Fidel.”

  More confirmation. More potential grief. Santo and Sam could force Boyd to disband his hit squad.

  Delsol examined his arms. His tattoos were scorched into odd smudges.

  Pete said, “There’s more.”

  “No. There isn’t.”

  Pete sighed. “There’s your part. You were recruited because the pro-Castro guys knew the Cadre killed your cousin, and they figured you were vulnerable. You’ve got a part in this, and it’s got something to do with heroin, and if you don’t tell me, I’m going to start hurting you again.”

  “Pedro …”

  Pete squatted in front of the chair. Pete said, “Heroin. Tell me about it.”

  Delsol crossed himself. The ice-cube bowl slipped to the floor and shattered.

  “A Cuban shipment is coming in by speedboat. Two hundred pounds of it, uncut. Some pro-Castro men will be there to guard it. I am supposed to transmit it to Mr. Santo.”

  “When?”

  “The night of May 4th.”

  “Where?”

  “The Gulf Coast in Alabama. A place called Orange Beach.”

  Pete got the shakes. Delsol caught his fear instantaneously.

  “We must pretend this never happened, Pedro. You yourself must pretend that you never really believed in the Cause. We must not interfere with men who are so much more powerful than we are.”

  Boyd took it cool. Pete steamed up the phone booth yelling.

  “We can still make our casino deal happen. We can send in your team, have them clip Castro and create fucking chaos. Maybe things work out and Santo honors our deal, maybe they don’t work out. At the very fucking least, we can snuff Fidel Castro.”

  Boyd said, “No. The deal is dead and the Cadre is finished, and sending in my men precipitously will only get them killed.”

  Pete kicked the door off its hinges—

  “What do you mean, ‘NO’?”

  “I mean we should recoup our losses. We should make some money before somebody tells Bobby about the Outfit and the Agency.”

  The door crashed across the sidewalk. Pedestrians stepped around it. A little kid jumped on it and cracked the glass
in half.

  “The heroin?”

  Boyd was calm. “There’s two hundred pounds, Pete. We let it sit for five years and sell it overseas. You, me and Néstor. We’ll make at least three million dollars apiece.”

  Pete went lightheaded. Dig it: that 9.9 earthquake is strictly internal.

  DOCUMENT INSERT: 4/25/62. Carlyle Hotel bedroom microphone transcript. Transcribed by: Fred Turentine. Tape/written copies to: P. Bondurant, W. Littell.

  BJ phoned the listening post at 3:08 p.m. She said she was meeting the target “for dinner” at 5:00. She was instructed to double open & shut the bedroom door to activate the mike. Active feed from 5:23 p.m. on. Initial log: BJ—Barb Jahelka. JFK—John F. Kennedy.

  5:24–5:33: sexual activity. (See tape transcript. High sound quality. Voices discernable.)

  5:34–5:41: conversation.

  JFK: Shit, my back.

  BJ: Let me help.

  JFK: No, that’s all right.

  BJ: Stop looking at your watch. We just finished.

  JFK (laughing): I really should have that wall clock installed.

  BJ: And tell the chef to get with it. That was a lousy club sandwich.

  JFK: It was. The turkey was dry and the bacon was soggy.

  BJ: You seem distracted, Jack.

  JFK: Smart girl.

  BJ: The weight of the world?

  JFK: No, my brother. He’s on the warpath about my friends and the women I see, and he’s acting like a colossal pain in the ass.

  BJ: For instance?

  JFK: He’s on a witch hunt. Frank Sinatra knows some gangsters, so Frank had to go. The women Peter sets me up with are gonorrhea carrying tarts, and you’re too polished and aware of your effects to be a Twist bunny, so you’re suspect on general principles.

  BJ (laughing): What’s next? Can I expect to see FBI men following me?

  JFK (laughing): Hardly. Bobby and Hoover hate each other too much to collaborate on anything that touchy. Bobby’s overworked, so he’s touchy, and Hoover’s touchy because he’s a Nazi faggot who hates all men with normal appetites. Bobby’s running Justice, chasing gangsters and running point for my Cuban policy. He’s up to his neck in psychopathic lowlife, and Hoover fights him on protocol matters every inch of the way. And I’m the one who takes the brunt of his frustration. Say, why don’t we change jobs? You be the President of the United States and I’ll Twist at, what’s the name of that place you’re appearing?