“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-ninezero.”
“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.”
o o o
Sol Maltzman lived in Silverlake-a dive above a tax 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 stick 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 tamed 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.
o o o
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: $16,830.00.
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 souldebilitating 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.
o o o
His day was all aces and 8s-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-perkperking.
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 leapfrogged 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 amp;E’s “black baggers.”
The living-room lights snapped on. The fuckers were going at it brazen.
Pete grabbed his reverse bookoff the backseat. He skimmed it by the dashboard light.