1541 North Alta Vista matched to: Darleen Shoftel, HO3-681l.

Bug jobs took about an hour-he could run her through R amp;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 came 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 ‘highclass call girl.’”

“That’s all?”

“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: wellknown 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.

o o o

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.”

Pete shrugged. He didn’t know what to do with his hands.

Gail ran to her car. She stripped gears pulling out of the driveway-and almost plowed a woman pushing a baby carriage.

Ward was scared. Kemper knew why: Mr. Hoover’s private briefings spawned legends.

They waited in his outer office. Ward sat hold-your-breath still. Kemper knew: he’ll be twenty minutes late exactly.

He wants Ward cowed. He wants me here to buttress the effect.

He’d already phoned in his report: The Shoftel job went perfectly. A Los Angeles-based agent was assigned to monitor the bug and wiretap recordings from a listening post and forward the salient tapes to Littell in Chicago. Ace wire man Ward would cull them-and send the best excerpts to Mr. Hoover.

Jack wasn’t due in L.A. until December 9th. Darleen Shoftel was servicing four tricks a night-the listening-post man praised her stamina. The L.A. Times ran a brief mention of Sol Maltzman’s suicide. Mr. Hoover said Pete Bondurant probably “fired him” rather harshly.

Ward crossed his legs and straightened his necktie. Don’t: Mr. Hoover hates fidgeters. He ordered us here to reward you-so please do not fidget.

Hoover walked in. Kemper and Littell stood up.

“Gentlemen, good morning.”

They said, “Good morning, Sir”-in unison, with no overlap.

“I’m afraid this will have to be brief. I’m meeting Vice President Nixon shortly.”

Littell said, “I’m very pleased to be here, Sir.”

Kemper almost winced: Do not interject comments, however servile.

“My schedule forces me to effect brevity. Mr. Littell, I appreciate the job you and Mr. Boyd did in Los Angeles. I’m rewarding you with a position on the Chicago Top Hoodlum Squad. I’m doing this at the displeasure of SAC Leahy, who considers you best suited for political surveillance work. I realize, Mr. Littell, that you consider the CPUSA ineffectual, if not moribund. I deem this attitude dangerously fatuous, and sincerely hope you’ll outgrow it. You’re a personal colleague of mine now, but I warn you not to be seduced by the dangerous life. You can’t possibly be as good at it as Kemper Boyd is.”

Littell did paperwork in his bathrobe.

He did it exultantly hung over: they celebrated with Cordon Rouge and Glenlivet. The damage showed: empty bottles and room-service carts piled with untouched food.

Kemper showed restraint. He didn’t. Hoover’s “brevity” stung; champagne and scotch let him make fun of it. Coffee and aspirin hardly dented his hangover.

A snowstorm closed the airport-he was stuck in his hotel room. Hoover sent up a mimeo file for him to study.

CHICAGO TOP HOODLUM SQUAD CONFIDENTIAL: CRIME FIGURES, LOCATIONS, METHODS OF OPERATION AND RELATED OBSERVATIONS.

It ran sixty detail-padded pages. Littell popped two more aspirin and underlined salient facts.

The current stated goal of the Top Hoodlum Program (outlined in Bureau Directive #3401, 12/19/57) is the gathering of organized crime intelligence. At this date, and until direct notice of a superseding policy, any and all criminal intelligence gathered is to be retained solely for future use. The Top Hoodlum Program is not mandated to gather inteffigence to be employed in the process of directly building cases for Federal prosecution. Criminal intelligence obtained through electronic surveillance methods may be, at the discretion of the Regional SAC, transmitted to municipal police agencies and prosecuting bodies.

The elliptical gist: Hoover knows you can’t prosecute the Mob and consistently win. He won’t sacrifice Bureau prestige for occasional convictions.

Top Hoodlum Program squads may employ electronic surveillance methods on their own autonomy. Verbatim tape and transcription logs are to be rigorously kept and transmitted to the Regional SAC for periodic review.