Kemper commandeered a vacant JM/Wave office. The switchboard put him through to LAPD R amp;I direct.
A man picked up. “Records and Information. Officer Graham.”
“Dennis Payne, please. Tell him it’s Kemper Boyd, long distance.”
“Hold on, please.”
Kemper scribbled up a scratch pad. Payne came on the line posthaste.
“Mr. Boyd, how are you?”
“I’m fine, Sergeant. You?”
“Fair to middling. And I’ll bet you have a request to make.”
“I do. I need you to check for a rap sheet on a white female named Barbara Jahelka, probable spelling J-A-H-E-L-K-A. She’s probably twenty-two to thirty-two, and I think she lives in Los Angeles. I also need you to check for an unlisted number. The name is either Lenny Sands or Leonard J. Seidelwitz, and it’s probably a West Hollywood listing.”
Payne said, “I copy. You hold, okay? This might take a few minutes.”
Kemper held. His pick-me-up was inducing mild palpitations.
Pete didn’t state his L.A. business. Lenny was extortable and bribable.
Payne came back on the line. “Mr. Boyd? We’ve got two positives.”
Kemper grabbed a pen. “Keep going.”
“The Sands number is OL5-3980, and I got a felony marijuana possession on the girl. She’s the only Barbara Jahelka in our files, and her DOB matches up to what you told me.”
“Disposition?”
“She was arrested in July ‘57. She did six months and topped out two years of summary probation.”
It was inconclusive information.
“Would you check for something more recent? FI cards or arrests that didn’t go to arraignment?”
Payne said, “Will do. I’ll check with the Sheriff’s and our other local municipals, too. If the girl’s been in trouble since ‘57, we’ll know.”
“Thanks, Sergeant. I appreciate it.”
“Give me an hour, Mr. Boyd. I should have something or nothing by then.”
Kemper disconnected. The switchboard patched him in to Lenny’s L.A. number.
It rang three times. Kemper heard faint tap clicks and hung up.
Pete was a shakedown man. Pete was a bug/tap man. Pete’s bug/tap partner was the celebrated Fred Turentine.
Freddy’s brother owned a TV repair shop in L.A. Freddy worked there between wire jobs.
Kemper called Los Angeles information. An operator gave him the number. He fed it to the JM/Wave switchboard and told the girl to put him through.
The line hissed and crackled. A man picked up on the first ring. “Turentine’s TV. Good morning.”
Kemper faked a lowlife growl. “Is Freddy there? This is Ed. I’m friends with Freddy and Pete Bondurant.”
The man coughed. “Freddy’s in New York. He was here a few days ago, but he went back.”
“Shit I need to send him something. Did he leave an address?”
“Yeah, he did. Wait… let’s see… yeah, it’s 94 East 76th Street, New York City. The number’s MU6-0l97.”
Kemper said, “Thanks. I appreciate it.”
The man coughed. “Tell Freddy hi. Tell him his big brother says to stay out of trouble.”
Kemper hung up. The office tilted in and out of focus.
Turentine was lodged near 76th and Madison. The Carlyle Hotel was on the northeast corner.
Kemper dialed the switchboard and gave the girl Lenny’s number one more time.
She reconnected him. He heard three rings and three tiny tap clicks.
A woman answered. “Mr. Sands’ residence.”
“Is this Mr. Sands’ service?”
“Yes, sir. And Mr. Sands can be reached in New York City. The number is MU6-2433.”
Laura’s number.
Kemper disconnected and redialed the switchboard. The girl said, “Yes, Mr. Boyd.”
“Get me New York City, please. The number is MU6-0 197.”
“Please hang up, sir. All my circuits are busy, but I’ll put your call through in a second.”
Kemper leaned on the cutoff button. The pieces fit- circumstantially, instinctively-
The phone rang. He jerked the receiver up.
“Yes?”
“What do you mean, ‘Yes?’? The operator placed your call to me.
Kemper wiped a line of sweat off his forehead. “That’s right, she did. Is this Fred Turentine?”
“That’s right.”
“This is Kemper Boyd. I work with Pete Bondurant.”
Silence stretched a solid beat too long.
“So you’re looking for Pete?”
“That’s right.”
“Well… Pete’s in New Orleans.”
“That’s right. I forgot.”
“Well… why’d you think he’d be here?”
“It was just a hunch.”
“Hunch, shit. Pete said he wasn’t giving out this number.”
“Your brother gave it to me.”
“Well… shit… he wasn’t supposed-”
“Thanks, Fred. I’ll call Pete in New Orleans.”
The line went dead. Turentine hung up dead finessed and dead scared.
Kemper watched the second hand circle his watch. His shirt sleeves were soaked clear through.
Pete would do it Pete wouldn’t do it. Pete was his longtime partner, which constituted proof of-
Nothing.
Business was business. Jack got between them. Call it the Triangle Twist: Jack, Pete and Barb what’s-her-name.
Kemper dialed the switchboard. The operator redialed the LAPD.
Payne answered. “Records and Information.”
“It’s Kemper Boyd, Sergeant.”
Payne laughed. “And an hour to the second.”
“Did you find out anything else?”
“Yeah, I did. Beverly Hills PD arrested the Jahelka girl for extortion in August 1960.”
Jesus God-
“Details?”
“The girl and her ex-husband tried to shake down Rock Hudson with some sex pictures.”
“Of Hudson and the girl?”
“That’s correct. They demanded some money, but Hudson went to the police. The girl and her ex were arrested, but Hudson retracted the charges.”
Kemper said, “It stinks.”
Payne said, “To high heaven. A friend of mine on the BHPD said the whole thing was some sort of ploy to establish Hudson as a pussy hound, when he’s really some kind of homo. He heard a rumor that Hush-Hush was behind the whole thing.”
Kemper put the phone down. His little palpitations almost cut his breath off.
LENNY-
o o o
He caught a 1:45 connector to La Guardia. He popped four Dexedrine and chased them with two in-flight martinis.
The flight took three and a half hours. Kemper shredded cocktail napkins and checked his watch every few minutes.
They landed on time. Kemper caught a cab outside the terminal. He told the driver to cruise by the Carlyle and drop him at 64th and Fifth.
Rush-hour traffic crawled. The Carlyle run ate up an hour.
94 East 76th Street was fifty yards from the hotel. It was an ideal apartment/listening-post location.
The cabbie swung south and dropped him outside Laura’s building. The doorman was busy with a tenant.
Kemper ran into the lobby. An old lady held the elevator for him.
He hit “12.” The old lady backed away. He saw his gun in his hand and tried to remember unholstering it.
He tucked it in his waistband. The old lady hid behind a huge handbag. The ride up took forever.
The door opened. Laura had redecorated the foyer-a complete French Provincial makeover.
Kemper walked through it. The elevator zoomed up behind him. He heard laughter on the terrace.
He ran toward the sound. Throw rugs snagged under his feet. He took the last hallway at a sprint and knocked over two lamps and an end table.
They were standing. They were holding drinks and cigarettes. They looked like they weren’t quite breathing.
Laura, Lenny and Claire.
They looked funny. They looked like they didn’t quite know him.
He saw his gun out. He saw the trigger at half-pull.
He said something about shaking down Jack Kennedy.
Claire said “Dad?” like she wasn’t quite sure.
He aimed at Lenny.
Claire said, “Dad, please.”
Laura dropped her cigarette. Lenny flicked his cigarette at him and smiled.