JEH: Certainly.
KB: It involves the Cuban political situation.
JEH: Continue.
KB: In the course of my Florida visits I’ve met several pro-Batista and pro-Castro Cuban refugees. Now, apparently Castro is going Communist. I’ve learned that undesirables of varying political stripes will be expelled from Cuba and granted asylum in the U.S., with most of them settling in Miami. Would you like information on them?
JEH: Do you have an information source?
KB: Yes, Sir.
JEH: But you’d rather not reveal it?
KB: Yes, Sir.
JEH: I hope they’re paying you.
KB: It’s an ambiguous situation, Sir.
JEH: You’re an ambiguous man. And yes, any and all Cuban emigre intelligence would be appreciated. Have you anything to add? I’m due at a meeting.
KB: One last thing, Sir. Did you know that the brothers’ father had an illegitimate daughter with Gloria Swanson?
JEH: No, I did not know that. You’re certain?
KB: Reasonably. Should I follow up on it?
JEH: Yes. But avoid any personal entanglements that might upset your incursion.
KB: Yes, Sir.
JEH: Forewarned is forearmed. You have a tendency to adopt people, such as the morally-impaired Ward Littell. Don’t extend that tendency toward the Kennedys. I suspect that their powers of seduction exceed even your own.
KB: I’ll be careful, Sir.
JEH: Good day, Mr. Boyd.
KB: Good day, Sir.
19
Dick Steisel said, “If Mr. Hughes is so tight with J. Edgar Hoover, have him call off the goddamn process servers.”
Pete scoped out his office. The client photos were boffo- Hughes shared a wall with some South American dictators and bongo player Preston Epps.
“He won’t ask Hoover for favors. He figures he hasn’t kissed his ass enough yet.”
“He can’t keep dodging subpoenas forever. He should simply divest TWA, earn his three or four hundred million and get on to his next conquest.”
Pete rocked his chair and put his feet up on Steisel’s desk. “He doesn’t see things that way.”
“And how do you see things?”
“The way he pays me to.”
“Which means, in this instance?”
“Which means I’m going to call Central Casting, bag a halfdozen actors and have them made up as Mr. Hughes, then send them out in Hughes Aircraft limos. I’m going to tell them to hit some night spots, throw some cash around and talk up their travel plans. Timbuktu, Nairobi-who gives a shit? It’ll buy us some time.”
Steisel sifted through desk clutter. “TWA aside, you should know that most of the Hush-Hush articles you’ve sent over for vetting are libelous. Here’s an example from that Spade Cooley piece. ‘Does Ella Mae Cooley have “Everlast” stamped across her chest? She should, because Spade’s been bopping bluegrass ballads on her already dangerously dented decolletage! It seems that Ella Mae told Spade she wanted to join a free love cult! Spade responded with fiddle-honed fisticuffs, and now Ella Mae has been sporting brutally black-and-blue blistered bosomage.’ You see Pete, there’s a no loophole rhetoric or-”
Steisel moaned and droned. Pete shut him out and daydreamed.
Kemper Boyd called him yesterday. He said, “I’ve got you a lead on a magazine stringer. His name’s Lenny Sands, and he’s playing a junket engagement at the Cal-Neva Lodge in Lake Tahoe. Go talk to him-I think he’d be perfect for Hush-Hush. But-he’s tight with Ward Littell, and I know you’ll figure out he’s FBI-connected. And you should also know that Littell has an eyeball witness on the Gretzler job. Mr. Hoover told him to forget about it, but Littell’s the volatile type. I don’t want you to even mention Littell to Lenny.”
Lenny Sands sounded good. The “eyeball witness” line was horseshit.
Pete said, “I’ll go see Sands. But let’s talk turkey about something else, too.”
“Cuba?”
“Yeah, Cuba. I’m starting to think it’s a gravy train for us lawenforcement retirees.”
“You’re right. And I’m thinking of buying in myself.”
“I want in. Howard Hughes is driving me nuts.”
“Do something nice, then. Do something John Stanton would like.”
“For instance?”
“Look me up in the Washington, D.C. white pages, and send me some goodies.”
Steisel jerked him out of his daydream. “Get these college kids to insert ‘alleged’ and ‘supposed,’ and make the pieces more hypothetical. Pete, are you listening to me?”
Pete said, “Dick, I’ll see you. I’ve got things to do.”
o o o
He drove to a pay phone and dialed favors. He called a cop buddy, Mickey Cohen, and Fred Otash, “Private Eye to the Stars.” They said they could glom some “goodies,” with D.C. delivery guaranteed pronto.
Pete called Spade Cooley. He said, I just kiboshed a new smear on you. Grateful Spade said, “What can I do for you?”
Pete said, I need six girls from your band. Have them meet me at Central Casting in an hour.
Spade said, Yes, Big-Daddy-O!
Pete called Central Casting and Hughes Aircraft. Two clerks promised satisfaction: six Howard Hughes look-alikes and six limousines would be waiting at Central in one hour.
Pete rendezvoused with his shills and paired them off: six Howards, six women, six limos. The Howards got specific instructions: Live it up through to dawn and spread the word that you’re blasting off for Rio!
The limos hauled ass. Spade dropped Pete off at the Burbank airport.
He caught a puddle jumper to Tahoe. The pilot started his downswing right over the Cal-Neva Lodge.
Be good, Lenny.
o o o
The casino featured slots, craps, roulette, blackjack, poker, keno, and the world’s thickest deep-pile carpets. The lobby featured a panoply of jumbo cardboard Frank Sinairas.
Dig that one by the door-somebody drew a dick in Frankie’s mouth.
Dig that tiny cardboard cutout by the bar: “Lenny Sands at the Swingeroo Lounge!”
Somebody yelled, “Pete! Pete the Frenchman!” It had to be somebody Outfit-or somebody suicide prone.
Pete looked around. He saw Johnny Rosselli, waving from a booth just inside the bar enclosure.
He walked over. The booth was all-star: Rosselli, Sam G., Heshie Ryskind, Carlos Marcello.
Rosselli winked. “Frenchman Pete, che se dice?”
“Good, Johnny. You?”
“Зa va, Pete, зa va. You know the boys here? Carlos, Mo and Heshie?”
“Just by reputation.”
Handshakes went around. Pete stayed standing-per Outfit protocol.
Rosselli said, “Pete’s French-Canadian, but he don’t like to be reminded of it.”
Giancana said, “Everybody’s gotta come from somewhere.”
Marcello said, “Except me. I got no fucking birth certificate. I was either born in fucking Tunis, North Africa, or fucking Guatemala. My parents were Sicilian greenhorns with no fucking passports. I shoulda asked them, ‘Hey, where was I born?’ when I had the chance.”
Ryskind said, “Yeah, but I’m a Jew with a finicky prostate. My people came from Russia. And if you don’t think that’s a handicap in this crowd…”
Marcello said, “Pete’s been helping Jimmy out in Miami lately. You know, at the cabstand.”
Roselli said, “And don t think we don’t appreciate it.’
Giancana said, “Cuba has to get worse before it gets better. Now the fucking Beard has ‘nationalized’ our fucking casinos. He’s got Santo T. in custody down there, and he’s costing us hundreds of thousands a day.”
Rosselli said, “It’s like Castro just shoved an atom bomb up the ass of every made guy in America.”
Nobody said, “Sit down.”
Sam G. pointed out a lowlife walking by counting nickels. “D’Onofrio brings these chumps here. They stink up my room and don’t lose enough to compensate. Me and Frank have got 40% of the Lodge between us. This is a top-line room, not a resort for the lunchpall crowd.”