American tabloid

82

The air conditioner short-circuited and died. Kemper woke up sweaty and congested.

He swallowed four Dexedrine. He started building lies immediately.

I didn’t tell you about the links, because:

I didn’t know myself. I didn’t want Jack to get hurt. I only found out recently, and I thought it best to let sleeping dogs lie.

The Mob and the CIA?-it boggled my mind when I learned.

The lies felt weak. Bobby would investigate and trace his own links back to ‘59.

Bobby called last night. He said, “Meet me in Miami tomorrow. I want you to show me around JM/Wave.”

Pete called from L.A. a few minutes later. He heard a woman humming a Twist tune in the background.

Pete said he just talked to Santo. Santo told him to hunt down the dope heisters.

“He said find them, Kemper. He said don’t kill them under any circumstances. He didn’t seem too concerned that I might find out the deal was Castro-fmanced.”

Kemper told him to rig another forensic charade. Pete said, I’ll fly to New Orleans and get started. Call me at the Olivier House Hotel or Guy Banister’s office.

Kemper mixed a speedball and snorted it. The coke piggybacked the Dexedrine straight to his head.

He heard cadence counts outside. Laurent pushed the Cubans through calisthenics every morning.

Flash and Juan came up to his chest. Nйstor could fit in his knapsack.

Nйstor shanked a redneck yesterday. All the man did was nick his fender. Nйstor had the post-heist screaming mimis.

Nйstor fled. The cracker survived. Flash said Nйstor stole a speedboat and headed for Cuba.

Nйstor left a note. It said, Save my share of the stuff. I’ll be back when Castro’s dead.

Kemper showered and shaved. His little pick-me-up had the razor jumping.

Lies wouldn’t come.

o o o

Bobby wore dark glasses and a hat. Kemper convinced him to tour JM/Wave incognito.

The AG with shades and a stingy-brim fedora. The AG as Rat Pack reject

They strolled the facility. Bobby’s getup inspired odd looks. Contract men walked by and waved hello.

Lies wouldn’t come.

They toured at a leisurely pace. Bobby kept his famous voice to a whisper. A few Cubans recognized him and played along with the ruse.

Kemper showcased the Propaganda Section. A case officer rattled off statistics. Nobody said, Jack Kennedy is a vacillating sob sister.

Nobody dropped Mob names. Nobody dropped hints that they knew Kemper Boyd before the Bay of Pigs invasion.

Bobby liked the air recon plans. The communications room impressed him.

Lies wouldn’t come. Details wouldn’t mesh with any degree of verisimilitude.

They toured the Map Section. Chuck Rogers walked up, halehearty. Kemper steered Bobby away from him.

Bobby used the men’s room and stormed out in a huff. Somebody scrawled anti-Kennedy remarks above the urinals.

They walked over to the Miami U cafeteria. Bobby bought them coffee and sweet rolls.

College kids carried trays past their table. Kemper forced himself not to fidget-the Dexedrine was surging especially strong.

Bobby cleared his throat. “Say what you’ve been thinking.”

“What?”

“Say that coastal harassment and intelligence gathering aren’t enough. Tell me we need to assassinate Fidel Castro for the three hundredth time and get it out of your system.”

Kemper smiled. “We need to assassinate Fidel Castro. And I’ll memorize your response, so you won’t have to say it again.”

Bobby said, “You know my response. I hate redundancy, and I hate this hat. How does Sinatra manage it?”

“He’s Italian.”

Bobby pointed to some coeds in short shorts. “Don’t they have a dress code here?”

“The code is as little as possible.”

“I should tell Jack. He could address the student body.”

Kemper laughed. “I’m glad to see that you’ve become more accepting.”

“More discerning, maybe.”

“And more specifically disapproving?”

“Touchй.”

Kemper sipped coffee. “Who’s the man been seeing?”

“Some fluff. And a Twist performer Lenny Sands introduced him to.”

“Who isn’t fluff?”

“Let’s say she’s mentally overqualified for some cheap dance craze.”

“You’ve met her?”

Bobby nodded. “Lenny brought her to Peter Lawford’s house in Los Angeles. I got the impression that she thinks a few steps ahead of most people, and Jack always calls me from the Carlyle to say how smart she is, which is not what Jack usually comments on in a woman.”

Lenny, the Twist, L.A.-a puzzling little triad.

“What’s her name?”

“Barb Jahelka. Jack was on the phone with her this morning. He said he called her at 5:00 a.m. L.A. time, and she still managed to come off smart and funny.”

Pete called from L.A. last night A woman was humming “Let’s Twist Again.”

“What is it about her that you disapprove of?”

“Probably just the fact that she doesn’t behave like most of Jack’s quickies.”

Pete was a shakedown man. Lenny was an L.A. show-biz reptile.

“Do you think she’s dangerous in some way?”

“Not exactly. I’m just suspicious because I’m the attorney genera! of the United States, and suspiciousness goes with the job. Why do you care? We’ve given this woman two minutes more than she deserves.”

Kemper crumpled his coffee cup. “I was just steering talk away from Fidel.”

Bobby laughed. “Good. And no, you and our exile friends cannot assassinate him.”

Kemper stood up. “Do you want to look around some more?”

“No. I’ve got a car picking me up. Do you want a lift to the airport?”

“No. I have to make some phone calls.”

Bobby took off his shades. A coed recognized him and squealed.

o o o

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.