American tabloid

WHY?

He cut his shooters loose. Kemper took his boys back to Mississippi.

Laurent Guery went with them. Kemper tapped his own stock fund for Ops cash. Kemper was acting weirdly persistent lately.

Pete turned on to Kilkea. 831 was your standard West Hollywood four-flat.

The standard two-story Spanish-style building. The standard two units per floor. The standard beveled glass doors that your standard B amp;E guys drooled for.

There was no garage at the back-the tenants had to park at the curb. Lenny’s Packard was nowhere in sight.

Pete parked and walked up to the porch. All four doors showed slack at the door-doorjamb juncture.

The street was dead. The porch was dead quiet. The mail slot for the left downstairs unit read “L. Sands.”

Pete snapped the lock with his pocketknife. An inside light hit him straight off.

Lenny planned to stay out after dark. He could prowl the pad for four solid hours.

Pete locked himself in. The crib spread out off a hallway- maybe five rooms total.

He checked the kitchen, the dinette and the bedroom. The pad was nice and quiet-Lenny eschewed pets and stay-at-home bun boys.

An office connected to the bedroom. It was cubbyhole size-a desk and a row of file cabinets ate up all the floor space.

Pete checked the top drawer. It was one fat mess-Lenny jammed it full of overstuffed folders.

The folders contained 100% U.S. prime-cut skank.

Published Hush-Hush skank and unpublished skank tips. Skank logged in since early ‘59-the all-time Skank Hit Parade.

Boozer skank, hophead skunk, homo skank. Lezbo skank, nympho skunk, miscegenation skank. Political skank, incest skunk, child molester skank. The one skank problem: the female skankees were too skankily well known.

Pete spotted some non-sequitur skank: a real skankeroo report dated 9/12/60. A Hush-Hush editorial memo was attached to the page.

Lenny,

I don’t see this one as a feature or anything else, if it went to arrest amp; trial, great, but it didn’t. The whole thing seems skewed to me. Plus, the girl’s a nobody.

Pete read the report. Skewed?-no shit.

Lenny “Skank Man” Sands, verbatim:

I learned that gorgeous redhead singer-dancer Barb Jahelka (the lead attraction in her ex-husband Joey Jahelka’s “Swingin’ Dance Revue”) was arrested on August 26th as part of an extortion scheme levied against Rock Hudson.

It was a photo job. Hudson and Barb were in bed at Rock’s house in Beverly Hills when a man snuck in and managed to snap several pictures with infra-red film. A few days later Barb demanded that Hudson pay her 10 thousand dollars or the pictures would be circulated everywhere.

Rock called private detective Fred Otash. Otash called the Beverly Hills PD, and they arrested Barb Jahelka. Hudson then went soft hearted and refused to press charges. I like this for the 9/24/60 issue. Rock’s a hot ticket these days, and Barb’s a real dish. (I’ve got bikini pictures of her we can use.) Let me know, so I can formally write the piece up.

Skewed?-no shit, Sherlock.

Rock Hudson was a fruiffly with no yen for cooze. Fred Otash was an ex-cop Hollywood lapdog. Dig the skewed postscript: Freddy’s phone number doodled right there on the report.

Pete grabbed the phone and dialed it. A man answered, “Otash.”

“It’s Pete Bondurant, Freddy.”

Otash whistled. “This has to be interesting. The last time you made a sociable phone call was never.”

“I’m not starting now.”

“This sounds like we’re talking about money. If it’s your money for my time, I’m listening.”

Pete checked the report. “In August of ‘60 you allegedly helped Rock Hudson out of a jam. I think the whole thing was a setup. I’ll give you a thousand dollars to tell me the story.”

Otash said, “Go to two thousand and throw in a disclaimer.”

Pete said, “Two thousand. And if push comes to shove, I’ll say I got the information elsewhere.”

Funny noise hit the line. Pete ID’d it: Freddy tapping his teeth with a pencil.

“Okay, Frenchman.”

“Okay, and?”

“Okay, and you’re right. The setup was Rock was afraid of being exposed as a queer, so he cooked up a deal with Lenny Sands. Lenny brought in this number Barb Jahelka and her ex-husband Joey, and Barb and Rock got between the sheets. Joey faked a break-in and took some pictures, Barb made a fake extortion demand, and Rock fake called me in.”

“And you fake called the Beverly Hills PD.”

“Right. They popped Barb for extortion one, then Rock got fake sentimental and dropped the charges. Lenny wrote the thing up for Hush-Hush, but for some reason it never got published. Lenny tried to leak the story to the legjt press, but nobody would touch it, because half the goddathn country knows Rock’s a homo.”

Pete sighed. “The whole caper went nowhere.”

Otash sighed. “That’s correct. Rock paid Barb and Joey two Gs apiece, and now you’re paying me an extra two just to tell you the whole sorry tale.”

Pete laughed. “Tell me about Barb Jahelka while you’re at it.”

“All right. My take on Barb is that she’s slumming, but she doesn’t know it. She’s smart, she’s funny, she looks good and she knows she’s not the next Patti Page. I think she’s from the Wisconsin boonies, and I think she did six months honor farm for maryjane possession about four or five years ago. She used to have a thing going with Peter Lawford”-

Jack’s brother-in-law-

“and she treats her ex-husband Joey, who’s a piece of shit, exactly the way he ought to be treated. I’d have to say she likes kicks, and I’ll bet she’d tell you she likes danger, but my take is she’s never been tested. if you’re interested in her whereabouts, try the Reef Club in Ventura. The last I heard, Joey Jahelka was fronting some kind of cut-rate Twist show up there.”

Pete said, “You like her, Freddy. You’re an open book.”

“So are you. And while we’re being candid, let me heartily recommend that girl for whatever kind of shakedown you’ve got in mind.”

o o o

The Reef Club was all driftwood and fake barnacles. The clientele was mostly college kids and low-rent hipsters.

Pete snagged a table just off the dance floor. Joey’s Swingin’ Twist Revue went on in ten minutes.

Wall speakers churned out music. Twist geeks flailed and bumped asses. Pete’s table vibrated and shook the head off his nice glass of beer.

He called Karen Hiltscher before he left L.A. Sheriff’s R amp;I had a sheet on one Barbara Jane (Lindscott) Jahelka.

She was born 11/18/31, in Tunnel City, Wisconsin. She had a valid California driver’s license. She went down on a reefer beef circa 7/57.

She did six months County time. She was suspected of shanking a bull dyke at the Hall of Justice Jail. She was married-8/3/54-1/24158-to:

Joseph Dominic Jahelka, born 1/16/23, New York City. New York State convictions: statch rape, flimflam, forging Dilaudid prescriptions.

Joey Jahelka was probably a slavering hophead. He’d probably drool for the Dilaudid he just copped back in L.A.

Pete sipped beer. The hi-fl blared jungle-bunny music. A loudspeaker blared, “Ladies and gentlemen, the Reef Club is proud to present for your twisting pleasure-Joey Jahelka and his Swingin’ Twist Revue!!!”

Nobody cheered. Nobody applauded. Nobody stopped twisting.

A trio jumped on stage. They wore calypso shirts and mismatched tuxedos. Pawnshop tags dangled off their equipment.

They set up. The twisters and table crowd ignored them. A jukebox tune bled into their opener.

A high-school kid played tenor sax. The drummer was a bantamweight pachuco. The guitar man matched Joey’s R amp;I stats.

The greasy little hump was half on-the-nod. His socks were deelasticized way below his ankles.

They played loud, shitty music. Pete felt the wax in his ears start to crumble.

Barb Jahelka slinked up to the mike. Barb oozed healthy pulchritude. Barb was no show-biz-subspecies junkie.

Tall Barb. Lanky Barb. That sparkly red bouffant was no fucking dye job.

Dig that tight, low-cut gown. Dig the heels that put her over six feet

Barb sang. Barb had weak pipes. The combo drowned her out every time she reached for a high note.

Pete watched. Barb sang. Barb DANCED-Hush-Hush would tag it HOT, HOT, HOTSVILLE.

Some male twisters stopped twisting to dig on the big rangy redhead. One girl poked her partner-You get your eyes off of her!

Barb sang weak-voiced and monotonous. Barb put out unique gyrations flat-out concurrent.

She kicked her shoes off. She thrust her hips out and popped seams down one leg.

Pete watched her eyes. Pete tapped the envelope in his pocket.

She’d read the note. The money would hook her in. She’d give Joey the dope and urge him to get lost.

Pete chain-smoked. Barb lost a breast and tucked it back before the Twist fiends noticed.

Barb smiled-oops!-dazzling.

Pete passed the envelope to a waitress. Twenty dollars guaranteed transmittal.

Barb danced. Pete shot her something like a prayer: Please be able to TALK.

o o o

He knew she’d be late. He knew she’d close the club and let him sweat for a while. He knew she’d call Freddy 0. for a quick rundown of his pedigree.

Pete waited at an all-night coffee shop. His chest hurt-Barb twisted him through two packs of cigarettes.

He called Littell an hour ago. He said, Let’s meet at Lenny’s at 3:00-I think I might have found our woman.

It was 1:10 now. He might have called Littell just a tad premature.

Pete sipped coffee and checked his watch every few seconds. Barb Jahelka walked in and spotted him.

Her skirt and blouse looked half-assed demure. No makeup did nice things to her face.

She sat down across from him. Pete said, “I hope you called Freddy.”

“I did.”

“What did he tell you?”

“That he’d never mess with you. And that your partners always make money.”

“Is that all he said?”

“He said you knew Lenny Sands. I called Lenny, but he wasn’t home.”

Pete pushed his coffee aside. “Did you try to kill that dyke you shivved?”

Barb smiled. “No. I wanted to stop her from touching me, and I didn’t want it to cost me the rest of my life.”

Pete smiled. “You didn’t ask me what this is all about.”

“Freddy already gave me his interpretation, and you’re paying me five hundred dollars for a chat. And by the way, Joey says, ‘Thanks for the taste.’”

A waitress hovered. Pete shooed her away. “Why do you stay with him?”

“Because he wasn’t always a drug addict. Because he arranged to have some men who hurt my sister taken care of.”

“Those are good reasons.”

Barb lit a cigarette. “The best reason is I love Joey’s mom. She’s senile, and she thinks we’re still married. She thinks Joey’s sister’s kids are our kids.”

Pete laughed. “Suppose she dies?”

“Then the day of the funeral is the day I say goodbye to Joey. He’ll have to get a new girl singer and a new chauffeur to drive him to his Nalline tests.”

“I bet that’ll break his heart.”

Barb blew smoke rings. “Over’s over. That’s a concept junkies don’t understand.”

“You understand it.”

“I know. And you’re thinking it’s a weird thing for a woman to get.”

“Not necessarily.”

Barb stubbed out her cigarette. “What’s this all about?”

“Not yet.”

“When?”

“Soon. First, you tell me about you and Peter Lawford.”

Barb toyed with her ashtray. “It was brief and ugly, and I broke it off when Peter kept pestering me to go to bed with Frank Sinatra.”

“Which you didn’t feel like doing.”

“Right.”

“Did Lawford introduce you to Jack Kennedy?”

“No.”

“Do you think he told Kennedy about you?”

“Maybe.”

“You’ve heard about Kennedy and women?”

“Sure. Peter called him ‘insatiable,’ and a showgirl I knew in Vegas told me some stories.”

Pete smelled suntan oil. Redheads and bright stage lights-

Barb said, “Where are we going with this?”

Pete said, “I’ll see you at the club tomorrow night and tell you.”

o o o

Littell met him outside Lenny’s building. Night-owl Lenny had his lights on at 3:20 a.m.

Pete said, “The woman’s great All we need is Lenny to front the introduction.”

“I want to meet her.”

“You will. Is he alone?”

Littell nodded. “He came home with a pickup two hours ago. The boy just left.”

Pete yawned-he hadn’t slept in twenty-four-plus hours. “Let’s take him.”

“Good cop-bad cop?”

“Right. Alternating, so we keep him off balance.”

They walked up to the porch. Pete rang the bell. Littell screwed a crimped ugly look on his face.

Lenny opened up. “Don’t tell me, you forgot-”

Pete pushed him inside. Littell slammed the door and threw the bolt.

Chic Lenny cinched his robe. Fey Lenny threw his head back and laughed.

“I thought we were quits, Ward. And I thought you only crawled around Chicago.”

Littell said, “We need some help. And all you have to do is introduce a man to a woman and keep quiet about it.”

“Or?”

“Or we hand you up for the Tony Iannone killing.”

Pete sighed. “Let’s do this civilized.”

Littell said, “Why? We’re dealing with a sadistic little faggot who killed a man and bit his goddamn nose off.”

Lenny sighed. “I’ve been double-teamed before. This routine is nothing new to me.”

Littell said, “We’ll try to make it interesting.”

Pete said, “Five grand, Lenny. All you have to do is introduce Barb Jahelka to another friend of yours.”

Littell popped his knuckles. Lenny said, “Give it up, Ward. Rough-trade mannerisms don’t suit you.”

Littell slapped him. Lenny slapped him back.

Pete stepped between them. They looked ridiculous-two bloody-nosed pseudo tough guys.

“Come on, you two. Let’s do this civilized.”

Lenny wiped his nose. “Your face looks different, Ward. Those scars are soooooo you.”

Littell wiped his nose. “You didn’t seem surprised when Pete mentioned Barb Jahelka.”

Lenny laughed. “That’s because I was still in shock from the notion of you two as playmates.”

Littell said, “That’s not a real answer.”

Lenny shrugged. “How’s this? Barb’s in the Life, and everybody in the Life knows everybody else in the Life.”

Pete lobbed a change-up. “Name some hotels Jack Kennedy takes his women to.”

Lenny twitched. Pete popped his thumbs double-loud.

Littell said, “Name some hotels.”

Swishy Lenny squealed, “This is sooooo fun! Hey, let’s call Kemper Boyd and make it a foursome!”

Littell slapped him. Lenny popped some tears-fag bravado, adieu.

Pete said, “Name some hotels. Don’t make me get rough with you.”

Lenny put on a lisp. “The El Encanto in Santa Barbara, the Ambassador-East in Chicago, and the Carlyle in New York.”

Littell pushed Pete into the hallway-well out of Lenny’s earshot. “Hoover’s got standing bugs in the El Encanto and Ambassador-East. The managers assign those suites to whoever he tells them to.”

Pete whispered. “He’s put it together. He knows what we want, so let’s close him.”

They walked back to the living room. Lenny was guzzling high-test Bacardi.

Littell looked ready to drool. Hoffa said he had ten months off the sauce. Lenny’s liquor cart was radioactive-rum and scotch and all kinds of good shit.

Lenny downed the juice two-handed. Pete said, “‘Jack, this is Barb. Barb, this is Jack.’”

Lenny wiped his lips. “I have to call him ‘Mr. President’ now.”

Littell said, “When was the last time you saw him?”

Lenny coughed. “A few months ago. At Peter Lawford’s beach house.”

“Does he always go by Lawford’s place when he’s in L.A.?”

“Yes. Peter throws wonderful parties.”

“Does he invite unattached women?”

Lenny giggled. “Does he ever.”

“Does he invite you?”

“Usually, dear heart. The President likes to laugh, and what the President likes, the President gets.”

Pete stepped in. “Who else goes to the parties? Sinatra and those Rat Pack guys?”

Lenny poured a stiff refill. Littell licked his lips and plugged the bottle.

Pete said, “Who else goes to those parties?”

Lenny shrugged. “Amusing people. Frank used to come, but Bobby made Jack drop him.”

Littell stepped in. “I read that Kennedy’s coming to Los Angeles on February 18th.”

“That’s true, dear heart. And guess who’s throwing a party on the 19th.”

“Were you invited, Lenny?”

“Yes, I was.”

“Does the Secret Service frisk the guests or run them through a metal detector?”

Lenny reached for the bottle. Pete grabbed it first.

“Answer Mr. Littell’s question, goddamnit.”

Lenny shook his head. “No. What the Secret Service does is eat, drink and discuss Jack’s protean sex drive.”

Pete said, “‘Barb, this is Jack. Jack, this is Barb.’”

Lenny sighed. “I’m not an imbecile.”

Pete smiled. “We’re upping your fee to ten thousand, because we know you’re way too smart to mention this to anybody.”

Littell pushed the liquor cart out of his sight “That specifically includes Sam Giancana and your Ouffit friends, Laura Hughes, Claire Boyd and Kemper Boyd, on the extreme off-chance that you run into them.”

Lenny laughed. “Kemper’s not in on this? Toooo bad-I wouldn’t mind rubbing whatevers with him again.”

Pete said, “Don’t treat this like a joke.”

Littell said, “Don’t think Sam will let you walk for the Tony job.”

Pete said, “Don’t think that Sam still likes Jack, or that he’d lift a finger to help him. Sam bought Jack West Virginia and Illinois, but that was a long time ago, and Bobby’s been goddamn unfriendly to the Outfit since then.”

Lenny weaved into the cart. Littell steadied him.

Lenny pushed him away. “Sam and Bobby must have something cooking, ‘cause Sam said the Outfit’s been doing some work to help Bobby out with Cuba, but Bobby doesn’t know about it, and Sam said, ‘We sort of think he should be told.’”

Pete caught a quick flash:

The Whack Fidel auditions. Three Ouffit biggies, bored and noncommittal.

Littell said, “Lenny, you’re drunk. You’re not making any-”

Pete cut him off. “What else did Giancana say about Bobby Kennedy and Cuba?”

Lenny leaned against the door. “Nothing. I just heard two seconds of this conversation he was having with Butch Montrose.”

“When?”

“Last week. I went to Chicago for a Teamster smoker.”

Littell said, “Forget about Cuba.” Lenny weaved and flashed the V-for-victory sign.

“Viva Fidel! Down with the U.S. imperialist insect!”

Pete slapped him.

Littell said, “‘Barb, this is Jack.’ And remember what we’ll do if you betray us.”

Lenny spat out some gold bridgework.

o o o

The combo played way off-key. Pete figured they were zorched on his Dilaudid.

The Reef Club rocked. Twist nuts had the floor shaking.

Barb danced close to chaste by her standards. Pete figured the potential gig had her distracted.

Littell commandeered a wraparound bar booth. Barb waved when she saw them walk in.

Pete drank beer. Littell drank club soda. Amplifier boom shook their table.

Pete yawned. He got a room at the Statler and slept through the day and half the evening.

Hoffa sent two grand to Fred Otash. Littell wrote a note to Hoover and sent it via Jimmy’s FBI contact.

The note said, We want to install bugs and wiretaps. The note said, We want to fuck one of YOUR MAJOR ENEMIES.

Hoffa retained Fred Turentine. Freddy was set to tap phones and plant bugs where needed.

Pete yawned. Lenny’s Bobby/Cuba pitch kept twisting through his head.

Littell nudged him. “She’s got the looks.”

“And the style.”

“How smart is she?”

“A lot smarter than my last extortion partner.”

Barb worked the “Frisco Twist” into a crescendo. Her junkie backup group kept playing like she wasn’t even there.

She walked off stage. Twist clowns jostled her across the dance floor. A horny geek followed her and scoped out her cleavage close up.

Pete waved. Barb slid into the booth next to him.

Pete said, “Miss Lindscott, Mr. Littell.”

Barb lit a cigarette. “It’s technically ‘Jahelka.’ When my mother-in-law dies, I’ll go back to ‘Lindscott.’”

Littell said, “I like ‘Lindscott.’”

Barb said, “I know. It fits my face better.”

“Have you ever worked as an actress?”

“No.”

“What about that charade with Lenny Sands and Rock Hudson?”

“I only had to fool the police and spend a night in jail.”

“Was two thousand dollars worth the risk?”

Barb laughed. “Compared to four hundred dollars for three Twist shows a night, six nights a week?”

Pete pushed his beer and pretzels aside. “You’ll make a lot more than two thousand dollars with us.”

“For doing what? Besides sleeping with some powerful man, I mean.”

Littell leaned toward her. “It’s high risk, but it’s only temporary.”

“So? The Twist is temporary and boring.”

Littell smiled. “If you met President Kennedy and wanted to impress him, how would you act?”

Barb blew three perfect smoke rings. “I’d act profane and funny.”

“What would you wear?”

“Flat heels.”

“Why?”

“Men like women they can look down to.”

Littell laughed. “What would you do with fifty thousand dollars?”

Barb laughed. “I’d wait out the Twist.”

“Suppose you get exposed?”

“Then I’ll figure that you’re worse than whoever we’re shaking down and keep my mouth shut.”

Pete said, “It won’t come to that.”

Barb said, “What won’t?”

Pete fought this urge to touch her. “You’ll be safe. This is one of those high-risk things that gets settled nice and quiet.”

Barb leaned close to him. “Tell me what ‘it’ is. I know what it is, but I want to hear you say it.”

She brushed his leg. The contact made his whole body flutter.

Pete said, “It’s you and Jack Kennedy. You’ll meet him at a party at Peter Lawford’s house in two weeks. You’ll be wearing a microphone, and if you’re as good as I think you are, that will just be the start of it.”

Barb took their hands and squeezed them. Her look said, Pinch me, am I dreaming?

“Am I some kind of Republican Party shill?”

Pete laughed. Littell laughed harder.

DOCUMENT INSERT: 2/18/62. Verbatim FBI telephone call transcript: “TAPED AT THE DIRECTOR’S REQUEST”/”DIRECTOR’S EYES ONLY.” Speaking: Director J. Edgar Hoover, Ward J. Littell.

JEH: Mr. Littell?

WJL: Yes, Sir.

JEH: Your communique was quite bold.

WJL: Thank you, Sir.

JEH: I had no idea you were employed by Mr. Hoffa and Mr. Marcello.

WJL: Since last year, Sir.

JEH: I will not comment on the attendant irony.

WJL: I would call it manifest, Sir.

JEH: That is apt. Am I correct in assuming that the ubiquitous and quite overextended Kemper Boyd secured you this employment?

WJL: Yes, Sir. You are correct.

JEH: I bear Mr. Marcello and Mr. Hoffa no ill will. I have viewed the Dark Prince’s crusade against them to be ill-conceived from the start.

WJL: They know that, Sir.

JEH: Am I correct in assuming that you have undergone an apostasy concerning the brothers?

WJL: Yes, Sir.

JEH: Am I to assume that the promiscuous King Jack is the target of your operation?

WJL: That is correct, Sir.

JEH: And the fearsome Pete Bondurant is your partner In this endeavor?

WJL: Yes, Sir.

JEH: I will not comment on the attendant irony.

WJL: Sir, do we have your approval?

JEH: You do. And you, personally, have my astonishment.

WJL: Thank you, Sir.

JEH: Is the apparatus in place?

WJL: Yes, Sir. So far we’ve only been able to wire the Carlyle, and until our plant makes contact with the target and facilitates the affair, we don’t really know where they’ll be coupling.

JEH: If they couple at all.

WJL: Yes, Sir.

JEH: Your note mentioned certain hotels.

WJL: Yes, Sir, the El Encanto and Ambassador-East. I know that our target likes to take women to those hotels, and I know that the Bureau retains standing bugs at both locations.

JEH: Yes, although the Dark King now likes to cavort in the Presidential Suites.

WJL: I hadn’t thought of that, Sir.

JEH: I’ll have trustworthy Bureau men install the apparatus and monitor it. And I will share my tapes with you, if you forward copies of your Carlyle tapes to me.

WJL: Of course, Sir.

JEH: Have you considered wiring the first brother-in-law’s beach house?

WJL: It’s impossible, Sir. Fred Turentine can’t get in to install the microphones.

JEH: When will your plant meet the Dark King?

WJL: Tomorrow night, Sir. At the beach house you just mentioned.

JEH: Is she attractive?

WJL: Yes, Sir.

JEH: I hope she’s wily and resilient and impervious to the boy’s charm.

WJL: I think she’ll do a fine job, Sir.

JEH: I’m quite anxious to hear her on tape.

WJL: I’ll forward only the best transcriptions, Sir.

JEH: You have my admiration. Kemper Boyd taught you well.

WJL: You did, too, Sir.

JEH: I will not comment on the attendant irony.

WJL: Yes, Sir.

JEH: I know that in time you’ll ask favors of me. I know that you’ll keep me abreast of the transcriptions and ask your favors judiciously.

WJL: I will, Sir.

JEH: I misjudged you and underestimated you, and I’m glad we’re colleagues again.

WJL: So am I, Sir.

JEH: Good day, Mr. Littell.

WJL: Good day, Sir.