American tabloid

27

Lenny preened and smacked kisses. The junketeers ate it up- go Lenny, go, go, go.

Lenny hated fags. Lenny ate fags like Godzilla ate Tokyo. Lenny ate up the Lucky Nugget lounge.

Pete watched. Lenny spritzed shtick-fag Castro gropes fag Ike at the All-Fag Summit!!!!

“Fidel! Get your beard out of my crotch this instant! Fidel! What a biiiig Havana cigar you have!”

The junketeers loved it. The junketeers thought it was high-tone political satire.

Pete was bored. Stale shtick and stale beer-the Lucky Nugget was an armpit.

Dick Steisel sent him down. Dick had a grievance: Lenny’s recent shit was too coarse to print. Hughes and Hoover loved it- but random homo slurs could deep-six Hush-Hush.

“Fidel! Pass me the K-Y, and we’ll renew diplomatic relations! Fidel! My hemorrhoids are burning up like a United Fruit cane field!”

Kemper Boyd thought Lenny had talent Kemper had a brainstorm: Let’s dispense anti-Castro rage through Hush-Hush!

Lenny could write the stuff up. Lenny used to run bag to Batista-he knew the turf and the style, and Cuban Commies couldn’t sue.

Lenny cranked shtick. Pete screened 10:00 p.m. daydreams. THAT MOMENT flashed by in Technicolor.

There’s Tom Gordean, dead. There’s Boyd, smiling. There’s the suitcase full of UF stock.

They cut their deal right there beside the body. They rented a motel room, popped a shot off and rigged Gordean in a suicide pose. The stupid Key West cops bought the charade.

Boyd sold the stock. They made $131,000 apiece.

They met in D.C. for the split. Boyd said, “I can get you in on the Cuban thing, but it will probably take months. I’ll have to explain the Gordean mission as a fuck-up.”

Pete said, “Tell me more.”

Boyd said, “Go back to L.A., do your Hush-Hush work and baby-sit Howard Hughes. I think Cuba and our combined connections can make us both rich.”

He flew back and did it He told Hughes he might have to go on leave soon.

Hughes was pissed. He unpissed him with a shitload of codeine.

The Cuban Cause had him drooling. He wanted in wicked bad. Santo Trafficante got booted out of Cuba last month, and spread the word that Castro should get butt-fucked for his Crimes Against Casino Profiteering.

Boyd called the cabstand a “potential launching pad.” Boyd had this big throbbing wet dream: Jimmy Hoffa sells Tiger Kab to the Agency.

Chuck Rogers called him once a week. He said the cabstand was running trouble-free. Jimmy Hoffa sent him his monthly 5%-and he wasn’t doing jackshit to earn it.

Boyd had Rogers hire his pet Cubans: Obregуn, Delsol, Paez and Gutierrez. Chuck fired the six pro-Castro geeks on the payroll-the fucks drove off hurling death threats.

Tiger Kab was now 100% anti-Castro.

Lenny ended his routine-with a riff on Adlay Stevenson, King of the Turd Burglars. Pete ducked out behind a standing ovation.

The junketeers loved their Lenny. Lenny brushed through them like a prima diva slumming.

Perk-perk-perk-his feelers kicked in strong. He got this feelerverified idea: Let’s tail the little hump.

o o o

They drove north, with three cars between them. Lenny’s Packard had a big whip antenna-Pete used it as a tracking device.

They took Western Avenue up to L.A. proper. Lenny swung west on Wilshire and north on Doheny. Traffic had thinned out- Pete hung back and cut the boy some slack.

Lenny turned east on Santa Monica. Pete grooved on the string of fruit bars-the 4-Star, the Klondike, some new ones. It was Memory Lane turf-he extorted every joint on the row back in his Sheriff’s days.

Lenny hugged the curb, slooow cruising. He passed the Tropics, the Orchid and Larry’s Lasso Room.

Lenny, don’t wear your hate so fucking outrй and naked.

Pete dawdled two car lengths back. Lenny pulled into the parking lot behind Nat’s Nest

Big Pete’s got X-ray eyes. Big Pete’s like Superman and the Green Hornet.

Pete circled the block and cruised through the lot. Lenny’s car was parked by the back door.

Pete wrote out a note.

If you get lucky, send him home. Meet me at Stan’s Drive-In at Sunset amp; Highland. I’ll stay there until after bar closing time.

Pete B.

He stuck the note to Lenny’s windshield. A fruit swished by and checked him out head-to-toe.

o o o

Pete ate in his car. He had two chili burgers, French fries and coffee.

Carhops skated by. They wore leotards, push-up bras and tights.

Gail Hendee used to call him a voyeur. It always jazzed him when women nailed his shit.

The carhops looked good. Hauling trays on skates kept them trim. The blonde lugging hot fudge sundaes looked like good shakedown bait.

Pete ordered peach pie a Ia mode. The blonde brought it to him. He saw Lenny walking up to the car.

He opened the passenger door and slid in.

He looked stoic. The prima diva was one tough little fruitfly.

Pete lit a cigarette. “You told me you were too smart to fuck with me. Does that still hold?”

“Yes.”

“Is this what Kemper Boyd and Ward Littell have on you?”

“‘This’? Yeah, ‘this’ is.”

“I don’t buy it, Lenny, and I don’t think Sam Giancana would care in the long run. I think I could call Sam right now and say, ‘Lenny Sands fucks boys,’ and he’d be shocked for a couple of minutes, then sit on the information. If Boyd and Littell tried to bluff you with that, I think you’d have the brains and the stones to call them on it.”

Lenny shrugged. “Littell said he’d spill to Sam and the cops.”

Pete dropped his cigarette in his water glass. “I’m not buying. Now, you see that brunette on skates over there?”

“I see her.”

“I want you to tell me what Boyd and Littell squeezed you with by the time she gets over to that blue Chevy.”

“Suppose I can’t remember?”

“Then figure everything you’ve heard about me is true, and take it from there.”

Lenny smiled, prima-diva-style. “I killed Tony Iannone, and Littell made me for it.”

Pete whistled. “I’m impressed. Tony was a rough boy.”

“Don’t string me along, Pete. Just tell me what you’re going to do about it.”

“The answer’s nothing. All this secret shit of yours goes no further.”

“I’ll try to believe it.”

“You can believe that Littell and I go back awhile, and I don’t like him. Boyd and me are friendly, but Littell’s something else. I can’t lean on him without pissing off Boyd, but if he ever gets too rowdy with you, let me know.”

Lenny bristled and clenched up. “I don’t need a protector. I’m not that kind of…”

Carhops zigzagged by. Pete rolled down his back window for some air.

“You’ve got credentials, Lenny. What you do in your spare time is your business.”

“You’re an enlightened guy.”

“Thanks. Now, do you feel like telling me who or what you’re snitching for Littell?”

“No.”

“Just plain ‘No’?”

“I want to keep working for you. Let me out of here with something, all right?”

Pete popped the passenger door latch. “No more fag stuff for Hush-Hush. From now on you write anti-Castro, anti-Commie stuff exclusively. I want you to write the pieces directly for the magazine. I’ll get you some information, and you can make the rest of the shit up. You’ve been to Cuba, and you know Mr. Hughes’ politics. Take it from there.”

“Is that all?”

“Unless you want pie and coffee.”

o o o

Lenny Sands fucks boys. Howard Hughes lends Dick Nixon’s brother money.

Secret shit.

Big Pete wants a woman. Extortion experience preferred, but not mandatory.

o o o

The phone rang too fucking early.

Pete picked up. “Yeah?”

“It’s Kemper.”

“Kemper, shit, what time is it?”

“You’re hired, Pete. Stanton’s putting you on immediate contract status. You’re going to be running the Blessington campsite.”

Pete rubbed his eyes. “That’s the official gig, but what’s ours?”

“We’re going to facilitate a collaboration between the CIA and organized crime.”