“And that’s all the staff you need. Sol does a good job, and if worse comes to worse, Gail can fill in for him–she’s written for Hush-Hush on and off for a couple of years. You’ve got your lawyer Dick Steisel for the legal stuff, and I can get you Fred Turentine for bug work. I’ll find you a good dirt digger. I’ll keep my nose down and ask around, but it might take a while.”
“I trust you. You’ll do your usual superb job.”
Pete worked his knuckles. The joints ached–a sure sign that rain was coming. Hughes said, “Is that necessary?”
“These hands of mine brought us together, Boss. I’m just letting you know they’re still here.”
o o o
The watchdog house living room was 84’ by 80’.
The foyer walls were gold-flecked marble.
Nine bedrooms. Walk-in freezers thirty feet deep. Hughes had the carpets cleaned monthly–a jigaboo walked across them once.
Surveillance cameras were mounted on the roof and the upstairs landings–aimed at Mrs. Hughes’ bedroom next door.
Pete found Gail in the kitchen. She had these great curves and long brown hair–her looks still got to him.
She said, “You usually hear people walk into houses, but our front door’s a half-mile away.”
“We’ve been here a year, and you’re still cracking jokes.”
“I live in the Taj Mahal. That takes some getting used to.”
Pete straddled a chair. “You’re nervous.”
Gail slid her chair away from him. “Well… as extortionists go, I’m the nervous type. What’s the man’s name today?”
“Walter P. Kinnard. He’s forty-seven years old, and he’s been cheating on his wife since their honeymoon. He’s got kids he dotes on, and the wife says he’ll fold if I squeeze him with pictures and threaten to show them to the kids. He’s a juicer, and he always gets a load on at lunchtime.”
Gail crossed herself–half shtick, half for real. “Where?”
“You meet him at Dale’s Secret Harbor. He’s got a fuck pad a few blocks away where he bangs his secretary, but you insist on the Ambassador. You’re in town for a convention, and you’ve got a snazzy room with a wet bar.”
Gail shivered. Early a.m. chills–a sure sign that she had the yips.
Pete slipped her a key. “I rented the room next door to yours, so you can lock up and make it look good. I picked the lock on the connecting door, so I don’t think this one will be noisy.”
Gail lit a cigarette. Steady hands–good. “Distract me. Tell me what Howard the Recluse wanted.”
“He bought Hush-Hush. He wants me to find him a stringer, so he can pull his pud over Hollywood gossip and share it with his pal J. Edgar Hoover. He wants to smear his political enemies, like your old boyfriend Jack Kennedy.”
Gail smiled toasty warm. “A few weekends didn’t make him my boyfriend.”
“That fucking smile made him something.”
“He flew me down to Acapulco once. That’s a Howard the Recluse kind of gesture, so it makes you jealous.”
“He flew you down on his honeymoon.”
“So? He got married for political reasons, and politics makes for strange bedlellows. And my God, you are suuuch a voyeur.”
Pete unholstered his piece and checked the clip–so fast that he didn’t know why. Gail said, “Don’t you think our lives are strange?”
o o o
They took separate cars downtown. Gail sat at the bar; Pete grabbed a booth close by and nursed a highball.
The restaurant was crowded–Dale’s did a solid lunch biz. Pete got choice seating–he broke up a fag squeeze on the owner once.
Lots of women circulating: mid-Wilshire office stuff mostly. Gail stuck out: beaucoup more je ne sais quoi. Pete wolfed cocktail nuts–he forgot to eat breakfast.
Kinnard was late. Pete scanned the room, X-ray-eye-style.
There’s Jack Whalen by the pay phones–L.A.’s #1 bookie collector. There’s some LAPD brass two booths down. They’re fucking whispering: “Bondurant”… “Right, that Cressmeyer woman.”
There’s Ruth Mildred Cressmeyer’s ghost at the bar: this sad old girl with the shakes.
Pete slid down Memory Lane.
Late ‘49. He had some good sidelines going: card-game guard and abortion procurer. The scrape doctor was his kid brother, Frank.