Hughes plucked at his sheets. “Yes, I’ll finance your ‘operation.’ Have Gail Hendee write the story up–something like ‘Priapic Senator Dallies with Hollywood Playgirl.’ We’ve got an issue coming out the day after tomorrow, so if Gail writes it today and gets it to the office by this evening, it can make that next issue. Have Gail write it today. The Kennedy family will ignore it, but the legitimate newspapers and wire services might come to us asking for details to enlarge the story, which of course we will give them.”
Big Howard beamed kid-at-Christmas-like. Pete plugged his tree back in.
o o o
Gail needed convincing. Pete sat her down on the watchdog-house veranda and laid out a line of sweet talk.
“Kennedy’s a geek. He had you meet him on his goddamned honeymoon. He dropped you two weeks later, and kissed you off with a goddamn mink coat.”
Gail smiled. “He was nice, though. He never said, ‘Honey, let’s get a divorce racket going.’”
“When your old man’s worth a hundred million dollars, you don’t have to do things like that.”
Gail sighed. “You win, like always. And you know why I haven’t been wearing that mink lately?”
“No.”
“I gave it to Mrs. Walter P. Kinnard. You took a big cut of her alimony, and I figured she could use some cheering up.”
o o o
Twenty-four hours zipped by.
Hughes kicked loose thirty grand. Pete pocketed fifteen. If the Hush-Hush smear exposed the bug, he’d be covered financially.
Freddy bought a long-range transceiver and started looking for a house.
That Fed kept eyeballing his van. Jack K. didn’t call or drop by. Freddy figured Darleen was only worth one poke.
Pete stuck by the watchdog-house phone. Geeks kept interrupting his daydreams.
Two Hush-Hush stringer prospects called: ex–vice cops hipped on Hollywood lowdown. They flunked his impromptu pop quiz: Who’s Ava Gardner fucking?
He made some calls out–and planted a new Hughes double at the Beverly Hilton. Karen Hiltscher recommended the man: her scabby wino father-in-law. Pops said he’d work for three hots and a cot. Pete booked the Presidential Suite and placed a standing room-service order: T-bird and cheeseburgers for breakfast, lunch and dinner.
Jimmy Hoffa called. He said, The Hush-Hush thing sounds good, but I want MORE! Pete neglected to share his basic opinion: Jack and Darleen were just a two-minute mattress ride.
He kept thinking about Miami. The cabstand, colorful spics, tropical sunshine.
Miami felt like adventure. Miami felt like money.
o o o
He woke up early publication morning. Gail was gone–she’d taken to avoiding him with aimless drives to the beach.
Pete walked outside. His first-press-run copy was stuffed in the mailbox, per instructions.
Dig the cover lines: “Tomcat Senator Likes Catnip! Ask Nipped-At L.A. Kittens!” Dig the illustration: John Kennedy’s face on a cartoon cat’s body, the tail wrapped around a blonde in a bikini.
He flipped to the piece. Gail used the pen name Peerless Politicopundit.
U.S. Senate cloakroom wags say he’s far from being the most dedicatedly demonic Democrat dallier. No, Senator L.B. (Lover Boy?) Johnson probably tops political polls in that department, with Florida’s George F ‘Pass the Smackeroos’ Smathers coming in second. No, Senator John F. Kennedy is rather a tenuously tumescent tomcat, with a tantalizingly trenchant taste for those finely-furred and felicitous felines who find him fantastically fetching themselves!
Pete skimmed the rest. Gail played it half-assed–the smear wasn’t vicious enough. Jack Kennedy ogled women and “bewitched, bothered and bewildered” them with “baubles, bangles, beads” and “brilliant Boston beatitudes.” No heavy-duty skank; no implied fucking; no snide jabs at Two-Minute-Man Jack.
Perk, perk, perk–his all-star feelers started twitching–
Pete drove downtown and cruised by the Hush-Hush warehouse. Things looked absolutely first-glance SOP.
Men were wheeling bound stacks out on dollies. Men were loading pallets. A line of newsstand trucks were backed up to the dock.
SOP, but:
Two unmarked prowl cars were parked down the street. That ice cream wagon idling by looked dicey–the driver was talking into a hand mike.
Pete circled the block. The fuzz multiplied: four unmarkeds at the curb and two black & whites around the corner.
He circled again. The shit hit the fan and sprayed out in all directions.