Pete sipped coffee. “Tell me more.”
“No, you ask.”
“Okay. I’m on the Sunset Strip and I want to get laid for a C-note. What do I do?”
“You see Mel, the parking-lot man at Dino’s Lodge. For a dime, he’ll send you to a pad on Havenhurst and Fountain.”
“Suppose I want nigger stuff?”
“Go to the drive-in at Washington and La Brea and talk to the colored carhops.”
“Suppose I dig boys?”
Lenny flinched. Pete said, “I know you hate fags, but answer the question.”
“Shit, I don’t … wait … the doorman at the Largo runs a string of male prosties.”
“Good. Now, what’s the story on Mickey Cohen’s sex life?”
Lenny smiled. “It’s cosmetic. He doesn’t really dig cooze, but he likes to be seen with beautiful women. His current quasigirlfriend is named Sandy Hashhagen. Sometimes he goes out with Candy Barr and Liz Renay.”
“Who clipped Tony Trombino and Tony Brancato?”
“Either Jimmy Frattiano or a cop named Dave Klein.”
“Who’s got the biggest dick in Hollywood?”
“Steve Cochran or John Ireland.”
“What’s Spade Cooley do for kicks?”
“Pop bennies and beat up his wife.”
“Who’d Ava Gardner cheat on Sinatra with?”
“Everybody.”
“Who do you see for a quick abortion?”
“I’d go see Freddy Otash.”
“Jayne Mansfield?”
“Nympho.”
“Dick Contino?”
“Muff diver supreme.”
“Gail Russell?”
“Drinking herself to death at a cheap pad in West L.A.”
“Lex Barker?”
“Pussy hound with jailbait tendencies.”
“Johnnie Ray?”
“Homo.”
“Art Pepper?”
“Junkie.”
“Lizabeth Scott?”
“Dyke.”
“Billy Eckstine?”
“Cunt man.”
“Tom Neal?”
“On the skids in Palm Springs.”
“Anita O’Day?”
“Hophead.”
“Cary Grant?”
“Homo.”
“Randolph Scott?”
“Homo.”
“Senator William F. Knowland?”
“Drunk.”
“Chief Parker?”
“Drunk.”
“Bing Crosby?”
“Drunk wife-beater.”
“Sergeant John O’Grady?”
“LAPD guy known for planting dope on jazz musicians.”
“Desi Arnaz?”
“Whore chaser.”
“Scott Brady?”
“Grasshopper.”
“Grace Kelly?”
“Frigid. I popped her once myself, and I almost froze my shvantze off.”
Pete laughed. “Me?”
Lenny grinned. “Shakedown king. Pimp. Killer. And in case you’re wondering, I’m much too smart to ever fuck with you.”
Pete said, “You’ve got the job.”
They shook hands.
Mad Sal D. walked in the door, waving two cups spilling nickels.
20
(Washington, D.C., 1/20/59)
United Parcel dropped off three big boxes. Kemper carried them into his kitchen and opened them.
Bondurant wrapped the stuff in oilcloth. Bondurant understood the concept of “goodies.”
Bondurant sent him two submachine guns, two hand grenades and nine silencer-fitted .45 automatics.
Bondurant included a succinct, unsigned note:
“Your move and Stanton’s.”
The machine guns came with fully loaded drums and a maintenance manual. The .45s fit his shoulder rig perfectly.
Kemper strapped one on and drove to the airport. He caught the 1:00 p.m. New York shuttle with time to spare.
o o o
881 Fifth Avenue was a high-line Tudor fortress. Kemper ducked past the doorman and pushed the “L. Hughes” lobby buzzer.
A woman’s voice came on the intercom. “Take the second lift on the left, please. You can leave the groceries in the foyer.”
He elevatored up twelve floors. The doors opened straight into an apartment vestibule.
The vestibule was the size of his living room. The mink woman was leaning against a full-sized Greek column, wearing a tartan robe and slippers.
Her hair was tied back. She was juuust starting to smile.
“I remember you from the Kennedys’ party. Jack said you’re one of Bobby’s policemen.”
“My name’s Kemper Boyd, Miss Hughes.”
“From Lexington, Kentucky?”
“You’re close. Nashville, Tennessee.”
She folded her arms. “You heard me give the cab driver my address, and you described me to the doorman downstairs. He told you my name, and you rang my bell.”
“You’re close.”
“You saw me give that vulgar diamond broach away. Any man as elegantly dressed as you are would appreciate a gesture like that.”
“Only a well-taken-care-of woman would make that kind of gesture.”
She shook her head. “That’s not a very sharp perception.”
Kemper stepped toward her. “Then let’s try this. You did it because you knew you had an audience. It was a Kennedy kind of thing to do, and I’m not criticizing you for it.”
Laura cinched her robe. “Don’t get presumptuous with the Kennedys. Don’t even talk presumptuously about them, because when you least expect it they’ll cut you off at the knees.”