Twenty-four seconds. “I don’t believe it.”
Nine seconds. “Lawford set it up?”
Eight seconds. “Come on, Jack. Marilyn Monroe?”
Eight seconds. “I’ll believe it if you tell me not to send my girls over.”
Six seconds. “Jesus Christ.”
Eight seconds. “They’ll be disappointed, but I’ll extend the raincheck.”
Eight seconds. “Right. Naturally, I’ll want details. Right. Goodbye, Jack.”
Kemper hung up. Jack and Marilyn bumped television heads.
He just created Voyeur/Wiretap Heaven. Hoover would cream his jeans and maybe even spawn some crazy myth.
48
(Beverly Hills, 7/14/60)
Wyoming went for Bad-Back Jack. The delegates went stone fucking nuts.
Hughes doused the volume and scrunched up on his pillows. “He’s nominated. But that’s a far cry from being elected.”
Pete said, “Yes, sir.”
“You’re being deliberately obtuse. ‘Yes, sir’ is not the proper response, and you’re sitting there in that chair being deliberately disrespectful.”
A commercial blipped on: Yeakel Oldsmobile, the voters’ choice!
“How’s this? ‘Yes, sir, Jack’s got a nice head of hair, but your man Nixon will thrash him soundly in the general election.’”
Hughes said, “It’s better, but I detect a certain impertinence.”
Pete cracked his thumbs. “I flew out because you said you needed to see me. I brought you a three-month supply of shit. You said you wanted to discuss some subpoena dodging strategy, but all you’ve done so far is rant about the Kennedys.”
Hughes said, “That is gross impertinence.”
Pete sighed. “Get your Mormons to show me the door, then. Get Duane Spurgeon to score you dope in violation of six trillion fucking state and Federal statutes.”
Hughes flinched. His IV tubes stretched; his blood bottle wiggled. Vampire Howard: sucking in transfusions to assure his germfree longevity.
“You’re a very cruel man, Pete.”
“No. Like I told you once before, I’m your very cruel man.”
“Your eyes have gotten smaller and crueler. You keep looking at me strangely.”
“I’m waiting for you to bite my neck. I’ve been around the block a few times, but this new Dracula kick of yours is something to see.”
Hughes fucking smiled. “It’s no more amazing than you fighting Fidel Castro.”
Pete smiled. “Was there something important you wanted to talk about?”
The convention- flashed back on. Bad-Back Jack supporters whooped and swooned.
“I want you to vet the subpoena-avoidance plans my Mormon colleagues have devised. They’ve come up with some ingenious–” –
“We could have done it over the phone. You’ve been holding the TWA paperwork off since ‘57, and I don’t think the Justice Department gives a shit anymore.”
“Be that as it may, I now have a specific reason to avoid divesting TWA until the most opportune moment.”
Pete sighed. Pete said, “I’m listening.”
Hughes tapped his drip gizmos. A blood bottle drained red to pink.
“When I finally divest, I want to use the money to buy hotelcasinos in Las Vegas. I want to accumulate large, undetectable cash profits and breathe wholesome, germ-free desert air. I’ll have my Mormon colleagues administer the hotels, to insure that Negroes who might pollute the environment are politely but firmly discouraged from entering, and I’ll create a cash-flow base that will allow me to diversify into various defense-industry areas without paying taxes on my seed money. I’ll–”
Pete tuned him out. Hughes kept spritzing numbers: millions, billions, trillions. Jack the K. was on TV–spritzing “Vote for Me!” with the sound down.
Pete ran numbers in his head.
There’s Littell in Lake Geneva–chasing the Pension Fund. There’s Jules Schiffrin–a well-respected Chi-Mob graybeard. Jules just might have the Pension books stashed at his pad.
Hughes said, “Pete, you’re not listening to me. Quit looking at that puerile politician and give me your full attention.”
Pete hit the off switch. Jack the Haircut faded out.
Hughes coughed. “That’s better. You were looking at that boy with something like admiration.”
“It’s his hair, Boss. I was wondering how he got it to stand up like that.”
“You have a short memory. And I have a short fuse where ironic answers are concerned.”
“Yeah?”
“Yes. You might recall that two years ago I gave you thirty thousand dollars to try to compromise that boy with a prostitute.”
“I remember.”
“That’s not a complete answer.”