Sol Maltzman wrote: “The political implications of Howard Hughes’ 1956 loan of $200,000 to Richard Nixon’s brother Donald are staggering, especially since Nixon is expected to be the 1960 Republican Presidential nominee. This is a clear-cut case of an immensely wealthy industrialist buying political influence. It can be circumstantially supported by serving up many verifiable examples of Nixon-initiated policy directly beneficial to Hughes.”
Pete rechecked the evidence pix. The verification was solid– straight down the line.
His food was cold. He’d sweated his shirt starched to wilted.
Insider knowledge was a big fucking blast.
o o o
His day was all aces and 8s–some dead man’s hand he couldn’t play or fold.
He could hold onto the Hughes/Nixon dirt. He could let Gail take Sol’s job at Hush-Hush–she’d done magazine work before–she was tired of divorce shakedowns anyway.
The HUAC staff was aces flush, but MONEY angles eluded him. Kemper Boyd’s walk-on had his antenna feelers perk-perkperking.
Pete drove to the Miramar Hotel and staked out the parking lot. Boyd’s car was stashed back by the pool. Lots of women in swimsuits were out sunning–surveillance conditions could be worse.
Hours dragged by. The women came and went. Dusk hampered and shut down the view.
Miami crossed his mind–tiger-striped cabs and hungry gators.
6:00 p.m., 6:30, 7:00. 7:22: Boyd and Ward Fucking Littell walking by the pool.
They got into Boyd’s rent-a-car. They pulled out onto Wilshire eastbound.
Littell was Joe Scaredy Cat to Boyd’s Cool Cat. Memory Lane: those Feds and him shared a history.
Pete eased into traffic behind them. They did a two-car rollout: east on Wilshire, Barrington north to Sunset. Pete dawdled back and leapfrogged lanes–mobile bird-dog jobs jazzed him.
He was good. Boyd was unhip to the tail–he could tell.
They cruised east on Sunset: Beverly Hills, the Strip, Hollywood. Boyd turned north on Alta Vista and parked–midway down a block of small stucco houses.
Pete slid to the curb three doors up. Boyd and Littell got out; a streetlamp lit their moves.
They put on gloves. They grabbed flashlights. Littell unlocked the trunk and picked up a tool box.
They walked up to a pink stucco house, picked the lock and entered.
Flashlight beams crisscrossed the windows. Pete U-turned and spotted the curb plate: 1541 North.
It had to be a bug/wire job. FBI men called B&E’s “black baggers.”
The living-room lights snapped on. The fuckers were going at it brazen.
Pete grabbed his reverse bookoff the backseat. He skimmed it by the dashboard light.
1541 North Alta Vista matched to: Darleen Shoftel, HO3-681l.
Bug jobs took about an hour–he could run her through R&I. He saw a phone booth back at the corner–he could call and watch the house simultaneous.
He walked down and buzzed the County line. Karen Hiltscher picked up–he recognized her voice immediately.
“Records and Information.”
“Karen, it’s Pete Bondurant.”
“You knew it was me after all this time?”
“I guess it’s just one of those voices. Look, can you run somebody for me?”
“I suppose, even though you’re not a deputy sheriff anymore, and I really shouldn’t.”
“You’re a pal.”
“I sure am, especially after the way you–”
“The name’s Darleen Shoftel. That’s D-A-R-L-E-E-N, S-H-O-F-T-E-L. The last known address I have is 1541 North Alta Vista, Los Angeles. Check all–”
“I know what to do, Pete. You just hold the line.”
Pete held. House lights blinked up the block–covert Feds at work.
Karen came back on. “Darleen Shoftel, white female, DOB 3/9/32. No wants, no warrants, no criminal record. She’s clean with the DMV, but West Hollywood Vice has a blue sheet on her. There’s one notation, dated 8/14/57. It says that a complaint was filed against her by the management at Dino’s Lodge. She was soliciting for acts of prostitution at the bar. She was questioned and released, and the investigating detective described her as a ‘highclass call girl.’”
“That’s all?”
“That’s not bad for one phone call.”
Pete hung up. He saw the house lights blip off and checked his watch.
Boyd and Littell walked out and loaded their car. Sixteen minutes flat–a black-bag world record.
They drove away. Pete leaned against the booth and worked up a scenario.