Four units were jammed up to the loading dock–running full lights and siren.
Plainclothesmen piled out. A bluesuit cordon hit the warehouse with cargo hooks.
An LAPD van blocked the distribution trucks off. Swampers dropped their loads and threw their hands up.
It was fucking scandal-rag chaos. It was fucking skank-sheet Armageddon–
o o o
Pete drove to the Beverly Hills Hotel. A Big Ugly Picture formed: somebody ratted off the Kennedy issue.
He parked and ran by the pooi. He saw a big crowd outside the Hughes bungalow.
They were peeping in Big Howard’s bedroom window. They looked like fucking ghouls at an accident scene.
He ran up and pushed to the front. Billy Eckstine nudged him. “Hey, check this out.”
The window was open. Two men were jacking up Mr. Hughes–double-teaming him with Big Verbal Grief.
Robert Kennedy and Joseph P. Kennedy Sr.
Hughes was swaddled in bed quilts. Bobby was waving a hypo. Old Joe was raging.
“…You’re a pathetic lecher and a narcotics addict. I am two seconds away from exposing you to the whole wide world, and if you think I’m bluffing please note that I opened the window to let your hotel neighbors have a sneak preview of what the whole world will know if you ever allow your filthy scandal rag to write another word about my family.”
Hughes cringed. His head banged the wall and sent a picture frame toppling.
Some all-star voyeurs dug the show: Billy, Mickey Cohen, some faggot Mouseketeer sporting a jumbo mouse-ear beanie.
Howard Hughes whimpered. Howard Hughes said, “Please don’t hurt me.”
o o o
Pete drove to the Shoftel pad. The Big Ugly Picture expanded: either Gail snitched or the Feds exposed the piggyback.
He pulled up behind Freddy’s van. Freddy was down on his knees in the street–cuffed to the front-bumper housing.
Pete ran over. Freddy yanked at his shackle chain and tried to stand up.
He’d scraped his wrist bloody. He’d ripped his knees raw crawling on the pavement.
Pete knelt down in front of him. “What happened? Quit grabbing at that and look at me.”
Freddy did some wrist contortions. Pete slapped him. Freddy snapped to and focused in half-alert.
He said, ‘The listening-post guy sent his transcripts to some Fed in Chicago and told him he was hinked on my van. Pete, this thing plays wrong to me. There’s just one FBI guy working single-o, like he went off half-cocked or some–”
Pete ran across the lawn and bolted the porch. Darleen Shoftel ducked out of his way, snapped a high heel and fell on her ass.
The Big and Ugly Final Picture:
Spackle-coated mikes on the floor. Two tap-gutted phones belly-up on an end table.
And SA Ward J. Littell, standing there in an off-the-rack blue suit.
It was a stalemate. You don’t whack FBI men impromptu.
Pete walked up to him. He said, “This is a bullshit roust, or you wouldn’t be here alone.”
Littell just stood there. His glasses slipped down his nose.
“You keep flying out here to bother me. Next time’s the last time.”
Littell said, “I’ve put it together.” The words came out all quivery.
“I’m listening.”
“Kemper Boyd told me he had an errand at the Beverly Hills Hotel. He talked to you there, and you got suspicious and tailed him. You saw us black-bag this place and got your friend to put in auxiliary wires. Senator Kennedy told Miss Shoftel about Roland Kirpaski testifying, and you heard it and talked Jimmy Hoffa into giving you the contract.”
Booze guts. This skinny stringbean cop with 8:00 a.m. liquor breath.
“You’ve got no proof, and Mr. Hoover doesn’t care.”
“You’re right. I can’t arrest you and Turentine.”
Pete smiled. “I’ll bet Mr. Hoover liked the tapes. I’ll bet he won’t be too pleased that you blew this operation.”
Littell slapped his face. Littell said, “That’s for the blood on John Kennedy’s hands.”
The slap was weak. Most women slapped harder.
o o o
He knew she’d leave a note. He found it on their bed, next to her house keys.
I know you figured out I soft-soaped the article. When the editor didn’t question it I realized it wasn’t enough and called Bob Kennedy. He said he would probably be able to pull strings and get the issue pulled. Jack is sort of callous in some ways, but he doesn’t deserve what you planned. I don’t want to be with you any more. Please don’t try to find me.