Crowded, elbowed in. “I’ll try.”
“Do it. Make like it’s a paying job. Make like I think you pushed Johnson out the window.”
“Do you?”
“You’re greedy enough, but you’re not that stupid.”
Crowd him back, walk–my legs fluttered. A clerk’s slip on my desk: “P.
Bondurant called. Said to call H. Hughes at Bel-Air Hotel.”
CHAPTER EIGHT
“. . . and my man Pete told me about your splendid performance vis-a-vis the Morton Diskant matter. Did you know that Diskant is a member of four organizations that have been classified as Communist fronts by the California State Attorney General’s Office?”
Howard Hughes: tall, lanky. A hotel suite, two flunkies: Bradley Milteer, lawyer; Harold John Miciak, goon.
7:00 A.M.–distracted, a plan brewing: frame some geek for the Kafesjian job.
“No, Mr. Hughes. I didn’t know that.”
“Well, you should. Pete told me your methods were rough, and you should know that Diskant’s record justified those methods. Among other things, I’m seeking to establish myself as an independent motion picture producer. I’m planning on producing a series of films depicting aerial warfare against the Communists, and a major theme of those films will be the end justifies the means.”
Milteer: “Lieutenant Klein is also an attorney. If he accepts your offer, you’ll Side 37
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receive an additional interpretation of the contractual aspects.”
“I haven’t practiced much law, Mr. Hughes. And I’m pretty busy right now.”
Miciak coughed. Tattooed hands–zoot gang stuff. “This ain–_isn’t_ a lawyer job. Pete Bondurant’s got his plate full, so–”
Hughes, interrupting: “‘Surveillance’ sums this assignment up best, Lieutenant.
Bradley, will you elaborate?”
Milteer, prissy: “Mr. Hughes has a young actress named Glenda Bledsoe signed to a full-service contract. She was living in one of his guest homes and was being groomed to play lead roles in his Air Force films. She infringed on her contract by moving out of the guest home and by leaving script sessions without asking permission. She’s currently playing the female lead in a non-union horror film shooting in Griffith Park. It’s called _Attack of the Atomic Vampire_, so you can imagine the quality of the production.”
Hughes, prissy: “Miss Bledsoe’s contract allows her to make one nonHughes film per year, so I cannot violate the contract for that. There is, however, a morality clause that we can utilize. If we can prove Miss Bledsoe to be an alcoholic, criminal, narcotics addict, Communist, lesbian, or nymphomaniac, we can violate her contract and get her blackballed from the film industry on that basis. Our one other avenue is to secure proof that she knowingly took part in publicizing non-Hughes performers outside of her work for this ridiculous monster film. Lieutenant, your job would be to surveil Glenda Bledsoe with an eye toward securing contract-violating information. Your fee would be three thousand dollars.”
“Have you explained the situation to her, Mr. Milteer?”
“Yes.”
“How did she react?”
“Her reply was ‘Fuck you.’ Your reply, Lieutenant?”
Close to “No”–freeze it–think:
_Hush-Hush_ said Mickey C. bankrolled that movie.
“Guest home” meant “fuck pad” meant Howard Hughes left to choke his own chicken.
Think:
Glom some Bureau guys for tail work. Glom a slush fund: Kafesjian frame cash.
JEW HIM UP.
“Five thousand, Mr. Hughes. I can recommend cheaper help, but I can’t neglect my regular duties for any less than that.”
Hughes nodded; Milteer whipped out a cash roll. “All right, Lieutenant. This is a two-thousand-dollar retainer, and I’ll expect reports at least every other day. You can call me here at the Bel-Air. Now, is there anything else you need to know about Miss Bledsoe?”
“No, I’ll find an in on the movie crew.”
Hughes stood up. I laid on the glad hand: “I’ll nail her, sir.”
A limp shake–Hughes wiped his hand on the sly.
* * *
New money–spend it smart. Think smart:
Nail Glenda Bledsoe fast. Let Junior carry some Kafesjian weight– hope his Side 38
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fuck-up string ended. Figure out that Darktown tail, stay tailless.
Instinct: Exley wouldn’t rat me on Johnson. Logic: he destroyed the coroner’s file; I could rat him for a piece of Diskant. Instinct: call his Kafesjian fix PERSONAL. Instinct-call me bait–a bad cop sent out to draw heat.