American Tabloid - James Ellroy [124]
He walked through it. He savored the appointments and checked out the north-by-northeast view.
Two bedrooms, three TVs and three phones. Complimentary champagne in a pewter ice bucket marked with the U.S. presidential seal.
He deciphered the “glitch” instantly: J. Edgar Hoover at work.
He wants to scare you. He’s saying, “I own you.” He’s satirizing your Kennedy fervor and love of hotel suites.
He wants potential bug/tap intelligence.
Kemper turned on the living-room TV. Convention commentary hit the screen.
He turned on the other sets—and boosted the volume way up.
He grid-searched the suite. He found condensor mikes inside five table lamps and fake panels behind the bathroom mirrors.
He found two auxiliaries spackled into the living-room wainscoting. Tiny perforations served as sound ducts—nonprofessionals would never spot them. He checked out the telephones. All four were tapped.
Kemper thought it through from Hoover’s perspective.
We discussed standing bugs a few days ago. He knows I don’t want to set Jack up with “Bureau-friendly” women.
He said he thinks Jack is inevitable. He may be dissembling. He may be seeking knowledge of adultery—to aid his good friend Dick Nixon.
He knows you’ll see through the “reservations glitch.” He thinks you’ll make your confidential calls from pay phones. He thinks you’ll curtail your in-suite talk or destroy the bug/taps out of pique.
He knows Littell taught you bug/tap fundamentals. He doesn’t know Littell taught you some fine points.
He knows you’ll uncover the main bugs. He thinks you won’t uncover the backups—the ones he plans to sucker-punch you with.
Kemper turned off the TVs. Kemper faked a vivid temper tantrum— “Hoover, goddamn you!” and worse expletives.
He ripped out the primary bug/taps.
He grid-searched the suite again—even more diligently.
He found secondary phone taps. He spotted microphone perforations on two mattress labels and three chair cushions.
He went down to the lobby and rented room 808 under a pseudonym. He called John Stanton’s service and left his fake name and room number.
Pete was in L.A., meeting with Howard Hughes. He called the watchdog house and left a message with the pool cleaner.
He had free time now. Bobby didn’t need him until 5:00.
He walked to a hardware store. He bought wire cutters, pliers, a Phillips-head screwdriver, three rolls of friction tape and two small magnets. He walked back to the Statler and worked.
He rewired the buzzer housings. He recircuited the feeder wires. He muffled the bells with pillow stuffing. He scraped the rubber off the lead cables—incoming talk would register incoherently on all the backup-tapped phones.
He laid the pieces out for easy reassembly. He called room service for Beefeater’s and smoked salmon.
• • •
Calls came in. His squelch system worked perfectly.
He barely heard the callers. Line crackle would drown out all second-party talk—the taps would only pick up his voice.
His LAPD liaison called. As planned: a motorcycle escort would accompany Senator Kennedy to the convention.
Bobby called. Could he get some cabs to shuttle staffers back to the Biltmore?
Kemper called a car service and implemented Bobby’s order. He had to strain to hear the dispatcher talk.
Horns blasted down on Wilshire Boulevard. Kemper checked his watch and the living-room window.
His “Protestants for Kennedy” motorcade passed by. On time to the minute—and prepaid at fifty dollars a car.
Kemper turned on the TVs and paced between them. History beamed out in crisp black & white.
CBS called Jack a first ballot shoo-in. ABC flashed panning shots—a big Stevenson demonstration just erupted. NBC featured a prissy Eleanor Roosevelt: “Senator Kennedy is simply too young!”
ABC ballyhooed Jackie Kennedy. NBC showed Frank Sinatra working the delegate floor. Frankie was vain—Jack said he spray-painted his bald spot to cut down camera glare.
Kemper paced and flipped channels. He caught a late-afternoon