American Tabloid - James Ellroy [125]
Convention analysis and a baseball game. Convention interviews and a Marilyn Monroe movie. Convention shots, convention shots, convention shots.
He caught some nice shots of Jack’s HQ suite. He saw Ted Sorensen, Kenny O’Donnell and Pierre Salinger.
He met Salinger and O’Donnell once only. Jack pointed out Sorensen—“the guy who wrote Profiles in Courage for me.”
It was “compartmentalization” classically defined. Jack and Bobby knew him—but no one else really did. He was just that cop who fixed things and got Jack women.
Kemper wheeled the TVs together. He created a tableau: Jack in closeups and mid-shots.
He turned the room lights off and dimmed the volume. He got three images and one homogeneous whisper.
Wind ruffled Jack’s hair. Pete called Jack’s head of hair his chief attribute.
Pete refused to discuss the Littell assault. Pete sidestepped the issue to talk money.
Pete called him while Littell was still in the hospital. Pete got right to the point.
“You’re jazzed on the Pension Fund books, and so’s Littell. You’re goosing him to find them, so you can work a money angle on it. I say, after the election we both brace Littell. Whatever the angle is, we split the profit.”
Pete emasculated Ward. Pete delivered the “scare” that he said he would.
He called Littell at the hospital. Ward compartmentalized his response.
“I don’t trust you on this, Kemper. You can get the forensic particulars from the Bureau, but I’m not telling you WHO or WHY.”
The WHERE was Lake Geneva, Wisconsin. The location had to be Pension Fund pertinent. “I don’t trust you on this” could only mean one thing: Lenny Sands was talking trash to Littell.
Pete knew compartmentalization. Ward and Lenny knew it. John Stanton said the CIA coined that particular concept.
John called him in D.C. in mid-April. He said Langley just erected a compartmental wall.
“They’re cutting us off, Kemper. They know about our Cadre business, and they approve, but they will not budget us one nickel. We’re on salary as Blessington campsite staff, but our actual Cadre business has been excommunicated.”
It meant no CIA cryptonyms. No CIA acronyms. No CIA code names and no CIA initial/oblique-sign gobbledegook.
The Cadre was purely compartmentalized.
Kemper flipped channels with the sound off. He got a gorgeous juxtaposition: Jack and Marilyn Monroe on adjoining TV screens.
He laughed. He snapped to the ultimate tweak-Hoover embellishment.
He picked up the phone and dialed the daily weather number. He got a monotone buzz—barely audible.
He said, “Kenny? Hi, it’s Kemper Boyd.” He waited four seconds. “No, I need to talk to the senator.”
He waited fourteen seconds. He said, “How are you, Jack?”—bright and cheerful.
He waited five seconds to allow for a plausible reply. He said, “Yes, everything is set up with the escort.”
Twenty-two seconds. “Yes. Right. I know you’re busy.”
Eight seconds. “Yes. Tell Bobby I’ve got the security people at the house all set up.”
Twelve seconds. “Right, the purpose of this call is to see if you want to get laid, because if you do, I’m expecting calls from a few girls who’d love to meet you.”
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.