American Tabloid - James Ellroy [20]
“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.
Sol Maltzman was working up his own scheme, unknown to the Feds. Boyd was in town to warn him on the Gretzler hit and hot-wire a call girl’s pad. Boyd was a glib liar: “I’ve got an ‘in’ on the McClellan Committee.”
Boyd knew he clipped Gretzler—a McClellan Committee witness. Boyd told Hoover he clipped Gretzler. Hoover said, That’s no skin off my ass.
Boyd’s car: McClellan Committee-vouchered. Hoover: well-known Bobby Kennedy hater and subterfuge king. Boyd, smooth and educated: probably a good infiltration man.
Question #1: Did the infiltration tie in to the wire job? Question #2: If this turns into money, who signs my paycheck?
Maybe Jimmy Hoffa—the McClellan Committee’s chief target. Fred Turentine could piggyback the Fed wiring and pick up every word the Feds did.
Pete saw $$$’s—like a 3-across slot-machine jackpot.
He drove home to the watchdog pad. Gail was on the portico—her cigarette tip bobbed and dipped, like she was pacing.
He parked and walked up. He kicked an overflowing ashtray and spilled butts on some prize rosebushes.
Gail backed away from him. Pete kept his voice soft and low.
“How long have you been out here?”
“For hours. Sol was calling every ten minutes, begging for his files. He said you stole some files of his and pushed him around.”
“It was business.” “He was frantic. I couldn’t listen.”
Pete reached for her arms. “It’s cold out. Let’s go inside.”
“No. I don’t want to.”
“Gail—”
She pulled away. “No! I don’t want to go back in that big awful house!”
Pete cracked some knuckles. “I’ll take care of Sol. He won’t bother you anymore.”
Gail laughed—shrill and weird and something else. “I know he won’t.”
“What do you mean?”
“I mean he’s dead. I called him back to try to calm him down, and a policeman answered the phone. He said Sol shot himself.”
Pete shrugged. He didn’t know what to do with his hands.
Gail ran to her car. She stripped gears pulling out of the driveway—and almost plowed a woman pushing a baby carriage.
5
(Washington, D.C., 12/7/58)
Ward was scared. Kemper knew why: Mr. Hoover’s private briefings spawned legends.
They waited in his outer office. Ward sat hold-your-breath still. Kemper knew: he’ll be twenty minutes late exactly.
He wants Ward cowed. He wants me here to buttress the effect.
He’d already phoned in his report: The Shoftel job went perfectly. A Los Angeles–based agent was assigned to monitor the bug and wiretap recordings from a listening post and forward the salient tapes to Littell in Chicago. Ace wire man Ward would cull them—and send the best excerpts to Mr. Hoover.
Jack wasn’t due in L.A. until December 9th. Darleen Shoftel was servicing four tricks a night—the listening-post man praised her stamina. The L.A. Times ran a brief mention of Sol Maltzman’s suicide. Mr. Hoover said Pete Bondurant probably “fired him” rather harshly.
Ward crossed his legs and straightened his necktie. Don’t: Mr. Hoover hates fidgeters. He ordered us here to reward you—so please do not fidget.
Hoover walked in. Kemper and Littell stood up.
“Gentlemen, good morning.”
They said, “Good morning, Sir”—in unison, with no overlap.
“I’m afraid this will have to be brief. I’m meeting Vice-President Nixon shortly.”
Littell said, “I’m very pleased to be here, Sir.”
Kemper almost winced: Do not interject comments, however servile.
“My schedule forces me to effect brevity. Mr. Littell, I appreciate the Job you and Mr. Boyd did in Los Angeles. I’m rewarding you with a position on the Chicago Top Hoodlum Squad. I’m doing this at the displeasure of SAC Leahy, who considers you best suited for political