American Tabloid - James Ellroy [3]
“This is getting us nowhere.”
“Howard, you want something. Tell me what it is and I’ll do it.”
Hughes tapped his remote-control gizmo. “Captain Kangaroo” blipped off. “I’ve purchased Hush-Hush magazine. My reasons for acquiring a scurrilous scandal rag are twofold. One, I’ve been corresponding with J. Edgar Hoover, and I want to solidify my friendship with him. We both love the type of Hollywood gossip that Hush-Hush purveys, so owning the magazine would be both pleasurable and a smart political move. Second, there’s politics itself. To be blunt, I want to be able to smear politicians that I dislike, especially profligate playboys like Senator John Kennedy, who might be running for President against my good friend Dick Nixon in 1960. As you undoubtedly know, Kennedy’s father and I were business rivals back in the ’20s, and frankly, I hate the entire family.”
Pete said, “And?”
“And I know that you’ve worked for Hush-Hush as a ‘story verifier,’ so I know you understand that aspect of the business. It’s a quasi-extortion aspect, so I know it’s something you’ll be good at.”
Pete popped his knuckles. “ ‘Story verification’ means ‘Don’t sue the magazine or I’ll hurt you.’ If you want me to help out that way, fine.”
“Good. That’s a start.”
“Wrap it up, Howard. I know the people there, so tell me who’s going and who’s staying.”
Hughes flinched—just a tad. “The receptionist was a Negro woman with dandruff, so I fired her. The stringer and so-called ‘dirt digger’ quit, and I want you to find me a new one. I’m keeping Sol Maltzman on. He’s been writing all the articles, under a pseudonym, for years, so I’m prone to retaining him, even though he’s a blacklisted Commie known to belong to no less than twenty-nine left-wing organizations, and—”
“And that’s all the staff you need. Sol does a good job, and if worse comes to worse, Gail can fill in for him—she’s written for Hush-Hush on and off for a couple of years. You’ve got your lawyer Dick Steisel for the legal stuff, and I can get you Fred Turentine for bug work. I’ll find you a good dirt digger. I’ll keep my nose down and ask around, but it might take a while.”
“I trust you. You’ll do your usual superb job.”
Pete worked his knuckles. The joints ached—a sure sign that rain was coming. Hughes said, “Is that necessary?”
“These hands of mine brought us together, Boss. I’m just letting you know they’re still here.”
The watchdog house living room was 84′ by 80′.
The foyer walls were gold-flecked marble.
Nine bedrooms. Walk-in freezers thirty feet deep. Hughes had the carpets cleaned monthly—a jigaboo walked across them once.
Surveillance cameras were mounted on the roof and the upstairs landings—aimed at Mrs. Hughes’ bedroom next door.
Pete found Gail in the kitchen. She had these great curves and long brown hair—her looks still got to him.
She said, “You usually hear people walk into houses, but our front door’s a half-mile away.”
“We’ve been here a year, and you’re still cracking jokes.”
“I live in the Taj Mahal. That takes some getting used to.”
Pete straddled a chair. “You’re nervous.”
Gail slid her chair away from him. “Well … as extortionists go, I’m the nervous type. What’s the man’s name today?”
“Walter P. Kinnard. He’s forty-seven years old, and he’s been cheating on his wife since their honeymoon. He’s got kids he dotes on, and the wife says he’ll fold if I squeeze him with pictures and threaten to show them to the kids. He’s a juicer, and he always gets a load on at lunchtime.”
Gail crossed herself—half shtick, half for real. “Where?”
“You meet him at Dale’s Secret Harbor. He’s got a fuck pad a few blocks away where he bangs his secretary, but you insist on the Ambassador. You’re in town for a convention, and you’ve got a snazzy room with a wet bar.”
Gail shivered. Early a.m. chills—a sure sign that she had the yips.
Pete slipped her a key. “I rented the room next door to yours, so you can lock up and make it look good. I picked the lock on the connecting door, so I don’t think this one will be noisy.”
Gail lit a