American Tabloid - James Ellroy [4]
“He bought Hush-Hush. He wants me to find him a stringer, so he can pull his pud over Hollywood gossip and share it with his pal J. Edgar Hoover. He wants to smear his political enemies, like your old boyfriend Jack Kennedy.”
Gail smiled toasty warm. “A few weekends didn’t make him my boyfriend.”
“That fucking smile made him something.”
“He flew me down to Acapulco once. That’s a Howard the Recluse kind of gesture, so it makes you jealous.”
“He flew you down on his honeymoon.”
“So? He got married for political reasons, and politics makes for strange bedfellows. And my God, you are suuuch a voyeur.”
Pete unholstered his piece and checked the clip—so fast that he didn’t know why. Gail said, “Don’t you think our lives are strange?”
They took separate cars downtown. Gail sat at the bar; Pete grabbed a booth close by and nursed a highball.
The restaurant was crowded—Dale’s did a solid lunch biz. Pete got choice seating—he broke up a fag squeeze on the owner once.
Lots of women circulating: mid-Wilshire office stuff mostly. Gail stuck out: beaucoup more je ne sais quoi. Pete wolfed cocktail nuts—he forgot to eat breakfast.
Kinnard was late. Pete scanned the room, X-ray-eye-style.
There’s Jack Whalen by the pay phones—L.A.’s # 1 bookie collector. There’s some LAPD brass two booths down. They’re fucking whispering: “Bondurant” … “Right, that Cressmeyer woman.”
There’s Ruth Mildred Cressmeyer’s ghost at the bar: this sad old girl with the shakes.
Pete slid down Memory Lane.
Late ’49. He had some good sidelines going: card-game guard and abortion procurer. The scrape doctor was his kid brother, Frank.
Pete joined the U.S. Marines to bag a green card. Frank stayed with the family in Quebec and went to medical school.
Pete got hip early. Frank got hip late.
Don’t speak French, speak English. Lose your accent and go to America.
Frank hit L.A. with a hard-on for money. He passed his medical boards and hung out his shingle: abortions and morphine for sale.
Frank loved showgirls and cards. Frank loved hoodlums. Frank loved Mickey Cohen’s Thursday-night poker game.
Frank made friends with a stickup guy named Huey Cressmeyer. Huey’s mom ran a Niggertown scrape clinic. Huey got his girlfriend pregnant and asked Mom and Frank for help. Huey got stupid and heisted the Thursday-night game—Pete was off guard duty with the flu.
Mickey gave Pete the contract.
Pete got a tip: Huey was holed up at a pad in El Segundo. The house belonged to a Jack Dragna trigger.
Mickey hated Jack Dragna. Mickey doubled the price and told him to kill everyone in the house.
December 14, 1949—overcast and chilly.
Pete torched the hideout with a Molotov cocktail. Four shapes ran out the back door swatting at flames. Pete shot them and left them to burn.
The papers ID’d them:
Hubert John Cressmeyer, 24.
Ruth Mildred Cressmeyer, 56.
Linda Jane Camrose, 20, four months pregnant.
François Bondurant, 27, a physician and French-Canadian émigré.
The snuffs stayed officially unsolved. The story filtered out to insiders.
Somebody called his father in Quebec and ratted him. The oid man called him and begged him to deny it.
He must have faltered or oozed guilt. The old man and old lady sucked down monoxide fumes the same day.
That old babe at the bar was fucking Ruth Mildred’s twin.
Time dragged. He sent the old girl an on-the-house refill. Walter P. Kinnard walked in and sat down next to Gail.
The poetry commenced.
Gail signaled the bartender. Attentive Walter caught the gesture and whistled. Joe Barman zoomed over with his martini shaker—regular boozer Walt packed some weight here.
Helpless Gail searched her purse for matches. Helpful Walt flicked his lighter and smiled. Sexy Walt was dripping scalp flakes all over the back of his jacket.
Gail smiled. Sexy Walt smiled. Well-dressed Walt wore white socks with a three-piece chalk-stripe suit.
The lovebirds settled in for martinis and small talk. Pete eyeballed the pre-bed warmup. Gail guzzled her drink for