American Tabloid - James Ellroy [61]
“Who’d Ava Gardner cheat on Sinatra with?”
“Everybody.”
“Who do you see for a quick abortion?”
“I’d go see Freddy Otash.”
“Jayne Mansfield?”
“Nympho.”
“Dick Contino?”
“Muff diver supreme.”
“Gail Russell?”
“Drinking herself to death at a cheap pad in West L.A.”
“Lex Barker?”
“Pussy hound with jailbait tendencies.”
“Johnnie Ray?”
“Homo.”
“Art Pepper?”
“Junkie.”
“Lizabeth Scott?”
“Dyke.”
“Billy Eckstine?”
“Cunt man.”
“Tom Neal?”
“On the skids in Palm Springs.”
“Anita O’Day?”
“Hophead.”
“Cary Grant?”
“Homo.”
“Randolph Scott?”
“Homo.”
“Senator William F. Knowland?”
“Drunk.”
“Chief Parker?”
“Drunk.”
“Bing Crosby?”
“Drunk wife-beater.”
“Sergeant John O’Grady?”
“LAPD guy known for planting dope on jazz musicians.”
“Desi Arnaz?”
“Whore chaser.”
“Scott Brady?”
“Grasshopper.”
“Grace Kelly?”
“Frigid. I popped her once myself, and I almost froze my shvantze off.”
Pete laughed. “Me?”
Lenny grinned. “Shakedown king. Pimp. Killer. And in case you’re wondering, I’m much too smart to ever fuck with you.”
Pete said, “You’ve got the job.”
They shook hands.
Mad Sal D. walked in the door, waving two cups spilling nickels.
20
(Washington, D.C., 1/20/59)
United Parcel dropped off three big boxes. Kemper carried them into his kitchen and opened them.
Bondurant wrapped the stuff in oilcloth. Bondurant understood the concept of “goodies.”
Bondurant sent him two submachine guns, two hand grenades and nine silencer-fitted .45 automatics.
Bondurant included a succinct, unsigned note:
“Your move and Stanton’s.”
The machine guns came with fully loaded drums and a maintenance manual. The .45s fit his shoulder rig perfectly.
Kemper strapped one on and drove to the airport. He caught the 1:00 p.m. New York shuttle with time to spare.
881 Fifth Avenue was a high-line Tudor fortress. Kemper ducked past the doorman and pushed the “L. Hughes” lobby buzzer.
A woman’s voice came on the intercom. “Take the second lift on the left, please. You can leave the groceries in the foyer.”
He elevatored up twelve floors. The doors opened straight into an apartment vestibule.
The vestibule was the size of his living room. The mink woman was leaning against a full-sized Greek column, wearing a tartan robe and slippers.
Her hair was tied back. She was juuust starting to smile.
“I remember you from the Kennedys’ party. Jack said you’re one of Bobby’s policemen.”
“My name’s Kemper Boyd, Miss Hughes.”
“From Lexington, Kentucky?”
“You’re close. Nashville, Tennessee.”
She folded her arms. “You heard me give the cab driver my address, and you described me to the doorman downstairs. He told you my name, and you rang my bell.”
“You’re close.”
“You saw me give that vulgar diamond broach away. Any man as elegantly dressed as you are would appreciate a gesture like that.”
“Only a well-taken-care-of woman would make that kind of gesture.”
She shook her head. “That’s not a very sharp perception.”
Kemper stepped toward her. “Then let’s try this. You did it because you knew you had an audience. It was a Kennedy kind of thing to do, and I’m not criticizing you for it.”
Laura cinched her robe. “Don’t get presumptuous with the Kennedys. Don’t even talk presumptuously about them, because when you least expect it they’ll cut you off at the knees.”
“You’ve seen it happen?”
“Yes, I have.”
“Did it happen to you?”
“No.”
“Because you can’t expel what you haven’t admitted?”
Laura pulled out a cigarette case. “I started smoking because most of the sisters did. They had cases like this, so Mr. Kennedy gave me one.”
“Mr. Kennedy?”
“Or Joe. Or Uncle Joe.”
Kemper smiled. “My father went broke and killed himself. He willed me ninety-one dollars and the gun he did it with.”
“Uncle Joe will leave me a good deal more than that.”
“What’s the current stipend?”
“A hundred thousand dollars a year and expenses.”
“Did you decorate this apartment to resemble the Kennedys’ suite at the Carlyle?”
“Yes.”
“It’s beautiful. Sometimes I think I could live in hotel suites forever.”
She walked away from him.