“Every story must have a beginning, a middle, and
an end—though not necessarily in that order.”
—Jean-Luc Godard, 1963
Midway through 1959 mobster Johnny Rosselli, aka Johnny Roselli, aka “Handsome Johnny R.,” aka “Johnny Handsome,” aka a half dozen other monikers (born in Esperia, Frosinone province, Italy), then recently returned to the U.S. following the debacle in Cuba, did something he’d never before considered: the 44-year old asthmatic drove to an L.A. art house to catch a French film.
With subtitles, no less!
Previously Johnny had always guffawed at the thought of watching anything but a Hollywood picture. He enjoyed the glossy color items 20th Century Fox produced with that woman The Boys liked to think of as ’their girl,’ Marilyn Monroe. Also the sort of cheesy crime flicks he’d overseen while executive-producing low-budget items on Poverty Row during his brief turn as a co-producer. Rosselli had been the executive who made certain that, despite weak productions values, such B budget (at best) items conveyed the flavor and heat of America’s big cities.
Recently, some guy he knew whispered that one of those new European films the intellectual set adored had been dedicated to none other than ... Johnny! ... more or less.
Wait a minute here. Aren’t those frogs highbrow types who likely never even heard of me? This, I gotta check out. God knows I never thought I’d drive halfway across town to see somethin’ called A Bout de Souffle ... what does that even mean?
All the same, here he was: seated in a drab, clammy old bijou, one of those places where movies were referred to as cinema. In the lobby they served wine and cappuccino rather than popcorn and Pepsi. Rosselli watched as the house lights dimmed and the film’s American title, Breathless, appeared.
*
When 91-year-old Robert Maheu attempted to rise up out of bed on the morning of August 4, 2008 he felt a sudden sharp pain tearing upward toward his heart and instinctively sensed that in a second or two he would be dead. Like a proverbial drowning man whose life passes before his eyes, providing just enough time to decide whether or not he can justify his existence, Maheu’s mind flashed back to his education at Holy Cross, particularly those Jesuit values that he’d learned there. One stood out vividly: Though Shalt Not Kill. How could Dick Tracy resolve that ideal with his own involvement during the early 1960s in Operation 40, the plot to secretly rid the world of Fidel Castro?
Now, as always since that day of his recruitment, Maheu remained loyal to a theory that way back then allowed him to, if against his better judgment, accept an invitation into a complex spider-web of men, motives, and mechanisms geared to achieving a single goal. All the while hoping he’d been right in believing the greater good of America must remain his top priority. Maheu adhered to an attitude he’d learned from Johnny Rosselli, a questionable source at best, while each was operating out of Vegas. All the same, characters like that could sometimes come up with unexpected bits of worldly-wisdom.
Once, while sharing late night drinks in the neon-bathed bar of a Mob-owned casino, Maheu blurted out: “How do you go on living, believing as you say you do in a God, when you have performed acts that make even me, a former FBI agent who has witnessed pretty much all that’s out there, cringe?”
Johnny switched positions, flashing a look of lizard-like comprehension. “Here, ‘Dick Tracy,’ is your answer. A Sicilian saying goes like this: The thief knows he is not so bad because he is not a killer; a killer knows he is not so bad because he is not a rapist; a rapist knows he is not so bad because he is not a child molester; the child molester knows ...”
Even as, in 2008, the elderly Maheu began a slow spiral to the floor, he attempted to offer up a combination of prayer and confession to the Catholic God he still worshipped. If Johnny had been right, the mobster’s words recalled by Dick Tracy in the split-second he had left to live, no matter how terribly we sin, always there is someone else who has done something far worse. Might I then be admitted to purgatory, if not heaven? Otherwise, Maheu had just begun his long descent down to hell.
*
“It takes a lot to get Ike mad,” Sheffield Edwards, CIA Director of Security, confided to Bob in the former’s D.C. office, “but he’s mad as hell right now.”
“Understandably so,” Maheu replied. Shef referred to Fidel Castro’s ever more hostile statements about the U.S. in Radio Havana broadcasts. Since seizing power a year and three months earlier, Castro had veered far from his initially hopeful stance as a democratic liberator to something more disturbing to the U.S.’s interests: a hardcore communist. As such Castro left himself vulnerable to what U.S. spies had decoded from messages between Havana and Moscow: the Russian premiere Nikita Khrushchev recently proffered overtures to the Cuban leader about setting up nuclear weapons, pointed at the United States, a mere 90 miles away from U.S. shores. In return, Cuba would receive more financial and military aid than ever.
Nothing, at the Cold War’s height, could so swiftly spread fear through America’s defense community. The existence of U.S. and Russian nuclear sites equally distant from one another had serious implications. But if this were to become a reality, a delicate balance would be diminished in Russia’s favor.
“It’ll come as no surprise to you that we’ve had our agents down there attempting to undermine Castro for the better part of a year. It hasn’t worked. Now, we must kick it up a notch.”
“And you believe I can be of service?” Maheu asked as he considered the situation on that second day of March, 1960. Though he’d left the FBI in 1947 to open offices as a private consultant and investigator, first in Washington D.C. and, after considerable success, California as well, Dick Tracy was often contacted by the CIA to make key connections owing to his great expertise as an arbitrator between difficult personalities.
“Yesterday, Dick Bissell asked me to come up with someone who might put us in contact with members of the corporation that owns the gambling casinos in Havana.” By that, Maheu knew, Shef meant The Mafia. Even in the intimacy of his own security-savvy office, such a high-ranking government official hesitated to openly admit such a thing. As for Bissell, Maheu knew that any statements from the CIA’s Deputy-Director for Plans would have reached Bissell from Allen W. Dulles, current Director of The Company; this only after Eisenhower ordered Dulles, through his higher ranking brother John Foster D., to ‘do something.’ “Anyway, I ran through some names of people I’ve relied on in the past. Yours, Bob, more or less jumped up and out at me.”
That sounded reasonable. Once Maheu won over Howard Hughes, the bizarre megalomaniac of a multi-millionaire as a client, it became necessary to spend a lot of time in Nevada, all Hughes’ business interests headquartered there. As one thing leads to another, during off-hours Maheu visited casinos along the Strip, operated by those same “businessmen” in charge of similar properties in Havana, Miami and Tampa.
Castro’s rise to power, his backing down on the issue of closing casinos reversed owing to Rosselli’s persuasiveness notwithstanding, led to the loss of one hundred million dollars a year from gambling. That didn’t take into account lucrative returns from prostitution and drugs. Castro must be considered as intolerable to The Mafia as, if for different reasons, our government. While the old adage about killing two birds with one stone didn’t apply, Shef Edwards suggested it might be possible, perhaps even necessary, to kill one bird with two stones.
No question about it, if such parties, unmentionable in public, were going to be brought in on this ‘project.’ Dick Tracy was the man who could cinch the connection. He alone, Shef reasoned, could bring together the opposites that might attract.
The problem: Maheu didn’t appear convinced. “Tell me, Shef: up until now, have your strategies involved any of these ‘other’ people, or did you assign only Company men to the ‘problem’?”
“Strictly CIA personnel, up until now.”
“And aren’t they the best at what they do?”
“Sure. Problem is, Castro’s top security guys got their hands on a list of our best agents. They can spot one of our guys coming on down a mile away. We need to try something else.”
“Truthfully? I think it’s a bad idea. Do you recall what Scott Fitzgerald said about ‘the very rich’?”
“Of course.” Edwards, like Maheu, was a highly educated man. Each had enjoyed university courses in literature as much as those pertaining to political science. Such people could quote The Great Gatsby. “They are very different from you and me.”
“Uh-huh. Anyway, that goes double for Made Men.”
“You don’t think they can be trusted?”
“It’s not that. As I’ve learned, they consider themselves men of respect. That means they hone to a code of honor, no matter how far that may be from anything you and I believe in. Still, if they agree to something, they’ll see it through.”
“So? What‘s the problem?”
“We’d be setting a precedent here that I don’t think is healthy for the country. Government agents in league with—”
“You’ve heard that 'any enemy of my enemy is my friend?'”
“In all honesty, once too often lately. And, in all truth, I don’t necessarily believe it to be true. We’re supposed to be shutting these kinds of people and their operations down, not—”
“That’s the FBI’s job. We’re CIA.”
Appearing uncomfortable, Maheu shifted in his seat, eyes penetrating Edwards. “Then it’s okay to keep the governmental body’s left hand from knowing what the right one is up to?”
“I know it sounds crazy. Particularly as, ever since the Kefauver Crime Commission began its hearings, there’s been a concerted effort between all agencies to bring down The Mob.”
“Finally!”
“’Amen!’ to that.”
*
By that, they referred to one of the government’s best kept secrets. In 1933, when Franklin Roosevelt first assumed office, a cost-cutting committee during The Great Depression considered shutting down the relatively new Bureau of Investigation, headed by J. Edgar Hoover. That human bulldog guessed that the only way to head such a move off was to convince America all citizens were in grave danger from criminal elements, and only a federal police force could protect them. Hoover, then, required a worthy opponent. That wasn’t difficult: organized crime, operating out of Chicago and New York City, fit the bill perfectly.
All Hoover had to do was appear on radio, perhaps the popular show hosted by his friend Walter Winchell (“Good morning, Mr. and Mrs. America, and all the ships at sea ...”) and tell the truth about this viable threat.
One little problem prevented that. Hoover and his lover/ assistant, Clyde Tolson, had made the mistake of not only dancing together at a New Year’s Eve Party at which liquor, still illegal, was served. They did so with J. Edgar decked out in a brightly-colored dress. Also, Hoover kissed his longtime companion on the mouth at the stroke of midnight. Unknown to them, a mob photographer had been planted in the boisterous crowd. He delivered the photos to Charles Luciano in Chicago, who roared with laughter, then had more copies printed, sending a batch to his friend, Meyer Lansky, in Manhattan.
During a phone conversation on New Year’s Day, 1929, the childhood buddies chuckled a lot about Hoover’s tough-guy image as compared to his reality. Yet another set was sent directly to J. Edgar, who received them in a plain wrapper two days later. Staring at the photo in his hand, The G-Man gasped for breath.
“With love from Lucky” the accompanying note read.
No further explanation was necessary. If Hoover were to set his men against organized crime, copies of this picture would be sent to every newspaper and magazine in America. This, in those days before the invention of devices that allowed for the easy alteration of photographic images. Seeing, at least then, any photo meant believing. Even if the Bureau somehow survived, Hoover was finished, a laughing stock. That was considered intolerable.
Days later, Hoover did indeed go on the air alongside Winchell. When directly asked about the issue of a Combination by his host, the guest swallowed hard and lied: “There is no organized crime in the U.S. That is a myth spread by those who would like to undermine the stability of our country. In part by racists who want to discredit those wonderful salt of the earth people, Italians and Jews. Also by Communists, most likely.”
Still, there had to be some reason for the Bureau, which even now Hoover was in the process of renaming The Federal Bureau of Investigation, to continue in existence. Something Hoover could convince the public was out there, menacing every American. By fate or accident, just such a scapegoat came to his attention. While escaping from prison, a minor bank robber named John Dillinger stole a car and crossed state lines. In so doing he had committed a federal offense, if a relatively minor one.
“No, Walter, the problem is not some imagined organized crime syndicate. It is the dis-organized crime even now wreaking havoc, destroying lives, causing ordinary people to fear for their life-savings which have been ripped out of widows’ hands by members of this chaotic confederacy of amoral rednecks. John Dillinger, Pretty Boy Floyd, Babyface Nelson, Clyde Barrow, Machine Gun McCain. These subhuman monsters tear around the countryside in their cars, wielding Tommy Guns, raping, pillaging, taking what they want, leaving devastation in their wake. I plan a nationwide crusade to stop them in their tracks.”
Actually, most of those rural bank robbers had never shot anyone. In comparison to the Mob, their impact on the American scene was nil. No matter. That was a reality which, if swept under the rug, did not weight heavily on the current vision of the United States as created and presented by the media, this mythic construction accepted by most citizens as the way things were. In those days before television, hearing was believing. Who would ever doubt anything broadcast on Winchell?
Hoover sent top agent Melvin Purvis and a well-armed task force out to round up or shoot down the rubes. Every time one bit the dust, the public cheered after learning the details from the newspapers or on the radio. Dillinger, who had killed only one man, and that in an accident he deeply regretted, would be posited as “Public Enemy Number One.” FBI agents plastered his photo on the bulls-eyes of their targets for shooting practice.
F.D.R. sighed. The masquerade had worked. If he dared close down the FBI now, people would perceive him as soft on crime and likely he’d be a one-term president. He caved. Hoover survived.
Luciano and Lansky had what seemed to be the last laugh. Only that wasn’t quite true. A quarter century later, J. Edgar had, like them, grown old. He might soon retire. Young turks were taking over the FBI, hoping for an Attorney General with guts. One who’d let them take on the Mob, Hoover be damned.
Things change. As Maheu and Edwards well knew.
*
“On some level, we’d be justifying the Mob’s existence.”
“Does that mean you won’t help me out here?”
“Before I answer that, Shef, keep in mind, if they do pull this off, from that moment—actually, from the time you first have me, or anyone else, communicate with them—the CIA is in bed with the Mob. Permanently. Have you thought about that?”
“Of course,” Edwards sighed, clearly displeased.
“Are you comfortable with it?”
“Hardly! Then again, these are troubling times. Survival is at issue. ‘Comfort’ is not then my immediate aim right now.”
Glumly, Maheu took that in. “Well,” he shrugged, “I’ll do whatever you ask. For the good of the country, as always. And hope and pray your call is the right one.”
“I appreciate that, Bob.”
“But I have to draw the line somewhere and here it is. You must guarantee me that we—the CIA, the Mob, whoever else gets involved—remove Castro without ’eliminating’ him.”
Both men knew what Maheu meant: bring Castro down but not kill him. Thou shalt not ...
“Agreed.” The two firmly shook hands across Edwards’ desk.
*
Edwards instructed Bob Maheu to put the project on a back burner and go about his everyday business. Shef didn’t inquire as to what Maheu’s work for Hughes consisted of. Clean or dirty, the CIA honcho did not want to know. Dick Tracy did precisely as told. When work brought him to Vegas, he consciously cultivated relations with Mob boys, deciding on one in particular as his future contact when and if Shef eventually called.
That occurred several months later. Shef explained that he’d been going over plans with Bissell, Dulles, and J.C. King, Chief of the CIA’s WH Division, ever since their meeting. When the first phase of what had now officially been tagged Operation 40 went into operation, things must run like clockwork.
Though Maheu knew King to be dependable, he was not happy that so many people had been brought into what in his view ought to have remained a secretive affair. An inner voice warned him to get out quick. But he, a man of honor, had given his word.
Nausea overtook Maheu when he learned that Gen. Charles Pearre Cabell, Chief of Air Force Intelligence, would also be briefed. When Maheu wailed that this widening circle of high-level participants must be curtailed, Edwards insisted “the Old Soldier is alright.” Cabell had been persuaded to accept a key position as Deputy Director of the CIA while remaining employed as a five-star general at the Pentagon. With that two-pronged sphere of influence, he might just prove invaluable.
This whole thing is veering out of control! The CIA and the military? Once we also involve the Made Men, anything can happen ... and probably will ...
Like Maheu, James P. O’Connell had been a Special Agent for the FBI before becoming involved with the CIA. Unlike the now-entrepreneurial Maheu, O’Connell had joined up, serving as Chief Operational Support Division, Office of Security. Shef Edwards decided at this point to remove himself as much as possible from the work Maheu would be doing so as not to get his hands dirty. He appointed O’Connell as “case officer” assigned to facilitate the “special intelligence operation” in any way Maheu might find use for him. O’Connell enthusiastically greeted Bob Maheu at their first meeting, appearing completely sincere while offering to serve as Bob’s right hand. Nonetheless, Dick Tracy did feel vaguely betrayed at having been passed off to someone else.
A short while after committing to the project, Maheu woke in the middle of the night with a chill running up and down his spine, thinking: This whole thing is doomed to failure. If I could get out, I would. But I’m past the point of no return!
*
“Johnny Handsome? That you?”
Rosselli knew the caller at once: Maheu, recognizable from his voice, at once scratchy, tinny, yet strangely sweet. Also, no one else ever referred to him by that nickname on the phone.
“Yeah. Dick Tracy?”
Other men called Bob that owing to his resemblance to the fictional character. Rosselli had a personal reason: besides the pop-art offerings, Maheu bore an uncanny resemblance to Ralph Byrd, the actor who played the comic-strip-cop, wearing the signature trench coat and perky hat, in several low-budget movies for producer Bryan Foy that Rosselli had overseen.
“It’s been a while.”
While the expression “what happens in Vegas stays in Vegas” had not yet been coined, that pretty much summed up the way things worked. A big small town, everyone got to know everyone. Not surprisingly, the former Fed and the active Mafioso shared the same watering-holes. And, in a couple of instances, women: those tall, stately, available showgirls who performed for the public, then went to bed with men of power.
“Too long.”
“Thinking the same thing myself. Can we get together?”
As Maheu had to finish up some work at his D.C. office and Rosselli couldn’t leave Vegas until Friday, they made plans to get together for drinks in Los Angeles Saturday night. Rosselli kept a suite in the City of Angels: Maheu, a business office.
Despite the casualty with which that invitation had been extended, Rosselli understood that something big was up. So Maheu, once in Rosselli’s apartment, with a shot-glass full of prime Scotch in his hand, got right to it: he had been employed by several well-known legitimate business interests that dealt in varied goods and services, all partaking of the Cuban market previous to Castro. There appeared only one way to recover their losses and that was by figuring some way to put Castro out of power.
Maheu never mentioned the term “Mafia.” No need to. Both men knew the score. Rosselli admitted the absence of Castro would be in the best interests of his business associates back east. Maheu then confided that the people who employed him would pay $150,000 if Rosselli’s own “associates” could arrange for a “disposal.” Rosselli admitted that this was an attractive sum but he did not have authority to accept the offer. This could only be settled by his superior. Before any details could be discussed, a top-level meeting must be arranged.
Maheu agreed, knowing precisely who he would have to speak with: Sam Giancana, aka Sam Gold, the mobster’s mobster.
On November 23, 1960, Rosselli met again with Maheu in a quiet cellar club in downtown Manhattan’s Little Italy. This time Maheu brought along James P. O’Connell. Though Rosselli had not previously met this man, he knew O’Connell’s reputation as a former FBI agent. As an ice breaker, O’Connell half-kiddingly asked Rosselli if he were related to a guy who once worked in Chicago, “Johnny Roselli.”
“Well, yeah, of course that was me. My parents lived in Boston; back in ’22, a ‘situation’ caused me to hurriedly head West.” Rosselli did not explain further; he had murdered a man and gone on the run. Maheu and O’Connell already knew that. “I decided to change my name. My saintly mother always adored art so I picked a Renaissance painter. We had a print of ‘Madonna With Child and Angels’ in our home. Cosimo Rosselli was the artist. Freakin’ fool that I am, I mis-spelled it then.”
All laughed genially. Though no money was exchanged it was decided that O’Connell, as Maheu’s colleague, would attend to the business at their end of the deal, he far more astute at such delicate operations. Maheu would serve as the go-between.
Then Rosselli explained that he now felt comfortable enough with the proposed situation to go ahead and make arrangements to introduce Maheu and O’Connell to his boss. Later, Rosselli phoned Maheu to inform him that Mr. Gold had agreed. The meeting would take place on November 25 at Miami’s Fountainbleau hotel.
Why there? The former Feds wanted to know. Mr. Gold wished to be in Florida as his unofficial god-son, Frank Sinatra, whom he had more or less inherited from his predecessor, Charley Luciano, would be performing. That sounded kosher. They agreed.
*
“Everything’s changed,” Sheffield Edwards, sweating in a way that was not characteristic of this ordinarily calm, cool and collected CIA executive, informed Bob Maheu on November 22, 1960, some eight months after their initial meeting, fourteen days following JFK’s election, three days previous to the Miami meeting, and three years to the day before JFK’s assassination.
“I’m listening,” Maheu nervously responded.
“Ike was Ike and JFK is JFK. Nearly two months to go before he takes office and already he’s making his iron will felt.”
“You’re scaring me, Shef.”
“Brace yourself! Undermining Castro is no longer an option. Jack told Dulles, Dulles told Bissell, Bissell told me, and I’m telling you: now, the operative word is ‘elimination.’”
Maheu had guessed from Edwards’ appearance this must be what was coming next. “You swore that was not in the mix,” he stammered.
“Times change, Bob. And things along with them.”
Both knew without needing to speak the words that, under Kennedy’s administration, their task would no longer be to find a non-violent way to dismiss Castro but to kill him outright.
“And it’ll be Mob boys, the CIA farming the job out to them, who will be expected to pull it off for us?”
“Right. Though our agents will oversee operations.”
“I must ask: have you’ve heard the same rumors as me?”
Edwards nodded ‘yes’. Maheu could only be referring to a widely held belief that Kennedy’s father, Joseph, had used his son’s friendship with Frank Sinatra to connect with crime boss Giancana. Following a meeting between ‘Mr. Gold’ and the elder Kennedy, the Mob—if this rumor were true—arranged for JFK to carry several key Chicago districts, as well as another in West Virginia. This arrangement cinching JFK’s electoral victory.
Closing his eyes momentarily, Shef nodded. “It’s all over D.C., of course. No one knows for certain but—“
“I know Mob people, Shef. You don’t. With them, a deal is a deal. There can’t be any reneging on promises, not ever, or they might just ...” Maheu couldn’t finish his sentence, so deeply concerned was he about the possible dire consequences.
“You know me, Bob. I’d never in a million years—”
“It’s not you I’m worried about.”
Edwards understood completely. Maheu harbored no concerns regarding Dulles, Edwards, Bissell, Esterline or any Company men. He was worried about the same thing as Edwards, already turning this possible problem over in his mind: The new wild card, that movie-star-handsome President-elect with a charming if slightly cynical look in those dazzling eyes, the killer smile that made the good grey men, quietly dedicated to the best interests of the U.S. at the expense of their own selves, wonder as to precisely what JFK was up to. And how far he dared go in manipulating people to Jack’s own ends, whatever they might be.
“Got you. Still, there are some solid reasons why this might be to our advantage. If the process was undertaken by these ... gentlemen ... that would give us a ... how to put it? ... cover story. We want Castro gone; so do they. If your Vegas associates agree to complete the sort of job they are expert at—we would of course pay generously for them to do so—The Company could find ourselves in a no-lose situation.”
“If any of their people were to blab that we were involved, we would simply deny, deny, deny.”
“Who would the American public believe? Mobsters or a trusted government agency?” Edwards shrugged. “And, if they should fail, we’ll be no worse off than before.”
“If they succeed, everybody wins.” Bob Maheu breathed in deeply. “Can I sleep on it?”
Sheffield Edwards rose and stepped around his desk, warmly dropping an arm around Maheu’s shoulder as he guided his visitor to the door. “I wouldn’t have it any other way.”
*
Back in his apartment, Robert Maheu helped himself to a double shot of scotch and set a 33 1/3 L.P. of Strauss waltzes to playing. He remained alone in the dark for hours, sometimes sitting, sometimes standing, mostly pacing back and forth; half-listening to his favorite music, running through that heady conversation endlessly in his mind, trying to gain a sense of purpose. If he agreed, spoke to Johnny Rosselli about doing the job, and it went down, Dick Tracy must forever consider himself as guilty of Castro’s death as if he had pulled the trigger.
Maheu had always been a supremely moral man. While a Georgetown law student he perceived litigation from such a point of view. There was the law and there was what he knew to be right and wrong. Whenever these concepts came into conflict with one another, his conscience suffered a total meltdown.
In the value system that this man had always lived by, there could be no more unforgivable act than the taking of another’s life, other than in war or self-defense. Even if that man happened to be a threatening adversary. Then again, Castro, whom Maheu despised, appeared ready to allow Russia to install nuclear missiles pointed at the nearby U.S. How many American lives might be lost, if such a Fail-Safe moment occurred, so that this one person might go on living?
He deeply loved his country, adored its people. If only a single American life might be saved, how could Maheu say ‘no’?
All night he wrestled with the complex issue. Perhaps the days when moral matters presented themselves in black-and-white ended with the crusade against Hitler. No matter how much Maheu longed for the return to such clear-cut simplistics he well knew all now inhabited a different world, were involved in a different sort of war. Still, war is war.
There was no doubt in Maheu’s mind whose side he was on. When he finally called Shef the next morning, after taking a stiff swig straight from the bottle to fortify himself, there could be only one possible answer to Shef Edwards’ request.
*
Maheu and O’Connell flew to Miami together but took lodging at separate hotels. At the scheduled meeting time a headwaiter who met the men at the entrance to the bar whispered that plans had been changed. The casually dressed, fleshy-faced O’Connell’s presence would not be required. That could prove to be a deal-breaker. Any such last minute ‘adjustment’ sounded suspicious.
Concerned, Maheu and O’Connell drew back and discussed the matter quickly. One option was to walk away, for safety’s sake. They didn’t guess there would be trouble, much less a gangland execution awaiting them. But the Mob thought like an animal with a brain notably different from everyday people, so the remote possibility could not be discounted. The deciding factor that caused them to agree was the importance of their mission.
So O’Connell headed back to his hotel while Maheu followed the escort to a dimly lit booth at the furthest end of the long bar. For a quarter hour, Maheu waited; then Rosselli appeared on the scene, ushering a now 52-year-old Sam ‘Gold’ Giancana into a seat directly across from Dick Tracy. This allowed the Mob boss to stare directly into Maheu’s eyes, Rosselli slipping in right alongside Maheu. As Giancana glared at Bob for several minutes, the square-jawed cop took the opportunity to do the same in return.
In his dapper dark sports jacket, thin metallic tie, dark sunglasses and Broadway Fedora, Sam looked similar to Sinatra on one of his recent album covers. First came small talk, allowing Giancana to size Maheu up. He determined that Bob Maheu’s was a sincere request, not some set-up to nab him. The air cleared; they spoke for an hour in hushed voices.
According to the unique protocol of such a meeting, “ugly” or “bad” words were never used. They discussed, like solid American businessmen, the “possible solution” to a “serious issue” that had been deemed “unacceptable” by both interests, calling for “a mutually planned solution” to the “problem.”
As to the fee, Gold considered it more than fair. Rosselli explained that once their organization decided how this project ought to proceed. Maheu’s people must be responsible for providing the means. Bob saw no problem there. Sam Giancana then pointed to a medium-sized bespectacled fellow, leaning against the bar, sipping his drink alone. Sensing that he was now being observed, the nondescript man glanced over, green eyes flashing.
Giancana nodded; the man nodded back, then turned away.
“That’s Joe,” Rosselli informed Maheu. “He’s our top courier to Cuba, headquartered in Tampa with a second office in Miami. He’ll transport any mechanisms we deem necessary, which you will of course supply. Joe will make the transport.”
“Got ya,” Maheu grimaced.
“I’m not sure you do,” Giancana confided, speaking now the sort of no-nonsense language all had up to this point patently avoided.
“If you are hoping for some sort of gangland ’hit,’” Johnny continued, “forget about it. We might have considered that before Castro’s protection developed from comical amateurs to qualified professionals. Mr. Gold will not send any of his men on a mission from which I know he cannot possibly return alive.”
“What, then?” Maheu wanted to know.
“Poison,” Giancana flatly stated.
“Botulin,” Rosselli specified. “Joe will smuggle it into Cuba. We have a number of contacts there who can administer it.”
Maheu thought that over before responding. “My clients don’t care how it’s done, just so long as the job’s completed.”
“You will supply the botulin to Mr. Rosselli, who will hand it over to Joe, who will deliver it to yet another ‘operative,’ who will then give it to the girl who will do the deed.”
“Another operative?”
“One of yours,” Rosselli explained. “This cannot and will not proceed without active participation from one of your own. Not somebody you farm things out to. A CIA man. Mr. Giancani knows that only if we hold hands, so to speak, can we be certain that one hand washes the other, if you grasp my drift.”
“I do.” Maheu understood that the Mob had no intention of being left holding the dirt-bag alone if things went south. A CIA man serving as connective tissue during the operation would assure there could be no double-cross, nor could the Company ever blow the whistle on La Casa Nostra afterwards. George would surely be the man for that. “You mentioned a girl?”
“Oh, yes. Quite irresistible.”
“Alright, then. Done deal.”
“Not quite,” Giancana firmly asserted.
Uh-oh, Mahew thought. Now comes the catch!
*
On the morning of August 4, 2008, a moment before Robert Maheu’s mortal coil ceased to exist on this earth, his fast-fading mind made one final connection. August 4 was the same day that, 46 years earlier, Marilyn Monroe expired in her West Coast apartment. Like pretty much every other man of his generation, Maheu had long harbored an extreme crush on The Blonde. Such a shame that she had to be eliminated. He of course had nothing to do with that. All the same, Bob continued to feel guilty over her death, along with all the others who, as part of the massive operation he knowingly and willingly participated in.
Marilyn’s disposal? The last favor the Mob performed for the Kennedys before that tenuous relationship all at once blew up in everyone’s faces. Could his oncoming death on that same day be mere coincidence, or was this some act of fate?
Dick Tracy never got around to deciding finally whether he, at the moment of end-game, believed in free will or predestination. A split-second later Bob Maheu’s eyes closed forever without his having an opportunity to come down one way or the other on that all-important issue, once and for all, at least for himself.
*
In the first shot of Breathless some French guy, whose name Johnny Rosselli never could recall, wandered down a Parisian boulevard, pausing at a local ’cinema’ to consider the image of Humphrey Bogart on a huge poster advertising the revival of one of that great screen tough guy’s classic films. This frog—Belmondo? Yeah, I think that’s it—unconsciously drew his hand up and over his lip in the precise manner Bogie always did when playing his most memorable gangland roles.
Unconsciously, at first, Rosselli followed suit, all at once realizing with a laugh that he had just imitated, in the reality of the theatre’s auditorium, an actor in an artsy Gallic film imitating an earlier star of Hollywood film noirs.
At that moment Johnny Handsome was ’sold’. This movie, and the man who made it, were friggin’ alright!
Rosselli had particularly appreciated the hand held camera-work and sudden, abrupt editing style. Apparently, this approach had been done on purpose in Breathless, borrowed from the unique style Johnny Handsome initiated at Mascot and Monogram twenty years earlier. That incidentally had been what Johnny’s friend meant when he mentioned this film had been dedicated to Rosselli if indirectly: before the story started, the frog, a guy named Godard, paid tribute in a title card to those lowest of the companies. Their output had been considered so much junk—many critics didn’t even bother to pay these pictures the respect of reviewing them negatively—when the little films were initially released. So now, they are ... what ... considered art? More influential on movies yet to come during the Sixties than respected big pictures from the likes of Warner Bros. and MGM?
Jeez! What goes around really does come around.
In Johnny’s case, he hadn’t had his crews film in such a manner owing to any desire to create a radical directorial style in defiance of a more sedate old Hollywood order. The case had been more simple and reality-bound: mostly, they couldn’t afford tripods. Even when the Poverty Row filmmakers had them, there wasn’t enough time to set the cameras on the devices, so tight were the shooting schedules. As to the ‘aesthetics’ of editing back then, this did not derive from an experimental artist’s desire to break the rules, only the necessity of stitching a story together from bits and pieces of film.
The French guy who wrote and directed this new flick had obviously, in his impressionable youth, seen and adored the ones Rosselli and his gang haphazardly created; today, yesterday’s lowbrow junk had been transformed into tomorrow’s high art.
When the show let out, Rosselli placed a call to Bryan Foy, oldest son of the showbiz legend Eddie Foy, one of his famed Seven Little Foys in vaudeville days. It was Foy who, as an indie producer, had helped Johnny get started in the business, before word reached Rosselli from Al Capone in Chicago to get to the Windy City fast, his unique services required at once.
Foy got a charge out of hearing about the tribute, then shared some good news of his own. If this Jack Kennedy guy won the upcoming presidential election, Foy would get to co-produce a movie about JFK’s wartime experiences to be titled PT-109.