(LOS ANGELES, 9:40 A.M., TUESDAY, 4/10/62)
Jimmy Hoffa said, “The Kennedys. My sources tell me you go back with those shitheels.”
The downtown Statler. A tidy junior suite. Coffee and crullers. It’s a face-off. We’re in two chairs crammed knee-to-knee tight.
“With Jack, I do. I’m sure you know the story.”
Hoffa cracked his knuckles. “You pulled him out of some grief with a call girl. You had options. You chose the wrong one, and it queered your relationship with our future president.”
I sipped coffee. “I presented my bill. Jack’s people stiffed me with counterfeit money. It was a nice touch.”
Hoffa slapped his knees. “What about his dogshit brother, Bobby?”
I went Comme ci, comme ça. “I’ve met him a few times. I’d say you know him a tad better than I do.”
Hoffa goaded me. “Come on. Give me your interpretation.”
I said, “The McClellan Committee. Bobby and Jack, back when Jack was in the Senate. Televised hearings, lockstep surveillance, government audits, indictments, rubber-stamp grand juries, public humiliation as regards your ‘assumed’ mobbed-up status. And now the little cocksucker’s the attorney general of the United States, and crawling up your ass with renewed vigor.”
Hoffa cracked his thumbs. “Did you smirk when you said ‘assumed’? Like it’s all just so obvious that everybody knows?”
I stifled a stage yawn. “Tell me what you have in mind. Yeah, I know the brothers. Yeah, I know how you feel about them, and you know what I do for a living.”
Hoffa brushed crumbs off his lap. “Jack the K is ramming Marilyn Monroe, and now he’s passed her along to his kid brother. I have this on good authority, but I can’t reveal my source. I want you to build a derogatory profile on Monroe, Jack, Bobby, and any other extraneous cooze those whipdicks are slipping it to, not to mention whatever bedroom dirt you can get me on Miss Marilyn Monroe herself, who is well known to be the Whore of Babylon in Hollywood circles.”
Tilt. Royal flush. Money tree. Three-cherry jackpot.
“You want full-time bugs and taps. Listening posts, monitor shifts, tape copies and transcriptions, summary reports, physical surveillance on Monroe and the other principals, and you want all this shit to rock around the clock, and you are keenly aware that it’s going to cost you a great deal of money.”
Hoffa went harumph. “You’re a camel jockey, and you’re out to bilk James Riddle Hoffa with no compunction.”
I leaned close. Hoffa flinched. I ticked points, wham-bam.
“Me. My three guys for the day-to-day. Bernie Spindel for the installations. It’s a hundred thousand for the job, and more if it extends past this summer. You cover salaries and all operating expenses. You pledge bail money and lawyers, if it comes to that. It’s an audacious piece of work you want done, and you came to the only guy who can do it.”
Hoffa shot his cuffs and scratched his balls. Hoffa cricked his neck and flicked lint off his suit coat.
“Okay. I’m sure it’s a bargain by your Lebanese standards.”
I said, “I’ll send you up-to-the-minute bug-and-tap reels once a week, along with typed transcripts. I’ll Teletype you summary reports every other week. I’ll—”
Hoffa cut me off. “The Monroe bitch just bought a house in Brentwood. I want it hot-wired, de-luxe. Jack and Bobby tryst out of Peter Lawford’s spread on the Coast Highway. I want it hot-wired. Lawford’s married to one of the Kennedy sisters, I forget which one….”
I said, “Pat. Her name is Pat.”
Hoffa blotted his necktie. Hoffa snapped his waistband and buffed his gold watch.
“I want it ugly, Freddy. I want lots of sordid behavior, with an emphasis on sex.”
Shitwork prep first. Vibe the terrain. Learn the entry/exit points. Scout listening-post locations.
I drove out to the beach. The Lawford estate backed up to the sand. It was right at the L.A. City/Malibu line. A big landside bluff overlooked it. Boho cottages were clumped behind a paved access road. They supplied high-up/look-down access across PCH. That meant peeper range.
The access road took me up. Cars boomed north and south, below me. Street noise statics up bug-tap reception. The PCH boom was all-time bad.
I got out and perched on a guardrail. I screwed a zoom lens to my Rolleiflex and eyeballed the house. It was a big Spanish rancho. Add-on wings destroyed the lines and klutzed up the overall look.
It was one big spread. Seven thousand square feet. Two stories. Prime beachfront turf. I zoomed close and shot pix of doors, windows, roof ledges. I’m a seasoned peeper/burglar. All bug-tap jobs start with break-ins.
Flagstone walkways flanked the house, north and south. They led back to a beach-view swimming pool and lounge setup. I shot a north-side doorway. Pat walked straight into my lens.
She wore a madras plaid shirtdress and scuffed saddle shoes. Plus tortoiseshell glasses and a man’s Rolex watch. Real camera meets Man Camera. It’s almost seventeen years. I’m twenty-three, Pat’s twenty-one. Hollywood Boulevard erupts.
The Japs pulled the plug. Strangers kiss in the street. I spot Pat, she spots me, our brain waves mesh. The kiss extends. A roving photographer takes our picture and seals history. I give him ten bucks and tell him what for. Send two copies to the LAPD Academy. I’ll be there in three weeks.
Pat grabbed me and kissed me again. We went crazy telepathic. We walked to the Hollywood Plaza and checked in.
That night was it. We had that night and no more. We’ve sent each other Christmas cards, from ’45 up to now. Pat married fuckhead Peter Lawford. I’m the “Hellhound Who Held Hollywood Captive” and her big brother’s ex–bird dog and dope chute. Said big brother? He’s the president of the United States. I’ve just been hired to put him down in the shit.
The Monroe house. 12305 Fifth Helena Drive, Brentwood. Clock it. It’s 4.3 miles east of the Lawford beach digs. Call it. This is a West L.A. caper from the jump.
The Brentwood quasi-village was due east. It was upscale ginchy. Gas station, two markets, drugstore. Public library, espresso pit, French bistro. Major throughways boxed in Fifth Helena and the adjacent blocks.
Bundy to the east. San Vicente to the south. Sunset to the north. Extended greenbelt loomed west. Helena Drives two to five ran one long block and dead-ended. The immediate area was affluent and all residential.
That rendered park-and-sit-type surveillance untenable. I’d have to glom five service vehicles and paint-job them. PC Bell, Happytime Liquor, Luanne’s Dial-A-Florist. Plus two beat-to-hell gardeners’ trucks.
The house itself:
Whitewashed Spanish. One story. Modest for Brentwood. Big front yard, small backyard. Stucco retaining walls, all around. Tall hedgerows, front and back. An oak gate and tile steps to the front door.
I parked across the street and snapped photos. Note the front casement windows. They were all draped and unscreened. They were all cracked for ventilation. Peep me, B and E me—the pad screamed it.
I shot the back side of the house already. I got the screened kitchen door with the flimsy hook-and-eye latch. I got the unscreened service-porch window. Monroe had a part-time housekeeper. I read a Herald piece on the new house and her housekeeping regime. The housekeeper slept out most nights. Peep me, B and E me, hot-wire me for sound.
Nat Denkins knew a clerk at the Hollywood DMV. He slid the guy a yard and got Monroe’s vehicle stats. She drove a ’59 Buick Invicta. Phil Irwin braced a clerk at the Malibu DMV. The Lawfords owned five vehicles. Pat drove a ’58 Bonneville ragtop.
Hearts and arrows. Freddy loves Pat, Freddy loves Lois. Carve up that palm tree by Marilyn’s front door.
I popped two Dexedrine and chain-smoked. I perimeter-scanned the front of the house. The door popped open. There she is. I clocked it at 4:16 p.m.
She’s huddled up in a white bathrobe. She’s wearing This Look. Hey, that’s my new front yard.
A car pulled up in front of me. It was a ’60 Corvair, maroon over black. A big blond girl got out and looked around. She was sixteen or seventeen. Note the rear-bumper sticker: Pali High, Home of the Dolphins.
The girl walked across the street. She braced the hedgerow and stood on her tiptoes. She was tall. She cadged a damn good look.
Marilyn waved to her. The girl shrieked and waved back.