(LOS ANGELES, 5:30 A.M., WEDNESDAY, 8/29/62)
Predawn Wilshire. Green lights straight through Beverly Hills. Pat told me the AG was shacked at the Lawford house. I planned to intrude.
I’d been up two full days. I succumbed to fried-brain syndrome and popped two Dexedrine. We cut Jack Clemmons and Morty Bendish loose. I huddled up Parker and Gates. A late skull session ensued.
They’d read my case updates. Mimeo copies went to the Hats and Ratfuck Bobby. I updated the Bev’s Switchboard misadventure and took the blame for blowing the raid. I laid out “author” Sid Leffler and his “Sicko Psycho” piece in Morty B.’s dirt rag. I laid out my specific plans for Morty and my plan to craft a big diversion. It would quash all potential Monroe/Kennedy rumors and secure the Chief the FBI-boss gig. Said plan would force the AG to desist on the get-Otash front. It would squelch Miller Leavy’s plans to burn the Hats and me for Richie Danforth.
Parker clapped. Gates went Woo-woo. Parker said he’d lean on the BHPD. We need the names of their cater waiter suspects. Gates praised Morty Bendish. He’s a born propagandist.
Parker stressed Gwen Perloff. Work her. Deploy your reputation. She’s jungled up in bad-money schemes. Make like you want in. Gates stressed Sid Leffler and partner J. T. Meadows. Work them. Be a shit magnet. They may play out unclean.
I cut down the California Incline and cut north on PCH. I U-turned and parked outside the Lawford spread. It was predawn dark. I leaned on the doorbell. Brrrr noise drilled the house. I stood by the door-front peephole. I heard foot scuffs inside.
Eddie Chacõn opened the door. He wore a “Free Cuba” T-shirt and plaid boxer shorts. He held a .45 automatic.
He said, “Señor Freddy. And at such an hour.”
I said, “Mr. Kennedy, now.”
Eddie loomed. I eased his gun hand off to the side. He about-faced and quick-marched upstairs. I timed the wait.
The AG coughed to announce himself. He rolled out in six-plus minutes. Bobby, you shouldn’t have.
America’s Top Cop dressed for me. Polo shirt/madras shorts/deck shoes. Very Hyannis. It upstaged my wilted suit. He walked up. He rolled an unlit cigar.
“The kitchen. You know where it is. Eddie pulled a bug mount off a lamp bowl.”
I followed him in. He grabbed a coffeepot off a warmer and poured two cups. I perched in the breakfast nook. Cups, saucers, cream spout—the AG served me.
“Justify your intrusion. Make it good. Don’t tell me you came to beat up my sister’s husband again.”
I smirked. “Have you read my most recent summary reports?”
“Yes. They were persuasive, but there’s no hard evidence to prove that Marilyn’s death and the kidnapping case are anything but coincidental occurrences within a movie-business sphere. You portray Marilyn in a well-documented and defamatory light, which shows her to be drug-addicted and psychically impaired. That’s nothing but good. You posit her as a consort of criminals who traffic in pornography, which I especially like. That said, you have not given me a salutary throughline, one which will serve to dash all specious public discourse on Marilyn’s alleged involvement with my brother and me. Also, the issue of public exposure concerns me, especially as it pertains to the people whose names you stated in your summary. Public exposure means public inquiry. Public inquiry means scandal. Two things trouble me here. One, assuming the public silence of the people you name in your summary. Two, supplying the public with a factually valid alternative solution for the death of Marilyn Monroe, one that will invalidate Marilyn’s fantastical rantings about my brother and me, and one that will seduce and entertain Joe and Jane American and scrub their dirty minds free of filthy thoughts regarding the brothers Kennedy.”
I sipped coffee. Depth charge. It spiked the juiced blood in my veins.
“I’ve got the alternative solution. I’m working on it now. It’s factually valid, and I’m working up a newspaper source to put it out there.”
Bobby rolled his cigar. “You must control the public exposure of your named suspects and expurgate their attributed statements.”
I said, “Convene a sub-rosa Federal grand jury. Handpick Democratic Party–stooge jurors. Subpoena the key people mentioned in my summary, promise them immunity, let them read prepared statements, and hold those statements in abeyance as a wedge to keep them from going forward. The grand jury proceeding will serve as an extortion move to ensure their permanent silence.”
Bobby lit his cigar. “What do you want for yourself?”
“Your promise not to prosecute me, or my men, for the Hoffa operation. Your pledge to steer Miller Leavy off of attempting to nail the Hats and me for the Danforth job.”
Bobby said, “As of this moment—no.”
I sipped coffee. I jiggled the cup and burned my hands.
“I need a Justice man to help me black-bag a doctor’s office.”
Ratfuck Bobby. Smug little shit. He blew perfect smoke rings.
“Eddie’s good at that sort of thing.”
I heard footsteps behind me. A man cleared his throat. I knew it was dipshit. I smelled Pat’s Breck shampoo.
I turned around. They wore White House souvenir robes. Robert F. Kennedy brayed.
“Pat, your boyfriend’s here. Peter, don’t grovel or explode. The noted camel fucker is joining us for breakfast.”