American tabloid

Pete said, “And?’

“And I know that you’ve worked for Hush-Hush as a ‘story verifier,’ so I know you understand that aspect of the business. It’s a quasi-extortion aspect, so I know it’s something you’ll be good at.”

Pete popped his knuckles. “‘Story verification’ means ‘Don’t sue the magazine or I’ll hurt you.’ If you want me to help out that way, fine.”

“Good. That’s a start.”

“Wrap it up, Howard. I know the people there, so tell me who’s going and who’s staying.”

Hughes flinched-just a tad. “The receptionist was a Negro woman with dandruff, so I fired her. The stringer and so-called ‘dirt digger’ quit, and I want you to find me a new one. I’m keeping Sol Maltzman on. He’s been writing all the articles, under a pseudonym, for years, so I’m prone to retaining him, even though he’s a blacklisted Commie known to belong to no less than twenty-nine left-wing organizations, and-”

“And that’s all the staff you need. Sol does a good job, and if worse comes to worse, Gail can fill in for him-she’s written for Hush-Hush on and off for a couple of years. You’ve got your lawyer Dick Steisel for the legal stuff, and I can get you Fred Turentine for bug work. I’ll find you a good dirt digger. I’ll keep my nose down and ask around, but it might take a while.”

“I trust you. You’ll do your usual superb job.”

Pete worked his knuckles. The joints ached-a sure sign that rain was coming. Hughes said, “Is that necessary?”

“These hands of mine brought us together, Boss. I’m just letting you know they’re still here.”

o o o

The watchdog house living room was 84’ by 80’.

The foyer walls were gold-flecked marble.

Nine bedrooms. Walk-in freezers thirty feet deep. Hughes had the carpets cleaned monthly-a jigaboo walked across them once.

Surveillance cameras were mounted on the roof and the upstairs landings-aimed at Mrs. Hughes’ bedroom next door.

Pete found Gail in the kitchen. She had these great curves and long brown hair-her looks still got to him.

She said, “You usually hear people walk into houses, but our front door’s a half-mile away.”

“We’ve been here a year, and you’re still cracking jokes.”

“I live in the Taj Mahal. That takes some getting used to.”

Pete straddled a chair. “You’re nervous.”

Gail slid her chair away from him. “Well… as extortionists go, I’m the nervous type. What’s the man’s name today?”

“Walter P. Ki

Gail crossed herself-half shtick, half for real. “Where?”

“You meet him at Dale’s Secret Harbor. He’s got a fuck pad a few blocks away where he bangs his secretary, but you insist on the Ambassador. You’re in town for a convention, and you’ve got a snazzy room with a wet bar.”

Gail shivered. Early a.m. chills-a sure sign that she had the yips.

Pete slipped her a key. “I rented the room next door to yours, so you can lock up and make it look good. I picked the lock on the co

Gail lit a cigarette. Steady hands-good. “Distract me. Tell me what Howard the Recluse wanted.”

“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 Ke

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 bedlellows. 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?”

o o o

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.

Ki

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 LA. 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 bum.

The papers ID’d them:

Hubert John Cressmeyer, 24.

Ruth Mildred Cressmeyer, 56.

Linda Jane Camrose, 20, four months pregnant.

Franзois Bondurant, 27, a physician and French-Canadian йmigrй.

The snuffs stayed officially unsolved. The story filtered out to insiders.

Somebody called his father in Quebec and ratted him. The old 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. Ki

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 courage-her jaggedy nerves showed through plain.

She touched Walt’s arm. Her guilty heart showed plain-except for the money, she hates it.

Pete walked over to the Ambassador and went up to his room. The setup was perfect: his room, Gail’s room, one co