James Ellroy - American tabloid

“Yes, Sir. I did.”

“Why?”

“I wanted to increase your stake in the operation.”

Hoover straightened the crease in his trousers. “I see. And I cannot fault your logic.”

Littell said, “We want to convince the man to make his brother tone down his assault on my clients and their friends, and if they think you have copies of the tapes, it will go a long way toward convincing them to retain you.”

Hoover nodded. “I cannot fault your logic.”

“I would rather not go public with the tapes, Sir. I would rather see this resolved behind the scenes.”

Hoover patted his briefcase. “Is that why you asked me to return my copies temporarily?”

“Yes, Sir.”

“You don’t trust me to keep them in cold storage?”

Littell smiled. “I want you to possess absolute deniability should Robert Kennedy bring in outside agency investigators. I want all the tapes kept in a single location, so that they can be destroyed if necessary.”

Hoover smiled. “And so that, if worse comes to worse, Pete Bondurant and Fred Turentine can be portrayed as the sole perpetrators of the plot?”

Littell said, “Yes, Sir.”

Hoover shooed a perching bird away. “Who’s financing this? Is it Mr. Hoffa or Mr. Marcello?”

“I’d rather not say, Sir.”

“I see. And I cannot fault your desire for secrecy.”

“Thank you, Sir.”

“Suppose public exposure becomes necessary?”

“Then I would go forward in late October, right before the congressional elections.”

“Yes. That would be the optimum time.”

“Yes, Sir. But as I said, I would rather not-”

“You needn’t repeat yourself. I’m not senile.”

The sun broke out of a cloud bank. Littell broke a slight sweat.

“Yes, Sir.”

“You hate them, don’t you?”

“Yes, I do.”

“You’re not alone. The THP has private taps and bugs installed in fourteen critical organized crime locales. We’ve been picking up a good deal of Kennedy resentment. I haven’t informed the Brothers, and I’m not going to.”

“I’m not surprised, Sir.”

“I’ve compiled some wonderfully vituperative outtakes. They are hilariously colloquial and profane.”

“Yes, Sir.”

Hoover smiled. “Tell me what you’re thinking.”

Littell smiled. “That you trust me. That you trust me because I hate them as much as you do.”

Hoover said, “You’re correct. And my God, wouldn’t Kemper be hurt if he overheard King Jack’s assessment of his character?”

“He would be. Thank God he has no idea this operation exists.”

A little girl skipped by. Hoover smiled and waved.

“Howard Hughes needs a new right-hand man. He asked me to find him someone with your qualifications, and I’ve recommended you.”

Littell grabbed the bench. “I’m honored, Sir.”

“You should be. You should also know that Howard Hughes is a very disturbed man with a rather tenuous hold on reality. He only communicates by telephone and letter, and I think there’s a fair chance that you may never meet him face-to-face.”

The bench shook. Littell folded his hands over one knee.

“Should I call him?”

“He’ll call you, and I would advise you to accept his offer. The man has a silly, if exploitable, plan to purchase Las Vegas hotel-casinos a few years from now, and I think the notion has intelligence-gathering potential. I told Howard the names of your other clients, and he was quite impressed. I think the job is yours for the asking.”

Littell said, “I want it.”

Hoover said, “Of course you do. You’ve been hungry all your life, and you’ve finally reconciled your desires with your conscience.”

They had 3:00 a.m. moonlight to work by. It was half a curse- total dark meant SURPRISE.

Pete pulled off the blacktop. He saw sand dunes up ahead-big high ones.

Nйstor draped his legs across Wilfredo Delsol. Wilfredo the Mummy was duct-taped head to toe and stuffed between the front and back seats.

Boyd rode shotgun. Delsol wheezed through his nose. They kidnapped him at his pad on their way out of Miami.

Pete shifted to four-wheel drive. The Mummy lurched and banged Nйstor’s legs.

The jeep bounced between dunes. Boyd examined their track obfuscator-rake prongs attached to metal tubing.

Nйstor coughed. “The beach is half a mile. I walked it twice.”

Pete braked and cut the engine. Wave noise came on strong. Boyd said, “Listen to that. If we’re lucky, they won’t hear us.”

They got out. Nйstor dug a hole and buried Delsol in sand up to his nose.

Pete tossed a tarp over the jeep. It was light tan and sand-dune compatible.

Nйstor rigged the rake gizmo. Boyd inventoried hardware.

They had silencer-fitted.45s and machine guns. They had a chainsaw, a clock bomb and two pounds of plastic explosive.

They slapped on lampblack. They loaded up their packs.

They walked. Nйstor dragged the rake. Tire tracks and footprints disappeared.

They crossed the blacktop and hiked up to a parallel access road-about a third of a mile. The road-to-waveline sand sthp was roughly two hundred yards wide.

Nйstor said, “The State Police never patrol here.”

Pete held up his infrareds. He spotted clumps 300 yards down the strip.

Boyd said, “Let’s get close.”

Pete stretched-his bulletproof vest fit tight. “There’s nine or ten men just above the west sand. We should come up along the shoreline and hope the goddamn surf noise covers us.”

Nйstor crossed himself. Boyd filled his hands and his mouth- with two.45s and a Buck knife.

Pete felt earthquake tremors-9.999-fucking-9.

They walked down to the wet sand. They hunkered low and crab-crawled. Pete got this wild-ass notion: I’M THE ONLY ONE WHO KNOWS WHAT THIS MEANS.

Boyd walked point. The shapes took form. Smashing waves supplied audial cover.

The shapes were sleeping men. One insomniac was sitting up- check that glowing cigarette tip.

They got close.

They got closer.

They got very very close.

Pete heard snores. A man moaned in Spanish.

They charged.

Boyd shot the cigarette man. Muzzle flash lit a line of sleeping bags.

Pete fired. Nйstor fired. Silencer thuds overlapped.

They had good light now-powder glare off four weapons.

Goose down exploded. Screams kicked in loud and faded into tight little gurgles.

Nйstor brought a flashlight in close. Pete saw nine U.S. Army bags, shredded and blood soaked.

Boyd popped in fresh clips and shot the men point-blank in the face. Blood hit Nйstor’s flashlight and shaded the beam light red.

Pete heaved for breath. Bloody feathers blew into his mouth.

Nйstor kept the light steady. Boyd knelt down and slit throats. He went in deep and low-windpipes and spinal cords snapped.

Nйstor dragged the bodies out.

Pete turned the sleeping bags over and stuffed them with sand.

Boyd patted them into shape. It was good simulation-the boat men would see dozing men.

Nйstor dragged the bodies down to a tide pool. Boyd brought the chainsaw.

Pete yank-started it. Boyd spread the stiffs out for cutting.

The moon passed by low. Nйstor supplied extra light.

Pete sawed from a crouch. The teeth caught on a leg bone straight off.

Nйstor pulled the man’s foot taut. The teeth whirred through easy.

Pete sawed through a string of arms. The saw kept bucking into the sand. Skin and gristle pop-pop-popped in his face.

Pete quartered the men. Boyd severed their heads with his Buck knife. One swipe and one tug at the hair did the job.

Nobody talked.