“What?”
“Money. He hand you money?”
“Are you calling me a tootsie?”
“Does he kick in for your hotel bill?”
“Are you ready to leave?”
“Just nod your head,” said Rouse. “Have you met Johnny Roselli, no? Santos Trafficante, no? Tony Accardo, also known as Big Tuna, no? Have you met individuals named Cheety, Wheels, Bazooka, Tony Tits?”
“I can’t recall. I meet many people.”
“Never came across Tony Tits?” asked Rouse. “He’s a man.”
“I don’t care what he is. I’m asking you to leave.”
“How do you support yourself?” asked Mack.
“I’m an airline hostess.”
Mack consulted a piece of paper, “Your rent here is $800 a month?”
“Yes.”
“But Mr. Giancana never kicks in?”
“I’ve asked you to leave twice.”
“There seem to be a lot of wrapped packages in this room right now. Are they presents?”
“Christmas gifts.”
“From Giancana?”
“A few.”
“Mind telling me what they are?”
“Do you mind minding your own business?”
“It becomes my business,” said Mack, “once you are receiving money or its equivalent in gifts from Giancana, a criminal source.”
“Why,” asked Rouse, “would someone like yourself, of self-supporting income, according to your claim, associate herself with a gutter hoodlum?”
“I’m going to call the desk and ask the house detective to throw you out.”
Mack smiled. Rouse smiled.
“I’m going to ask them to tell you to get out of my room. It is not your hotel.”
“We are going,” said Mack, “but guarantee you, Miss Murphy, we will come back. In the meantime, ask yourself what additional information you might have to offer us.”
“Yes,” said Rouse, “you will see us.” He smiled. “Keep your nose clean, Modene.”
She called Giancana the moment that they left.
“Watch out,” said Sam, as soon as she began to explain, “your phone could be hot.”
“Can you come over?” she asked.
“That would be no good thing for you.”
“Sam, what should I have said?”
“You said the right thing. They were fishing, that’s all. For dead stinking fish. They can’t take a shit without sucking their toes. They would lick their own ass if they could reach it. That’s in case you’re listening to me, you bastards.”
“Sam.”
“Sweetheart, if these cocksuckers show up again, tell them I’ll supply front-row tickets for J. Edgar Hoover and Clyde Tolson getting it on in Macy’s store window. Big changes coming, you scumbags! Modene, you are a queen, and as innocent as the fucking snow.”
With that, he signed off. She said Sam was not only talking to the FBI fully as much as he was talking to her, but she had never heard him in such a state of excitement.
When she finished her story, she said to me, “Are you one of them?”
“One of who?”
“Mack and Rouse.”
“I can’t believe you said that.”
“You are in cahoots. I know it. Something has always been wrong between you and me.”
“If you believe that, why do you tell me what they said?”
“Because what they said is knocking around inside me.”
“I believe you.”
“Besides, they report to you anyway.” She began to laugh. “I know for a fact,” she said. “You are FBI.”
“What would it take to convince you that I am not?”
“Then, who are you really working for?”
“Why don’t you use your imagination?” I said. “Or is that in short supply?”
It was a fatal remark.
“Get out of here,” she said.
“I think I will.”
“I knew it couldn’t go on,” she said, “but I didn’t know it was this close to the end.”
“Well, you’ve found a way.”
“I think I have.”
“You have.”
To my surprise, I was as angry as Modene.
“Don’t try to call me,” she said.
“I won’t be likely to.”
“God, I dislike your person,” she said. “You are such a dull cock.”
Shutting the door behind me, I felt an odd calm. I had no idea whether I would see her again in a day, a year, or never, but at the moment, it did not matter. I had just been treated to what Kittredge used to describe as “the changing of the guard.” If there was a parliament in the psyche, the party in power had just been voted out. I did not think Modene and I would come together soon. “Dull cock,” she had called me. Her father must have been one ungodly wheel at riding other racers off the track.
35
I SUFFERED IN THE NEXT WEEK. OF COURSE. IF SOME LARGE PART OF ME NO longer wanted to put up with periodic cuckoldry, nor the firm limitations of her mind, so did longing for Modene return at the most unpredictable times. I could no longer walk into a restaurant with that beautiful girl on my arm.
Still, there was a clear line of demarcation. I had no real desire to hear from her. I was even weary of the pride of having her, since it fed my absence of dedication to anything else. It seemed important again to give myself to the job. History was going to be made in the next few months. To wind up any doubts on the matter, a communication from Harlot arrived two weeks after my cable to him.
SERIAL: J/39,268,469
ROUTE: LINE/ZENITH—OPEN
TO: ROBERT CHARLES
FROM: GLOUCESTER
SUBJECT: EFFICACY
10:23 A.M. JAN. 3, 1961
It appears that girls talk to girlfriends more freely than to boyfriends. See you anon.
GLOUCESTER
It was his way of saying that there was no need to send me any more of the BLUEBEARD–AURAL transcripts.
Before the middle of January, another long letter arrived from my father. I had to admire his ability to find cures for despondency.
January 12, 1961
Son:
Beware of melancholy, an old Hubbard trait. It hit me very badly yesterday to read that Dashiell Hammett died on January 10. I felt abominable. The radio was playing this dreadful new song, “Let’s Do the Twist,” just as I opened the paper to receive such news. I put in a call of condolence immediately to Lillian Hellman and that’s the first time we’ve spoken in ten years, although I believe she was glad to hear from me. I don’t know if I ever told you, but Lillian is also an old friend. I will admit we are one strange link-up, but in the days when I would drink with Hammett, Lillian got wind that I was in hush-hush. That didn’t bother her a bit. I’m not one to kiss and tell, but Miss Hellman couldn’t keep her hands off this then-younger presentation of meat and bones. Some of the Casanovas I’ve known used to call it a clue to the hunt: Look for a good Christian every time. Well, I’ll pass on to you, son, the local recipe from your dad’s battle-scarred experience: Make it a strong-minded Jewish girl with powerful leftist inclinations. Can’t beat those ladies for types like me.
I tell these out-of-school tales only to indicate the nature of my friendship with Hammett. He knew about my affair with Lillian. I think he even approved of it. He was the damnedest Communist I ever met. The fact of the matter was that Lillian still adored Hammett, but he had drunk himself out of any kind of connubial relations a long time ago. So, if it had to be other men, and it had to be, because Lillian was a woman of imperious appetite (used to call her Catherine the Great to her face, which she loved), Dash didn’t mind entering the process of selection. He was all for our affair. I never fooled myself, however. It was Dashiell Hammett she loved. He always seemed immortal. Not like a god so much as a dry, silvery angel, a piece of driftwood there on the beach for eternity. It’s hard to believe he’s gone.
I not only had regar
d for him as a writer but as a man. He never tried to pump me for literary material. I believe he respected the caul in which we work. It was as if just by the osmosis of drinking together he could pick up enough about the complexities of our work-code that if he wanted to I’m sure he could have popped me into a book. One classy gent, and he’s gone.
As you know from my last letter, I’ve been subjected to The Chill. I think it must have been at its worst around December 18. It certainly ruined Christmas. But we were all under a cloud anyway. December 18 was the day Dulles and his prize dodo, Deputy Director General Cabell, brought Barnes and Bissell and myself together with our top project officers for a look at our Cuban situation now that we’re under Kennedy management. Allen wanted a review of all that was wrong as well as right in order to get out in front of criticism.
A lot of disheartening reports ensued. We have had all too many networks rolled up. And our air drops have been off. We are using former Air Cubana commercial pilots, and these guys can’t do pinpoint navigation. They’ve been sitting on a superhighway of radar between Miami and Havana so long that they’ve lost directional finesse. Invariably, they miss the mark. In fact the drop that worked most accurately was a fiasco engineered by His High Asshole General Cabell.
It seems we were flying some arms over to a group, and Cabell wanted to know how much of the cargo space was filled. One-tenth capacity happened to be the answer. “That’s wasteful,” said Cabell. “Don’t send a plane over nine-tenths empty! Get some rice and beans on the craft. Our Cuban team down there can probably use it.”
Well, it happened to be a precise drop in a specific place. The receiving party was too small to handle a full load.
“I do not want to hear that,” said Cabell. “Put some forward lean into this mission.”
David Phillips, one of our Latin American hands, said to Cabell, “General, I’ve spent four of the past six years in Cuba. Rice and beans is the national dish. I can assure you, there’s no shortage.”
Cabell answered: “Ever hear of an Appropriations Committee? I’m not going up to the Hill to explain to some congressman why we sent over a plane nine-tenths empty. Load up the rice and beans.”
That was one night, son, when our plane did hit the target. The radio message was so frantic that it came back in English: YOU SON OF BITCH. WE NEARLY KILLED BY RICE BAGS. YOU CRAZY?
We all made sure that Allen Dulles received a copy. He is stuck with Cabell as his Number Two because the man is a Four-Star Air Force General, and that keeps the Pentagon less unhappy about us. Of course, the General is now renowned in good circles as “Old Rice and Beans Cabell.”
Care for any more bad news? Maritime ops are proving equally dismal. Castro’s coast guard is showing a high percentage of kills. The DGI seems to know a good many of our landing sites in Cuba in advance. I’ve been trying to get us to outfit a mother ship that could work just outside the 3-mile limit from Cuban waters. We could equip it with advanced radar. The smaller boats carried on its davits need only be dispatched when the nearby coast, monitored by radar, proves to be clear. The problem is to get such a large craft in readiness quickly.
Now, for first-rate news! The main invasion—and this I pass on to you as a blood confidence—has been confirmed for Trinidad. That small city is on the southern shore between Cienfuegos and Sancti Spíritus. Perfect location. There are mountains nearby to hole up in should things go badly, yet two provincial capitals are close enough to capture in the first couple of days, provided the push goes right. Best of all, Cuba is narrow at that point, seventy miles wide, no more. We could cut the country in half pretty quickly.
Here’s another bit of blood gossip not to be repeated. We’ve buried a function in the woodwork. It’s called ZR/RIFLE and is a capacity that I wish we had developed in advance of all our Maheu projects. Bissell has asked Helms to get it started, and Helms promptly consulted your godfather. Who does Sir Hugh propose to oversee the new capacity, but Bill Harvey? Amazing—taking into account their old enmity.
I end here for the nonce. I’m having a night out tonight which I do look forward to, but will pick up this communication tomorrow.
Friday, the Thirteenth
That was one good night, last night, fellow. Allen had the wit—God, I love that man when he’s at his best—to invite all the new Kennedy muckamucks to an evening with a number of us at the Alibi Club. He wanted to put the top new Washington folk into a more gung-ho frame of mind for the Cuban op, and I believe we brought it off. I must say, the Alibi Club was the perfect place for this, just as fusty inside as, let’s say, the Somerset Club in Boston. The old menus on the wall set the note, “Turtle Soup, 25 cents,” and the martinis are good. It relaxed the young new Kennedy breed, and a few of them are pretty young, I must tell you, and awfully bright, and fitted up with an all-around alert system as to where the next cue is coming from. Bright young top-of-the-Law-Review gents, but instinctive as well. On the other hand, they are certainly in way over their heads. With all due respect to your mother’s ancient blood, they do remind me a bit of Phi Beta Kappas ( Jewish) at a coming-out party. There was also a contingent of Kennedy’s Irish Mafia, just as suspicious as FBI monks, and tough, flinty, ready to strong-arm an issue. However, they are also just ignorant enough to be in over their heads. So the get-together was a good idea. Bissell made a hell of a speech in his gold-plated archbishop’s style. Presented himself as paleface of all the palefaces. Took one of his long fingers, poked himself in the chest, and said, “Take a good look at me. I’m the man who eats the sharks in this outfit.” That had its impact. A distinguished churchman was talking dirty. It was our way of saying, “Just give us an assignment, brothers, and we will ram it home. We are not afraid of responsibility. We take on high risk. If you want to move mountains, call on us.” You could see all the Kennedy people imbibing Bissell’s qualifications, Groton, Yale, Ph.D. in economics, and ready to eat sharks. Why, he’s even taught at MIT.
I must say, we did feed them good stories. How to steal a country with three hundred men à la Guatemala. Cloak-and-dagger has to be the second-oldest profession, Allen told them. And in the course of it, lots of first-rate toasts were exchanged. Then Allen called on me. Damn, the glint in his spectacles was adjuring me in no uncertain terms to recount my now hoary exploits with the secretaries. Back in 1947, in case you never heard, I captured scads of poop on what Truman’s Cabinet people were planning because I got to know (in the Biblical sense) a few of the top office girls. Last night, I rounded it off by saying, “Of course, we don’t do these things anymore.” The Kennedy people loved it. I think the note Allen wished to strike was that we were absolutely the right organization for a roistering jack-in-the-sack like our own President-Elect.
I wasn’t going to let myself, however, get stuck in the Department of Legends as one more over-the-hill stunt man, so I went off on a reasonably witty presentation to the effect that we can look forward, White House and CIA, to great times together since we possess in common a liking for the work of Ian Fleming. Let’s give a toast to good old Ian Fleming, I said, holding the flagon high. Someone actually did mutter, “His work is such crap!”—I can hear you speaking in that young voice—but I came back with, “Ian Fleming, a stylist for our time.” And a few of us on the Agency side, which I suppose comes down to Dulles, Bissell, Montague, Barnes, Helms, and myself, were thinking of those rather Ian Fleming–like toys that have come out of Technical Services, such as the depilatory to take off Fidelito’s beard back in 1959 when he visited the UN. At an effectiveness level, it was all pure Dartmouth yahoo crap, but a few of us in the room knew that I was pretending to more, so it was permissible to laugh like hell. We got the idea across. They now understood that we were monkeys with as many tricks in our cage as they had in theirs. We communicated the notion that if you want a quick answer to a knotty problem, CIA is the place to go. Not, repeat, not the State Department.
Dean Rusk got a longer and longer face as the evening wore on. I think he
was the first to sense what a splendid theatrical grasp Allen has on how-to-make-new-friends in transitional times. Rusk looks constipated. Probably loses half an hour every morning on the evacuation detail.
In any case, I am now on the move again. At least within. Which is what morale is all about.
Your good father,
Big-Bucks Halifax
P.S. Despite all this self-congratulation, I won’t neglect to mention RETREAD. He worries me. BONANZA ought to be able to follow the money trail RETREAD has to be leaving in his Miami banks if he is as crooked as I expect he is.
36
IN MONTEVIDEO, AFTER KITTREDGE DISCONTINUED OUR CORRESPONDENCE, I used to see a good deal more of Hunt, and now, bereft of Modene, I began once more to have dinner with him a couple of nights a week. History was repeating itself. Howard’s mood was not far from mine. Dorothy was in Washington, and the news received each night by telephone was often of her mother who was hospitalized with an inoperable cancer. In addition, his social life, so important to him, was hardly thriving. He might keep up with Palm Beach parties in the society columns, but he was driving through no gates these days in white dinner jacket; the royal palms and poinciana trees on the great estates, the tiled fountains, stone urns, and balustrades of the Palm Beach palaces were remote; he walked no paths between jasmine and bougainvillea, and danced with panache on no marble floor. Nor did he spend his afternoons at Hialeah watching pink flamingos cross a green lawn, no, Howard was in Miami to work, and the scent of oleander and azalea did not reach the cubicles of Zenith. Howard was at that place in his career where success could raise him to the level of a Senior Officer, and failure might put a stop to his ambition.
He certainly pushed himself. If his own politics were, as he put it, “to the right of Richard Nixon,” he swallowed the polemical contumely of dealing with Cubans whose social views were to the left of him. When asked for his own ideological position by Barbaro or Aranjo, he would reply, “I’m here to oil the gears.”