34
SERIAL: J/39,354,824
ROUTE: LINE/GHOUL—SPECIAL SHUNT
TO: GHOUL-A
FROM: FIELD
SUBJECT: HEEDLESS
10:11 A.M. DEC. 20, 1960
Regret to inform you that FIELD has lost all access to BLUEBEARD. Catalytic factor: Buddhist interlopers.
Can report that on December 19, BLUEBEARD returned alone to the Fontainebleau after shopping with RAPUNZEL. In the lobby were two men wearing felt hats. A minute after she went up to her room, the front desk was on the phone. A Mr. Mack and a Mr. Rouse wished to see her. They were FBI, stated the front desk. She did not have to open her door, said the clerk, but it might save time. Otherwise, they would come back.
She agreed to meet with Mack and Rouse. They soon informed her that they were inquiring into her relation to RAPUNZEL. She claims to have told them nothing. Later, to FIELD, she described this interview as “wholly disagreeable.” Unfortunately, her suspicions of FIELD are now inflamed. She has accused him of being “in cahoots” with Mack and Rouse. She declares that she will not see him any longer.
These events took place yesterday evening. In FIELD’s opinion, the relationship is concluded. There is no room left for a cover story.
If the new situation holds constant over the next month, will you require a Final Report?
FIELD
Harlot would hardly be satisfied with this description, but then his displeasure at the loss of BLUEBEARD was going to be larger than his pique at the lack of detail.
I could have provided him with more. In the hour I spent with Modene, every speech of Mack and Rouse was repeated. When she called me at Zenith not long after they left, she had been calm, so calm indeed that I could feel her hysteria stirring. “I’ve had visitors,” she said, “and you probably know them. Can you come over before I get too drunk?”
So soon as I arrived, she began to describe the encounter.
Mack spoke first. He was tall and heavy.
“You are Modene Murphy?”
“Yes.”
“You are on friendly terms with Sam Giancana?”
“Who is he?”
“He is also known as Sam Gold.”
“Don’t know him.”
“How about Sam Flood?”
When she paused, he repeated, “How about Sam Flood?”
“I know him.”
“He is the same man as Sam Giancana.”
“All right. What of it?”
“Would you be interested to know how Sam Giancana makes his living?”
“I have no idea.”
“He is one of the ten most wanted criminals in America.”
“Why don’t you pick him up?”
“We will,” said the FBI man named Rouse. He was of medium height, slim, and had sharp teeth. “We will as soon as we are ready. For now, we can use your help.”
“I know nothing that could help you,” said Modene.
She saw a sneer on Mack’s face. “Do you,” he asked, “accept gifts from Sam?”
“If they are appropriate, and not too expensive.”
“Are you aware that he has a Las Vegas tootsie?” asked Rouse.
“What is a tootsie?”
“A tootsie is a girl,” said Mack, “who takes money for favors. Did Mr. Giancana ever slip you any green?”
“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.