14

A FEW WEEKS LATER, BY WAY OF FBI REPORTS SENT FROM KITTREDGE TO me, I was to learn that on the day following J. Edgar Hoover’s lunch at the White House, my father, still in Tokyo, became the recipient of a cable from Buddha himself. THE CRIMINAL DIVISION OF THE DEPARTMENT OF JUSTICE HAS REQUESTED THAT CIA SPECIFICALLY ADVISE WHETHER IT WOULD OBJECT TO CRIMINAL PROSECUTION AGAINST THE SUBJECT MAHEU FOR CONSPIRACY TO VIOLATE THE WIRE TAPPING STATUTE. AN EARLY REPLY WILL BE APPRECIATED.

Then, on April 10, 1962, Hoover sent this memo to Assistant Attorney General Miller in the Department of Justice:

Boardman Hubbard has now advised that prosecution of Maheu would lead to exposure of most sensitive information relating to the abortive Cuban invasion in April 1961. In view of this, his Agency objects to the prosecution of Maheu.

Bobby Kennedy then called a meeting on May 7 with Lawrence Houston, the CIA General Counsel, and Sheffield Edwards, the Director of the CIA’s Office of Security. In response to the Attorney General’s pointed questions, they were obliged to admit that Maheu had offered Giancana $150,000 to kill Castro. At this juncture, as Sheffield Edwards would recount it to Harlot, Robert Kennedy said in a low, precise voice, “I trust that if you ever try to do business with gangsters again, you will let the Attorney General know.”

On May 9, there was a meeting between Robert Kennedy and J. Edgar Hoover after which Hoover penned a memo for his personal file:

I expressed great astonishment at such Agency activities in view of the bad reputation of Maheu and the horrible judgment of using a man of Giancana’s background for such a project. The Attorney General shared the same views.

From an out-of-channels note written by Hugh Montague to Richard Helms two days later:

Had a talk with the Sibling. Sibling said he had seen Buddha and would never forgive us for this one. Said the worst was that Buddha insinuates, although not for the record, that it was the Labor Lord who first put Sir Chipmunk up to offering us Rapunzel and his warren of friends. I replied that this, while not verifiable (shades of A. J. Ayer), did have to be mind-boggling, and the remark enabled me to traverse the abominable abyss just long enough to get out of his office. We are having to bury so much under the carpet that I fear the lumps will soon be felt by the common toe.

In the margin are my penciled notes:

the Labor Lord—Hoffa, doubtless

Sir Chipmunk—can only be Maheu

On May 14, five days after Hoover had visited Bobby Kennedy, William Harvey, on instructions from Harlot, called Sheffield Edwards to say that should the Attorney General inquire, he could be informed that no employment of Roselli was being contemplated. Edwards said he would put a memo to that effect in his files.

Now that there was a piece of paper pointing in the wrong direction, Harvey contacted Roselli, who said that the pills had gotten through to Cuba. “Let’s use them,” said Harvey.

During all of this period, FBI surveillance of Giancana intensified.

MODENE: I feel ready to throw up before we even leave for the airport. I know there will be FBI men waiting for us, and I have learned to recognize them. They stand out like penguins.

WILLIE: You are exaggerating.

MODENE: When a person has one thing on his mind, and only one thing, he stands out in a crowd. From the moment we approach the gate, I can see them. They used to follow us quietly, but now they come up and speak loudly. They want everyone to hear them. “What do you do for a living, Giancana?” they ask. “That’s easy,” Sam tells them, “I own Chicago. I own Miami. I own Las Vegas.” It happened twice in a row as we were getting on a plane. Sam began to think he was in control of it. “They’ve got no answer, Modene,” he told me. “They are working on salary, and that’s the end of their story.”

WILLIE: Well, I guess he knows something about how to give it right back.

MODENE: Yes, but he doesn’t know when to stop. The last time we took a trip together, Sam changed the ending. He said, “I own Chicago, I own Miami, I own Las Vegas. What do you own, empty pockets?”
Well, he happened to make this remark to the one FBI man we can always count on running into in Chicago, a big fellow with a crew cut who scares me. He is always so tense. He obviously wants to lay hands on Sam. The moment Sam spoke the words “empty pockets” this agent’s eyes started boiling. I don’t know how to express it otherwise. He turned right around and said to all the passengers waiting to get on the plane, “Here is Sam Giancana. Look at him. He is the most notorious cheap hoodlum in the world. He is scum. You are going to be sitting on this plane with the most complete piece of filth you will ever see in your life.”
They had never done anything like this to Sam before. “Shut your mouth,” he said, “or I’ll take you on myself.”
I was frozen. Sam is half the agent’s size. And the agent got the most frightening look. “Oh, Sam,” he said, “throw the first punch. Please throw the first punch.” He was almost crying he was saying it so softly.
Sam managed to control himself. He turned his back on the agent and did his best to ignore him, but the big fellow kept saying, “Please, Sammy-boy, take a poke. Take the first poke, you yellow piece of filth.” I’m not certain, but I know Sam had to be frightened. He turned as pale under his suntan as if he had a skin beneath the skin. “I can’t get on this plane,” he said to me. “I can’t sit for three hours.”

WILLIE: What about your bags?

MODENE: I made the mistake of saying just that to him. “Let’s get out of here,” he shouted, and we started down the corridor with the FBI men yelling and screaming at us as if they were as crazy as reporters. And the agent kept muttering in a low voice so only we could hear, “Two pounds of shit in a one-pound bag.”

WILLIE: I can’t believe FBI men would be so crude.

MODENE: It is my experience that they get a little unbalanced around Sam. I think they are very angry that they don’t have anything on him they can prove. Sam is too smart for them. Even under these circumstances, he actually got the last word. As we were stepping into a cab, Sam turned to the big agent and said, “You lit a fire tonight that will never go out.”
“Is that a threat?” the man asked.
“No,” said Sam, quietly and politely. “It is a statement of fact.” The agent actually blinked his eyes.
Then the FBI followed our cab all the way to Sam’s house, but Sam didn’t care. “They can wait outside all night and get bit by mosquitoes.” We went downstairs to his office which he says is 100-percent wiretap-proof and he called some of his people and told them to come over.

WILLIE: Wouldn’t the FBI spot them walking in?

MODENE: What does it matter? They’ve seen the same people meet with Sam a hundred times. If they can’t hear what is being said, what can they gain?

WILLIE: You have really learned how it works.

MODENE: I am full of love for Sam.

WILLIE: I think you are.

MODENE: I am.

WILLIE: Then you are really over Jack?

MODENE: I am full of love for Sam. He told me that he never confided in a woman in his life, but that I was not like others and he could talk to me.

WILLIE: Tell me. What did he confide?

MODENE: I don’t know if I can. I promised Sam I wouldn’t use my own line anymore, and now I am breaking the promise. But I just can’t stand those pay phones.

WILLIE: I thought your line is swept clean.

MODENE: Even so!

WILLIE: Tell me. I can feel that your line is clean.

MODENE: Sam said he hated Bobby Kennedy. That he has hated him ever since he had to go up before the McClellan Committee back in 1959 when Bobby was their Special Counsel. You know how witnesses say, “I refuse to answer on the grounds that it might incriminate me”? Well, Sam was worried about that. Apparently, he had such a bad time in school. He could not learn how to read. He said he still wants to giggle when he has to read aloud. Bobby Kennedy kept asking questions like “Did you dispose of the victim by burying him in concrete?” and Sam would try to read aloud from his card about not incriminating himself, but would giggle. Bobby then said: “I thought only little girls giggled.”
Sam told me he still gets the sweats when he remembers. It was in spite of Bobby that he worked for Jack. Sam assumed that Jack would call off the FBI. That would be his revenge on Bobby. Only it didn’t work out.

WILLIE: Is Sam angry with Sinatra?

MODENE: He is furious. Sam thinks I don’t know a word of Sicilian but I have a very good ear and I have picked up a little. Whenever his people say farfalletta, they are talking about Sinatra.

WILLIE: What do they mean?

MODENE: Farfalletta is a butterfly.

WILLIE: How did you find out?

MODENE: Because Sam’s people use their hands a lot to express a thought.

WILLIE: Yes, but how did you know that they were talking about Frank?

MODENE: Because they also say Sinatra. Or Frankie. While they are using their hands. This night, it was obvious to me that Sam was telling them how disgusted he is with Sinatra. A couple of them started to talk about squashing the butterfly. They would mash their palms on the table. Sam just gave a diabolical grin. I know that grin. It means he is going to make money where no one else could. When the night was over, Sam said, “I decided to put the skinny guinea to work.” (May 20, 1962)

From an FBI report, June 10, 1962, Special Agent Rowse:

TO: Office of the Director

RE: Giancana

SUBJECT booked Frank Sinatra, Dean Martin, Sammy Davis, Jr., Eddie Fisher, and Joey Bishop to do full-week engagements at Villa Venice, a roadhouse in NW outskirts of Chicago, believed to be owned by SUBJECT. Pursuant to such infusion of talent, SUBJECT also enjoys profits from the now heavy traffic at his all-night gambling shop established in a warehouse two blocks away from Villa Venice. Gambling revenues are returning SUBJECT estimated $1,500,000 a month for a duration of three months. Information from a reliable witness is that each entertainer receives only a fraction of his regular stipend, inasmuch as they were invited to Chicago by Sinatra.

Excerpt from AURAL transcript, June 12, 1962:

WILLIE: Did you read about Jack’s birthday party at Madison Square Garden?

MODENE: Of course.

WILLIE: I saw it on television.

MODENE: I wasn’t watching.

WILLIE: Marilyn Monroe was fabulous. She sang “Happy Birthday, Mr. President.” Modene, she was sewn into a dress that has to be an engineering feat.

MODENE: Marilyn Monroe is having an affair with Jack.

WILLIE: You know for sure?

MODENE: I can tell.

WILLIE: Are you upset?

MODENE: Why should I be?

WILLIE: Oh, come on, Modene!

MODENE: No. When something ends, it is finished. I don’t miss Jack Kennedy. I am angry.

WILLIE: I thought you said it was coming to an end anyway.

MODENE: Well, it was. It was certainly over once J. Edgar Hoover jumped into it. Jack called me the same afternoon and said it was the last phone call either of us could make through the White House switchboard, but then—I will say this for him—he gave me a private line at the White House I could use for emergencies.

WILLIE: Did you try the special number?

MODENE: I wasn’t going to. But then the FBI started visiting me at my apartment in Los Angeles. That was embarrassing to my roommates. I mean, they could see that these weren’t two boyfriends coming over for a drink.

WILLIE: I would have thought that was the least of your problems. You hardly ever see your roommates.

MODENE: The FBI makes me very nervous. I have attacks of vertigo these days. It is frightful. I hardly do a flight anymore. Sam has got my schedule down to three a month, but when I do work, I get the staggers. Once, I had the dropsies. Three trays in one flight.

WILLIE: Oh, no.

MODENE: I finally decided to use the special line. I asked Jack to call off the FBI, but he wouldn’t. He kept telling me that Sam was the person they were after, and I should just laugh into their faces. “I can’t,” I told him. “They are too much for me.” At that point, Jack got openly irritated. “Modene,” he said, “you are a grown woman and you are going to have to take care of this on your own.” “You mean,” I asked, “you and your brother don’t have the power to call off the FBI?” “Yes, we do,” he said, “but the cost might prove excessive. You just take care of it and leave my mind free for some reasonably important things that are going on, believe it or not.” And you know, he said it in just that flat sarcastic Boston accent of his. I cringe at the way he said, “Believe it or not.”