12

SERIAL: J/38,759,483

ROUTING: LINE/GHOUL—SPECIAL SHUNT

TO: GHOUL-A

FROM: FIELD

3:11 P.M. JULY 11, 1960

SUBJECT: HEEDLESS

Two weeks later, on Feb. 5, 1960, STONEHENGE called BLUEBEARD in Miami. Would she come out to Palm Springs? “The star man is going to pop in,” stated the singer, a reference to IOTA.

“What if your friend doesn’t show up?” Modene asks.

“You can take the next flight home.”

Modene describes it to AURAL as a typical Palm Springs weekend for Sinatra. Celebrities, friends, and business associates fly in from Los Angeles, Las Vegas, and La Jolla, but Modene finds herself put up by Sinatra at the Desert Door (which she considers second-rate), and spends the first twenty-four hours in Palm Springs taking taxis out to Sinatra’s home, then going back to the Desert Door again. IOTA has not made an appearance, and she is ready to return to Miami. “Aren’t I good enough for you?” jeers Sinatra, and assures her that she is mistaken—Jack Kennedy is definitely coming. (In recounting this to AURAL, Modene confesses to a Friday-night bout of paranoia; she suspects that should Senator Kennedy arrive, Sinatra will exercise a species of revenge by not introducing her.)

Kennedy, however, shows up next day with his entourage, and takes a suite at Modene’s hotel. “I had everything wrong,” she remarks. “I thought the Ingleside Inn was where you were supposed to go, but now I discovered that Frank had put me up at the most exclusive place in town, although if you weren’t in on that little fact, you could hardly distinguish the Desert Door from a dude ranch.”

The above is taken from the FBI transcript of her phone call to AURAL on Feb. 17, 1960, a few days after the weekend.

WILLIE: Is Jack incredibly handsome?

MODENE: I think he could have been a movie star.

WILLIE: What was he wearing?

MODENE: Gray flannels and a dark blue sport jacket. He looked very well groomed. His appearance, actually, is fabulous. His teeth are as white as teeth can ever be, and he has a suntan which sets off his eyes. They’re crinkly Irish eyes with an intimate twinkle as if both of you know something that nobody else does.

WILLIE: You had that much of a reaction just shaking hands?

MODENE: Well, it was all I had for a while. Two of his sisters were in the group, and a whole flock of men and women I didn’t know, and they were all unbelievably adept at knowing how to steer you away from the inner circle. I wasn’t going to take a bony elbow in my boobs just to get a little nearer to this man—I drifted away. Do you know, ten minutes later, he found me in the lobby and made a lunch date for the next day. He even apologized for not being able to see me that night. Political fund-raiser, he explained.

WILLIE: Frank didn’t invite you to that?

MODENE: They use a phrase out here to describe people who contribute a lot of money—heavy hitters. Only heavy hitters are invited, I suppose. Although I do blame Frank. He has a way of bringing you up, dropping you back, and then beckoning to you to come forward again. Willie, it is much easier to be Frank’s romantic interest than his friend.

WILLIE: It sounds like a bad evening for you.

MODENE: A couple of the Senator’s political assistants tried to invite me to dinner, but I ate alone in my room. That was, to say the least, somewhat below my expectations. If it hadn’t been for the lunch date he promised, I would have left in the morning.

WILLIE: But you did get to be alone with him next day?

MODENE: Yes. He suggested we have lunch on my patio, not his, so that we wouldn’t be interrupted.

WILLIE: Wasn’t he afraid of gossip?

MODENE: There are so many women after him that gossip wouldn’t know where to start.

WILLIE: What did you talk about? I would have been paralyzed.

MODENE: As we were sitting down, just the two of us, I can’t say I felt in command of the situation. But he is, in my opinion, a superb politician. He actually got me to believe that he was genuinely interested in what I had to say. He has the gift of making you feel that the two of you are equal. When he asks questions, he listens carefully to the answers. He wants to know all about you. I found out afterward that except for his time in the Navy, he’s lived a very privileged life, and I would guess he’s looking for a little more of the common touch. To make up for the gap, I suppose, in his knowledge of ordinary people. He was fascinated with the fact that I was a cheerleader in high school. Also with the fact that I am an only child. He comes from such a large family. And, of course, he supposed I was Catholic, although I explained that it was only on my father’s side and that was long lapsed, and we weren’t a church-going family. “How do you feel about voting for a Catholic?” Jack asked. I was going to tell him that it made no difference to me, but I knew he wanted more of an answer, so I said I was thinking of one person who swore he would never vote for a Catholic because he hated the Church so, having once been Catholic himself. Well, the Senator kept after me—who was this person?—would I describe him? Finally, I admitted it was my father. “Is he Republican?” “Lately, maybe,” I told him, “but he used to be a union man and a Democrat.” A sigh came out of Kennedy, a sad little sound, as if the election might be getting lost right around there, what with all the bitter lapsed Catholics who might come out to vote against him, but then he smiled and said, “Well, I wonder how large a number we have to multiply your father by.”

WILLIE: I never would have told him the truth.

MODENE: On the contrary, it broke the concealed layer of ice, if you know what I mean. I felt it would be dumb to give dull answers to him because then his interest would move on. Willie, he is almost like a woman in that one way. I felt that my mind was just as important to him as my looks. When he asked what I thought about voting for a man as young as himself, I said that would certainly be an obstacle with voters who had their minds made up in advance, but since most of them were Republicans anyway, it might not matter. His youth would be an asset, I told him, if he could get the voters to realize all the advantages of having a young man in office. The president is part of everybody’s family, I told him. Eisenhower, for instance, is everybody’s uncle. He really is Uncle Ike. “Well, then,” said Senator Kennedy, “where do I fit in? Am I to see myself as the nephew?” “Oh, no,” I said, “you have to be the attractive young man who is marrying into the family. If they feel you’re going to fit in, they’ll accept you, but it’s even better if they think the family itself is going to be more fun once you’re a part of it.”

WILLIE: You said all that to him? You amaze me. I didn’t know you ever thought about these things.

MODENE: I never did. He brings it out in you. I feel awfully bright around him. I could have fallen for him just for that alone. We certainly kept talking.

WILLIE: I would have quit while I was ahead.

MODENE: Not me. He asked what I thought of Nixon, and, as you are well aware, all I know is what I see on television. But Jack encourages you to respond to your instinct when you’re with him, so I said, “I think Vice President Nixon is your biggest advantage. Deep down, people don’t like him.” “Why?” he asked. “Because,” I said, “he looks hungry. People don’t like someone who’s always hungry. It gets them uneasy.” “Well, why?” he repeated. “Because,” I said, “hungry people make us wonder if there is any real peace anywhere.” “If you’re right about Nixon, that is certainly good news,” he said, “provided I win,” and when we both laughed, he said, “I’ve enjoyed this lunch enormously. I wish I could spend the rest of the afternoon with you, but I’m on a plane in an hour. However, I want very much to see you again. I meet a lot of people and you’re rare, you know. You belong to yourself alone.”

WILLIE: I would call that a consummate compliment.

MODENE: I was ready to shine his shoes. He took my phone number and said he would be happy to give me his except that it would have no useful meaning right now since he slept in a different town every night. It was going to remain that way for months to come. He’d call me very soon, he said. (Feb. 17, 1960)

IOTA proves to be a man of his word. From February 16 to March 3, 1960, we have transcripts of eight phone calls to BLUEBEARD. On Feb. 25, in Denver, he proposes meeting on the night of March 3 at the Waldorf-Astoria. She agrees, and the transcripts of calls from Madison, Chicago, Wheeling, and Baltimore (Feb. 26, 28, Mar. 1, Mar. 2) show increasing anticipation.

Given the demands on your time, I offer here only two excerpts—one from Charleston, West Virginia, on February 20, and the other from Baltimore on March 2, the night before they meet at the Waldorf.

BLUEBEARD: Your roses arrived. You couldn’t have known that long-stem red roses are just about my favorite flower.

IOTA: Do they sit well in your vase?

BLUEBEARD: They are lavish.

IOTA: Well, I’m glad something works. Today, in West Virginia, Hubert caught us unprepared. Said we were on a campaign spending spree. We had no quick answer for that. West Virginia is a very poor state.

BLUEBEARD: It must be a madhouse at your end.

IOTA: You can’t imagine how I look forward to our calls. All day long I know I have a treat waiting. When you are not in, I’m frankly disappointed. (Feb. 20, 1960)

The telephone conversation, March 2, from Baltimore.

IOTA: You promise to be there tomorrow?

BLUEBEARD: I will. I have a confirmed reservation. I will be waiting for your knock on the door.

IOTA: Please don’t disappoint me.

BLUEBEARD: You don’t know me if you think I would. (March 2, 1960)

On the third of March, their affair is begun. We would learn more if the bug placed in their room by Buddha’s technicians had functioned properly, but I expect the job was done under unfavorable conditions. (Private security at the Waldorf Towers is reputed to be excellent.) The transcripts are so garbled that one has to depend on BLUEBEARD’s description of the event to AURAL on March 6.

WILLIE: Why won’t you admit you slept with him?

MODENE: Of course I did. That’s not the issue.

WILLIE: Was it memorable?

MODENE: Let me be.

WILLIE: Are you in love?

MODENE: Probably.

WILLIE: Is he?

MODENE: Aren’t men always in love with women for a little while, while they are making love?

WILLIE: I wish I could say that.

MODENE: There is no sense in talking about it. You and I have a different frame of reference.

(silence)

WILLIE: What’s wrong?

MODENE: I just don’t know. I’m afraid of getting hurt. He sees a thousand people a day.

WILLIE: Well, so do you on a day you’re working. Hundreds of people, anyway.

MODENE: But I think only of him.

WILLIE: Is he better in bed than Frank?

MODENE: I don’t want to get into that. (March 6)

They quibble for several pages of transcript before the lady is forthcoming.

MODENE: I guess I have two gears: One is always ready to go; the other is a burned-out clutch. Either I get my makeup on fast and it’s right, or, curtains—I just keep putting it on again. And I kept thinking I should change my dress. By the time he knocked on the door, I was worn out. I really didn’t want to see him. It felt like a ghost story. The girl is madly in love, but does the man exist?

WILLIE: He’s pretty real to me.

MODENE: Do try to understand. He was the voice in my ear. For three weeks, I rocked myself to sleep hearing his voice. And every morning, there would be eighteen long-stem red roses. I pricked my finger once while arranging them, and that little thorn hurt me as much as if he had said something cruel without warning. Now we were alone, and I felt too shy to kiss. Then we did, and my lipstick got all over his mouth, and his lips felt like sandpaper. We didn’t know how to talk. We were like third cousins who’ve just been told to get married. And he didn’t seem as attractive as in Palm Springs. His face was puffy. “I look terrible, don’t I?” he said to me. “Terrible is too strong a word,” was the best I could answer. “When you campaign,” he said, “you shake hands with so many people you don’t really like, and you eat so many meals standing up, and you hear your own voice saying the same thing so many times, that after a while, the part of you that is most alive has gone into hiding down in your gut. That’s why politicians have that funny look on their face when campaigning. They’re always afraid they are going to break wind.”

WILLIE: Break wind? What does that mean?

MODENE: If you don’t know, I can’t tell you. I would have to use a word I simply won’t use.

WILLIE: I get it. Smelly. What a crazy president he’s going to make.

MODENE: That’s what I said. I started laughing. “You’re an unbelievable kind of leader,” I told him, “because you don’t take yourself too seriously.” He answered, “The trick is to keep that way.” Suddenly I felt comfortable with him again. He is a lot like me.

WILLIE: A lot like you? Modene! You take yourself so seriously.

MODENE: I don’t. Not completely. There are layers and layers to me. And to him as well. I believe he is still trying to get to know himself in just the way I am always trying to discover who I am. That’s why you have to keep trying for more. Do you know, it was a relief after we finally got to bed.

WILLIE: Who is better, Jack or Frank?

MODENE: You should have been a newspaper reporter. Jack tells me they have one button you can always push. Curiosity. Just get their curiosity up, says Jack, and you can torture them for hours. You are not going to get the answer.

WILLIE: Well, I know who you think is better.

MODENE: I’m not going to ask. (March 6, 1960)

A remark to AURAL (March 9, 1960) speaks of loneliness physical in its intensity—“Now that he’s not here, it’s as if my insides have been taken away from me.” Whole happiness and whole desolation seem to be her relation to IOTA.

STONEHENGE, if I may offer an evaluation, is another matter. STONEHENGE’s attentiveness to her needs—the plethora of oral gifts it is suggested he provides—must affect her like a drug, an addiction. Should I pursue? Await your comment.

FIELD