He popped a burglar once-late in '60. He kept his tool kit. He kept his picklocks.
Room #5 glowed. The door was green. Green like that song:
What's that secret you're keeping?
_DOCUMENT INSERT_: 9/12/64. Confidential memorandum: Howard Hughes to Ward J. Littell.
Dear Ward,
Bravo on the new casino consultants. My aides have chosen three rough and tumble, no-nonsense men from that list you submitted, and they have assured me that they are devout Mormons with germ-free blood.
Their names are Thomas D. Elwell, Lamar L. Dean and Daryl D. Kleindienst. They have extensive union experience in Las Vegas and, according to my aides, will not be afraid to negotiate and "lock horns" with those Mafia boys that Mr. Hoover tells me you have in your pocket. According to my aides, these men "know the ropes." They did not meet with them in person, but have corresponded with your friend Mr. Tedrow in Las Vegas and have solicited his advice. Mr. Tedrow is well respected in Mormon circles, they tell me, and I confirmed that assessment with Mr. Hoover.
The new men will be traveling hither and yon to advance our Las Vegas plans, so I'm pleased that they are cutting down commercial airline costs by flying Hughes charters. I've sent memos to all the charter crews instructing them to have lots of Fritos, PepsiCola and Rocky Road ice cream on hand, because hard-working men deserve to eat well. Also, thanks for getting charter clearance at Nellis Air Force Base, which cuts down costs as well.
Forewarned is forearmed, Ward. You've convinced me that our Las Vegas approach will take time, and I think this casino consultant plan is a winner. I look forward to receiving your first report.
All best,
H.H.
(Las Vegas, 9/12/64)
Wayne Senior said, "I know what my men are transporting."
"Oh?"
"Yes, 'Oh.' They've explained the entire procedure."
They sat poolside. Janice stood close. Janice sunned and putted golf balls.
"You knew at our first meeting. It was quite evident."
"An instinct doesn't equal a certainty."
Littell raised one brow. "You're being disingenuous. You knew then, you know now, and you've known at all points in between."
Wayne Senior coughed. "Don't mimic my gestures. You don't have my flair."
Littell grabbed his prop stick. Littell twirled it. Fuck Wayne Senior sideways.
"Tell me what you want. Be direct, and feel free to use the word 'skim.'
Wayne Senior coughed. "My men have quit the union. They refuse to pay me the percentage I requested."
Littell twirled the stick. "How much do you want?"
"I'd be satisfied with 5%."
Littell twirled the stick. Littell twirled figure-eights. Littell did all Wayne Senior's tricks.
"No."
"No?"
"No."
"Categorically?"
"Yes."
Wayne Senior smiled. "I have to assume that Mr. Hughes doesn't know what his planes are transporting."
Littell studied Janice. She flexed. She putted. She stretched.
"I would advise you not to tell him."
"Why? Because your Italian friends will hurt me?"
"Because I'll tell your son that you sent him to Dallas."
_DOCUMENT INSERT_: 9/12/64. Dallas _Morning News_ article.
REPORTER WRITING JFK BOOK; SAYS HE'LL "BLOW
Dallas _Times-Herald_ reporter Jim Koethe has a tale to tell, and he'll tell it to anyone who'll listen.
On Sunday evening, November 24, 1963, Koethe, along with _Times-Herald_ editor Robert Cuthbert and reporter Bill Hunter of the Long Beach (California) _Press-Telegram_, visited the apartment of Jack Ruby, the convicted killer of presidential assassin Lee Harvey Oswald. The three men spent "two or three hours" talking to Ruby's roommate, novelty salesman George Senator. "I can't reveal what Mr. Senator said," Koethe told this reporter. "But believe you me it was an eye-opener, and it sure got me thinking about some things."
Koethe went on to say that he's done quite a bit of digging into the assassination and is writing a book on the subject. "It's a conspiracy, sure as shooting," he said. "And my book is going to blow it wide open."
Koethe refused to name the people he believes are responsible for the death of President John F. Kennedy and refused to reveal the basic motive and details of the conspiracy. "You'll have to wait for the book," Koethe said. "And believe me, the book will be well worth the wait."
Koethe's friend, reporter Bill Hunter, died in April. Editor Robert Cuthbert declined to be interviewed in depth for this article. "Jim's extracurricular activities are his business," Cuthbert said. "I wish him well with his book, though, because I love a good potboiler. Personally, I think Oswald was the lone assassin, and the Warren Report sure backs me up. Still, I've got to say that Jim Koethe exemplifies the bulldog reporter, so maybe he's on to something."
Koethe, 37, is a colorful local scribe, known for his persistence, assertive behavior and connections within the Dallas Police Department. He is reputed to be a close friend of DPD Officer Maynard D. Moore, who disappeared around the time of the assassination. Asked to comment on Officer Moore's missing status, Koethe said, "Mum's the word. A good reporter doesn't reveal his sources and a good book writer doesn't reveal anything."
I guess we'll have to wait for the book. In the meantime, though, interested parties will have to make do with the 16-volume Warren Report, which for this reporter stands as the authoritative final word.
(Las Vegas, 9/13/64)
The cat snared a rat. One chomp-adieu.
The cat prowled the hut. The cat paraded. Harvey Brams crossed himself. Donkey Dom laughed.
Milt grabbed the rat. The cat snarled. Milt dropped the rat in the shitter. The cat nuzzled Pete. The cat clawed the switchboard.
Biz was slow. The 6:00 p.m. blues descended.
Champ B. bopped through. Champ B. juked morale. Champ B. dumped some hijacked Pall Malls.
Pete bought them. Call it PR swag-potential Drac donations. _Hospital_ swag-yuk-yuk-lung-ward booty.
Biz picked up. Sonny Liston called. Sonny ordered two cabs. Sonny ordered scotch and red devils.
Pete yawned. Pete stroked the cat. Wayne walked in distracted. Dom checked his basket. Dom eyeball-stroked his bulge.
Pete said, "I've been calling you."
Wayne shrugged. Wayne passed Pete a note. A news clip-two columns. A call came in. Milt plugged it. Pete steered Wayne outside.
Wayne looked frazzled. Pete sized him up. Pete stuck the clip in his pocket.
"Sol Durslag. Ring a bell?"
"Sure. He's a card cheat. He's the treasurer for the Liquor Board, and he used to work for my father."
"Did they fall out?"
"Everybody falls out with-"
"Your father owns the Land o' Gold, right? He's got covert points."
"Right. The Gold and thirteen more."
Pete lit a cigarette. "Milt's been digging up shit. He heard that Durslag's been running card counters out of the Gold. I might need his help down the line."
Wayne smiled. "My father used to run him."
"That's what Milt said."
"So you…"
"I want you to muscle him. Think about it. You're Wayne Senior's son, and you've got your own reputation."