Excerpt from B
INTRODUCTION
to
the
New
“Big
Reveal”
Edition
of
Secret
Agent
Gals
You know the kind of long-lost documents Dan
Brown and
Daniel
Silva
are
always
finding,
usually
after
gunfights,
stabbings, beatings, torture,
getting
dropped
out
of
planes,
tossed
into a snake pit (I think that was
Indiana Jones), the inconveniences Robert
Langdon and Gabriel Allon have come to expect
before the Big Reveal?
Where they come up with the long lost
(but now recovered)
document
that
proves
everything we thought
we
knew about Jesus, the Catholic Church,
the Founding Fathers, Pearl Harbor,
and
the
Kennedy
assassination
was
just
180
degrees
from the truth. Have I forgotten anyone?
Elvis?
Everything we believed (and that Mom taught us)
about everything and everybody
was
just
a
crock.
So
now
we’ve
got
the true
gen,
as
Hemingway would say,
kind
of
a
bargain
for
20
bucks and a few hours of reading.
This new edition of
Secret
Agent Gals is something like that, with a
twist. The first edition – the first nineteen
chapters
of this version – was a best seller in
1948,
the story of how two celebrity
art
collectors and museum
founders, Peggy Guggenheim and
Baroness Hilla Rebay, were recruited by J. Edgar
Hoover to expose the Nazi spies who infiltrated
the painters they helped es- cape from the
Nazis.
Everyone
who read
that
book
knows
how
the
Secret
Agent
Gals
won
the
“Good
War”
against
Hitler
and
his
Nazi
ratbastards, not to mention the sneaky
Japanese who attacked Pearl Harbor. Also,
how
they
kept
Stalin’s
Commie
ratbastards
from
getting
the A-Bomb until the
heroes
of
the Strategic Air
Command
were
good and ready to stop the Red Hitler’s
plans to kill us all. (What I’m trying to say
in
that
last
sentence,
which
got
a
little
confusing, is that Stalin, aka
‘The Red Hitler,” planned to dump
A-Bombs on America, and the G-Girls
stopped him. Sorry.)
And everyone knows how Baroness Hilla Rebay
built the Guggenheim Museum on Fifth Avenue in
New York, and how she and Peggy Guggenheim put
together the Museum’s great collection of modern
painting and sculpture — you know, the kind of
art that doesn’t look like anything you or I or
any sane person would buy and in fact looks like
something your five-year-old or a chimp named J.
Fred Muggs cudda done. You and I can both see
through that kind of crap, but let’s not go
there. Some people like it and pay big bucks for
it, but there’s a sucker born, etc., etc.
We thought we knew all that. But . . .
Now, because of the declassification of
supersecret FBI files in response to Freedom of
Information Act (FOIA) requests (really demands)
by Fearless Crusading Publisher Joe Taylor, we
learn everything we believed about XXXXX and
XXXXX and especially XXXXX (no spoilers here,
sorry) was just a load of bullshit, and that’s
putting it mildly.
As Fearless Crusading Publisher Joe Taylor
prepared the new “Big Reveal” Chapter Twenty for
publication, he had to figure out how exactly to
drop this bombshell on you all. He decided that
readers should share his (that is, Fearless
Crusading Publisher Joe Taylor’s) own excitement
as he discovered the truth.
And so, what you now have is (first) the
original first edition, word for word as it
appeared in 1948, followed by the author’s own
suppressed account of how and why the G-Gals
embargoed Chapter Twenty, and then . . . the
earthshaking revelations of Chapter Twenty
itself. And the FBI’s desperate attempts to
intimidate him (Fearless Crusading Publisher Joe
Taylor) from publishing the TRUTH, the truth
that will shatter what is left of the Bureau’s
reputation already in tatters from its Hillary
E-mail and Russian Collusion fiascoes. So now
the truth can finally be told. But again, no
spoilers here! Ya gotta read to the
end
to
get
to
the good stuff.
As you probably have gathered, we (meaning you)
have gotten a little more sensitive to
“offensive” reading material over the past
seventy some years since the first edition. What
you are going to read is not suitable for
children under five or some of you snowflakes
due to filthy language (the s-word, the f-word,
and the c-word all over the place) and if you
know what those words mean you should stop right
now and wash your mouth out with brown soap with
pieces of Brillo® pad stuck into it.
There are also scenes in which cigarettes are
smoked (which can cause, according to the
Attorney of General of Something or Other,
serious harm to pregnant women and operators of
machinery like snow blowers, chain saws, or
electric toothbrushes), so if you find yourself
reaching for a pack of unfiltered Camels® or
Kools® after reading this book, don’t say Ol’
Fearless didn’t warn ya.
There is also one scene in which our heroes
“black” up with burnt cork, and if your tender
little woke hearts can’t take that kind of shock
you better skip that section (but it was for a
good cause, sneaking up on murderous Nazi and
Commie ratbastards with flashlights just like
John “Duck” Wayne in The Green Berets or
Leonardo “Leo” DiCaprio in Inglourious
Basterds), and if you’re so goddam
sensitive, and you don’t think trying to stop
the Holocaust is worth bending a few rules, Joe
Taylor, the Fear- less Crusader, wants to know
right now if you’re willing to admit or deny
that the Holocaust did or didn’t happen, and
that calls for a simple “yes” or “no” answer,
you equivocating phony. He nailed ya.
There is also a scene where a Secret Agent guy
dresses up like a Secret Agent gal, and if
you’re not willing to grant “trans” Americans
equal rights under the law and equal employment
opportunities (and equal pay) you’re not the
kind of reader this Fearless Guy wants for his
crusade.
Okay, that covers all the “trigger” stuff that
might give Me-too-ers and “Cancel Everything”
vigilantes heart attacks, so you can start
reading.
Part 1
CHAPTER 1
The Baroness Hilla Rebay rang the bell, and the
door of the split-level ranch in Washington
Northeast opened. She found herself staring into
the business end of a .45 caliber Police
Special. She raised her eyes to the bulldog
features of the man holding the gun, J. Edgar
Hoover, a face familiar to the millions of kids
who belonged to his Post Toasties® Junior G-man
Club and their parents who believed anything
whipped up by Hoover’s crack publicity wizards
in the FBI’s Crime Records Division.
“You must be the Baroness,” Hoover said,
greeting her with a grin as phony as the smiley
face on the welcome mat at Sing-Sing.
“And you must be the gentleman who’s gonna get
his fucking arm broken if he doesn’t put down
that gun.”
J. Edgar Hoover, reflexes crippled from decades
of breathing lead dust while trying
(unsuccessfully) to pass his proficiency test at
the Bureau’s gun range and slowed even more from
years of pounding down martinis with Walter
Winchell (his #1 informant) at New York’s Club
21, failed to lower his pistol quickly enough to
suit the Baroness. She sidestepped, grabbed his
gun arm and twisted hard, sending the hapless
hero’s sidearm clattering to the parquet floor,
and sending the man himself up in the air for a
full gainer with a twist.
The Baroness scooped up the revolver as Hoover
almost landed on his feet, but lost style points
as he slipped on the first banana peel of the
slippery yellow trail the Baroness spotted
leading to the living room. The Ol’
Trail-of-Banana-Peels Burglar-Baffler, the
Baroness thought, pretty primitive for the head
of a modern scientific law enforcement outfit.
“That’s no way to treat Public Hero Number One,”
the director blubbered as he struggled to his
feet, only to slip and fall on the second banana
peel as he bent to retrieve the fedora lost
during that first tumble.
The Baroness toyed with the pistol. “This thing
loaded?” she wondered aloud and answered her
question by shooting out six bulbs from the
foyer chandelier. I guess it was.
As Hoover once again struggled to his feet, the
Baroness counted the remaining banana peels and
calculated eight more pratfalls, summersaults,
and other aerial acrobatics, for a total of ten
(Study arithmetic, kids, comes in handy) before
the Crimestopper Commander-in-Chief would make
it to the living room couch. So, she stepped
over the once-again supine (Supine means flat on
his ass, kids. Study your vocabulary)
crimefighter to score a drink on her own.
“Gimme back my gun,” Hoover whined.
“You forgot the magic word.”
“Magic word? What’s that? Oh! How about
‘Hocus-pocus’? — No? — ‘Alakazam’? —
‘Booga-Booga’? — ‘Mother May I’?”
“Getting close.”
“Aw, come on. Gimme a hint.”
“Sorta rhymes with ‘police.’”
The Sage of Scientific Sleuthing couldn’t think
of the Magic Word as he slipped and fell on the
third banana peel.
In the living room a well-dressed lady was
doubled over in laughter and a tall handsome
gent wearing what the Baroness recognized as the
G-Man de rigeur of three-piece navy-blue pin-
striped suit, wing-tipped shoes, and a snap-brim
fedora was trying unsuccessfully to hide his
hilarity by covering his mouth with both hands.
He finally gave up and slapped his hands on his
thighs and yelled, “You look like such a moron,
Boss. I tol’ ya that ol’ banana skin trick
wasn’t going to fool any burglar who wasn’t
already brain dead.”
“Like him,” the lady added, pointing at the
Galumphing Gumshoe, who had just gone down for
the fourth time.
The Baroness stuck out her hand to the tall dark
stranger, and said, “I’m Hilla Rebay.”
“Clyde Tolson, Public Hero Number Two, and best
buddy of the boy on his back over there,” as
Hoover went down for what the Baroness
calculated was the fifth time.
“And you I’d know anywhere: Peggy, you slut,”
she said to the finely-coutured female, as the
Director hit the deck for the sixth time.
“Won’t somebody help me?” the Nation’s Top Cop
wailed.
“Why, Hilla, you gold-digger, such an unwelcome
surprise. I don’t know why we’re both here, but
I haven’t had a drink yet either. Clyde?”
The much-disheveled Law-Enforcement Legend
finally crawled into the living room after three
more slip-and-falls. “I think that was the last
of them,” he told them cheerfully as he tried to
stand up. “Whoops!” he went down again. “Forgot
about that one. I think that was the last of
’em. Supposed to finish off the burglar. The
grand finale. Oh well. I could use one too,
Clyde.”
“‘One-two,’ quite a way with words,” the
Baroness laughed. “And by the way, XYZ.”
The Director directed his gaze downward, and
sure enough, his fly was unzipped. As he
struggled to fix it, Peggy, the heiress and art
addict Peggy Guggenheim, said, “Here, lemme help
you, you’ll never get anywhere with your tie
caught in the zipper. Don’t worry. I won’t touch
your willy . . . There . . . OK now? Good boy.
Oh, and ya got yer hat on backwards, Mr.
Hoover.”
“My friends call me Speed,” the Director told
them. “OK, Speed,” the Baroness said, “And just
what the hell is she doing here?” pointing to
Peggy, who had the same expression of surprise,
shock, and horror Hilla would have seen on her
own face if a mirror had been handy.
“Why that’s your pal Peggy. She just got here. I
got something I wanna say to both of you.”
“She’s not my pal, and whatever it is you have
on your mind, you can forget it. I don’t wanna
be in the same room with that, that . . .
woman.”
“Aw, lemme have a chance to tell you what I got
on my stupid mind. You might find it
interesting. So, what’re you drinking?”
“Gin,” the Baroness said.
“Me too,” Peggy chimed in. Then, “I didn’t know
she was coming,” Peggy said to the Director.
“Whatever you’re planning, Speed, I’m sure it’s
a bad idea.”
“Calm down,” Hoover told them. “Look around.
Make yourselves at home. Clyde, get moving on
those drinks. We’ve gotta cloud the minds of
these little ladies. And I don’t know what
you’re both thinking, but just because Clyde
lives here with me doesn’t mean we’re, you know
. . .”
“Whatever you say, as long as those drinks get
here,” Hilla responded. The ladies looked at
each other with distaste, then looked around the
living room. “Those things loaded?” the Baroness
asked, pointing to a brace of submachine guns on
the mantel.
“Guns’re no good if they ain’t loaded,” Hoover
informed her. Seems reasonable, she thought.
The Baroness walked over to Peggy Guggenheim and
went face-to-face. Real close. “I’ve been
hearing what you’ve been saying about me and
your uncle. I oughtta paste you a good one.”
“Oh, yeah? Go ahead and try.”
The Baroness cocked her fist for a right lead,
and Hoover rushed between them just in time to
catch Rebay’s punch square on the nose.
“Goddammit, I think you broke my nose. Gimme
something to stop the bleeding, Clyde.”
The two Public Heroes looked with dismay at the
blood on the white plush rug. “Think we can get
those spots out, Clyde?”
“I dunno, Chief. You were too cheap to get these
things Scotchguarded®. I think we’re fucked.
Maybe we could burn the place down for the
insurance.”
“Quit whining,” Peggy said, “and how ’bout those
drinks?”
“Oh yeah,” Clyde said, and he went back to the
bar and returned with four highball glasses
filled to the brim with gin and ice. “Here’s
how,” he said, raising his glass, as they all
tossed down a big gulp. Hoover looked disgusted
as a drop of blood from his nose landed in his
glass. “Shit! Get me a new drink, Clyde!”
“Aw for Christ’s sake, Chief, you won’t even
taste it. And by the way, I remember there’s a
blood-on-white-rug exclusion clause in our
Homeowner’s Policy. Those insurance guys are
plenty slick. This’ll teach us not to buy our
policy from the Tupperware lady.”
“It’s only a rug, for God’s sake,” Peggy told
him. “And you can gyp the government for a new
one. Tell ’em it was ruined during a shoot-out
with a Public Enemy who made it past the banana
peels. So, what’s your big idea, anyway? I’d
like to get out of here and go somewhere I don’t
have to breathe the same air as this slut who’s
banging my uncle and looting my inheritance to
buy her boyfriend’s paintings. A boyfriend, by
the way, who is a no-talent hack.”
“Yeah, well at least he is my boyfriend.
You make every painter pass inspection in bed
before you’ll buy his paintings.”
“You ought to try it, you gold-digger,” Peggy
sneered, and reared back to throw a punch at the
Baroness. Clyde stepped between them and this
time he caught a right to the jaw that dropped
him.
“I think you killed my buddy,” Hoover wailed.
“It’s his own fault. It’s the manly art of
self-defense, and he didn’t defend himself,”
Peggy explained to Public Hero Number One. “And
it’s all over town that you’re screwing my uncle
for his money,” Guggenheim told the Baroness.
“Why you liar,” the Baroness said, and rushed at
Peggy. Speed and Clyde, still groggy from the
punches, made a move to get between them,
thought it over, looked at each other, shrugged,
and sat down on the couch to watch the catfight.
They were pretty well matched, the Baroness with
her honey blond hair in the bob that was the
style, Peggy with darker hair, also bobbed. They
had both kicked off their high heels as they
grappled with each other, Peggy had the Baroness
in a headlock on the floor, but the Baroness did
an escape and had Peggy from behind, face down.
Peggy did the old butt-bump move and had the
Baroness pinned, both shoulders to the floor.
She looked urgently at Clyde, who got down on
the floor to make sure both the Baroness’s
shoulders were down. Clyde slapped the floor:
“One, Two,” and was just about to count her out
when the Baroness did another escape. She jumped
to her feet, picked Peggy up, and slammed her to
the floor headfirst. Peggy looked dazed and
ready to be finished off. “Got any bridge
chairs?” the Baroness asked Hoover.
“In the closet.”
The Baroness hastily retrieved a folded bridge
chair while Peggy was trying to gather her wits.
She raised the chair over Peggy’s head, glancing
around at Speed and Clyde to make sure they were
watching. Clyde was chanting, “Baroness!
Baroness!” and Speed was yelling for Peggy to
rally. The Baroness brought the bridge chair
down on Guggenheim for the finish, but Peggy
twisted aside, escaped, and grabbed the chair
from the Baroness. Clyde and Speed were so
excited they started bitch-slapping each other,
Clyde cheering for the Baroness, Speed for
Peggy. The Baroness was in full retreat, Peggy
stalking her around the living room. Peggy
backed the Baroness against the fireplace and
raised the chair. They were both panting. The
Baroness reached to the mantle and grabbed one
of the machine guns. She pointed it at Peggy.
Peggy retreated with her hands up.
“Whew,” the Baroness said. “That was fun,” and
she lowered the machine gun. “I didn’t know you
had that much fight in you. Let’s do it again
sometime.”
Peggy dropped the chair. “Now let’s find out
what those two geniuses wanted us here for.”
They looked around. The two Ace G-Men were on
the floor, Speed sitting astride Clyde, slapping
him back and forth across the chops, while Clyde
was gesturing frantically to the Baroness to
pull Hoover off him. “He’s hurting me.
Come on, Speed, save that stuff for later
when we’re alone.”
The two ladies sat on the couch to watch,
sipping their gin. “If Clyde just pulled up his
legs, he could get Hoover in a scissor lock and
flip him,” Peggy suggested.
“Great idea,” Clyde yelled, as he flipped his
boss and began strangling him.
Peggy and the Baroness were comparing manicures
and had discovered a common bond in that they
both favored Charles of the Ritz cosmetics. “I
like the contrast between your fair skin and the
bright red lipstick,” Peggy told the Baroness.
“I go for a little matchy-matchy with a darker
lipstick because of my tan.”
“I think that’s very attractive,” the Baroness
replied, “but let me fix you up a little. That
head slam seems to have dislodged one of your
eyelashes. There, that’s better.”
They looked over at the Lords of Law
Enforcement. Clyde tightened his grip on
Hoover’s throat and had both thumbs pressing on
the FBI Director’s Adam’s apple. “I think the
FBI is gonna need a new boss if we let this go
on much longer,” the Baroness said, as Hoover’s
face turned red, and he stopped moving. She went
over and pulled Clyde off Public Hero Number
One.
“I had him! I had him! You saw that I had him!
Why’d you hafta stop it?” Clyde was so excited
he was almost crying. In fact, he was crying.
“That’s the first time I ever beat Speed in a
fight.”
Speed took a few deep breaths and struggled to
his feet. “Two out of three. I only fell ‘cause
I slipped on one more banana peel that was NOT
part of the burglar trap the way we diagrammed
it. Maybe a certain hard-boiled dick with a
sneaky streak planted that one? Huh, Clyde?
Ready to come clean, ya rat?”
“Now, now, boys, calm down. Whaja want to talk
about?” the Baroness asked the nation’s top
spies.
The G-Men calmed down. “OK, here’s the deal: You
know ‘bout this Hitler guy who’s taken over
Russia, right?” Speed asked.
“I hate to correct the head of U.S. snooping and
spying,” Peggy told him, “but Hitler is Germany.
Stalin is Russia.”
“Shit, I always get those assholes mixed up.”
“Here’s the trick. It’s easy,” Peggy explained.
“Use the alphabet and remember it’s G H:
Germany, Hitler. And with Russia: it’s R S,
Russia, Stalin. They come after each other when
you say your A, B, Cs,” she added helpfully.
(Got that, kids?)
“Christ. So simple. GH, RS. Wotta great trick. I
made that stupid mistake yesterday when I was
shaking down the House Appropriations Committee
for some more money we needed to save the
country. If they weren’t so scared of me, they
woulda laughed. Now all I have to do is learn
the alphabet,” he laughed. “How’s it go? A, B,
C, D, E, F, G . . . Just kidding.”
“I know you are, Speed,” said Peggy and she
squeezed his knee.
“I saw that,” Clyde said disapprovingly. “Not
that I care.” “The point is, you and Peggy have
been bringing in all
kindsa radical artists and their stuff from –
which is it – Germany? Russia? Germany? Which
ones are the Krauts? Which ones are the Ivans?
“You’re just pretending to be a scheisskopf,
right?” the Baroness said.
“Right, whatever that means. Anyway, we want you
two to figure out which artists are the Nazi
spies.”
“I can tell you right now: It’s Peggy’s
Surrealists. Round them up and kill them.”
“Hah! Wrong!” Peggy said, “it’s your abstract
painters that’re the spies. They probably put
messages in code in their paintings and only the
other spies know what they mean. Ship ‘em over
to me with their paintings and I’ll tell you
which ones to kill.” “Yeah, ship ‘em over and
you’ll schtup ‘em,” the Baroness told Hoover.
“She judges how good painters are by how good
they are in bed.”
“Hear that, Clyde?” “I’m getting hot, Speed.”
“She does the same thing, but lies about it,”
Peggy said. “Rudolf Bauer, Hans Arp…”
“Hey, I don’t sleep with all my painters; well,
not often, at least not as often as you. I’ve
got standards!”
“Standards? Right. They’ve gotta have two arms
and a . . .! Wanna start keeping score?”
“Listen up, you two. Here’s Clyde’s idea,”
Hoover told them. “Get over here, Big Boy.”
Clyde slipped onto the couch next to the Nemesis
of Ne’er-Do-Wells.
“OK, Sharpshooter, tell the Baroness and Peggy
how this Dynamic Duo of Dashing Dames is going
to save us from the Reds, the Nazis, whichever
buncha assholes we’re supposed to catch.”
Clyde pulled himself together and addressed the
two ladies: “OK. Here’s the plan. I’m calling it
Plan 47 with the G-Gal Option. The two of you
are gonna get together and work for us, as loyal
Americans – you are loyal Americans, aren’t ya?”
he asked the Baroness, who reached past Speed
and gave Clyde a noogie.
“Speed, did you see what she did?” Clyde
complained.
“Man up, Girlfriend,” Speed told him. “Now tell
them your brainstorm.”
“You two could be pals, be on our team,” Clyde
said earnestly and with fake sincerity that had
tricked many a Public Enemy into ratting out his
gang. “We’ll put you through our Count- er-Spy
Training Program and you’ll learn how to smash
Nazi spy rings. Publicity should be good for
your museums’ images. Nothing wrong with making
a buck.”
“You mean we have to work together. Hmm,” the
Baroness pondered the idea. “Before we had that
little dustup, I would have said, no way. But
now, maybe she’s not as bad as I thought. That
was a good way to get to know one another.
Where’d you learn that spin escape from the
pin?”
“Naked wresting at Smith. I was team captain.
Dincha do that at your school?”
“Nah. In Germany we went for saber fencing. Like
you do here in acting school. See this little
scar here?” as she pointed to a nick on her
cheek. “That got me dates at the military
fraternity at Heidelberg. The guys loved to lick
it.”
Peggy smiled at the Baroness. “Maybe we could
work together, Chief,” she said.
That made Hoover happy. And Happy Hoover
thought, “Let’s make everyone happy. “Let’s take
a little recess. Clyde, break out those joints.”
“Joints, what’s that?” the Baroness asked.
Peggy said, “Now yer talking.”
“Nicht verstehe,” the Baroness said.
“You never heard of Reefer Madness?” Peggy asked
the Baroness, passing her the joint Speed handed
her after taking a deep drag himself. “Here,
just pucker up and inhale.”
“You mean like I’m smoking a Camel®.”
“That’s the idea. You might even get humped.”
The Baroness looked at her blankly. “That was a
joke. I guess you have to be a native speaker to
get it.”
“Wow,” the Baroness said after taking a couple
puffs. “This is great. Makes me want to look at
a goldfish tank and eat gummy bears, whatever
they are. Or listen to whales singing love
songs.”
“Join our team,” Hoover told her, “and I can get
you all this shit you want. We’ve confiscated a
ton of it, and it’s just for me and Clyde and
our pals. We gotta test the stuff if we’re gonna
arrest someone for having it.” He took another
hit. “Wow! The guys down in the lab musta put a
little extra something in this!” He grabbed a
handful of gummy bears from the table. “So,
whaddya you think about Clyde’s great idea? I
just love, I mean like, or maybe it’s just
admire, the guy. And ain’t he cute? I mean
handsome?”
The Baroness ignored Hoover’s question and tried
to think about how much she used to hate Peggy
Guggenheim, but she was high as the Dumbo
balloon in Macys® Thanksgiving Day Parade and
was having trouble thinking about anything. For
her part, Peggy was at peace with the world.
“We’ll do it,” the Baroness said. Peggy couldn’t
talk, so she just nodded. And grinned. And
drooled a little.
“That’s it,” Speed yelled. “Yowza. We got ‘em.”
He slapped Clyde a high five and danced a little
jig with his War-on-Crime Wingman.
“See,” Clyde yelled, “and you said they were
cretins.”
“I never said that. I said, ‘great ones,’ not
‘cretins,’” Speed lied to his two new special
agent recruits. He had his fingers crossed where
the girls couldn’t see them.
|