American Tabloid Page 11

  “It’s me, Helen.”

  “What’s that noise?”

  “It’s the wind. I’m calling from a phone booth.”

  “You’re outside in this?”

  “Yes. Are you studying?”

  “I’m studying torts and welcoming this distraction. Susan called, by the way.”

  “Oh, shit. And?”

  “And she said I’m of age, and you’re free, white and forty-five. She said, ‘I’m going to wait and see if you two last before I tell my mother.’ Ward, are you coming over tonight?”

  Mad Sal walked out and slipped on the rectory steps. A priest helped him up and waved goodbye.

  Littell took his gloves off and blew on his hands. “I’ll be by late. There’s a lounge act I have to catch.”

  “You’re being cryptic. You act like Mr. Hoover’s looking over your shoulder every second. Kemper tells his daughter everything about his work.”

  Littell laughed. “I want you to analyze the Freudian slip you just made.”

  Helen whooped. “Oh, God, you’re right!”

  A Negro boy walked by. Mad Sal bolted after him.

  Littell said, “I have to go.”

  “Come by later.”

  “I will.”

  Mad Sal chased the kid. Snowdrifts and low-cut sneakers slowed him down.

  The Elks Hall steps were jammed. Non-Teamster admittance looked dicey: goons were running an ID checkpoint at the door.

  Men filed in with bottle bags and six-packs. They had union badges pinned to their topcoats—about the same size as Bureau shields.

  A fresh swarm hit the steps. Littell held up his FBI badge and pushed to the middle. The stampede jostled him inside.

  A blonde in G-string and pasties ran the coat-check concession. The foyer walls were lined with bootleg slot machines. Every pull hit a jackpot—Teamsters scooped up coins and yelled.

  Littell pocketed his badge. The crowd whooshed him into a big rec hall.

  Card tables faced a raised bandstand. Every table was set up with whisky bottles, paper cups and ice.

  Strippers dispensed cigars. Tips bought unlimited fondling.

  Littell grabbed a ringside seat. A redhead dodged hands, naked—cash wads had popped her G-string.

  The lights went down. A baby spot hit the bandstand. Littell built a quick scotch-on-the-rocks.

  Three other men sat at his table. Total strangers pounded his back.

  Lenny Sands walked on stage, twirling a mike cord à la Sinatra. Lenny mimicked Sinatra—straight down to his spitcurl and voice:

  “Fly me to the moon in my souped-up Teamster rig! I’ll put skidmarks on management’s ass, ’cause my union contract’s big! In other words, Teamsters are kings!!”

  The audience hooted and yelled. A man grabbed a stripper and forced her into some dirty-dog dance steps.

  Lenny Sands bowed. “Thank you thank you thank you! And ring-a-ding, men of the Northern Illinois Council of the International Brotherhood of Teamsters!”

  The crowd applauded. A stripper brought ice refills by—Littell caught a breast in the face.

  Lenny said, “It sure is hot up here!”

  The stripper hopped on stage and dropped ice cubes down his pants. The audience howled; the man beside Littell squealed and spat bourbon.

  Lenny made ecstatic faces. Lenny shook his trouser legs until the ice dropped out.

  The crowd wolf-whistled and shrieked and thumped their tables—

  The stripper ducked behind a curtain. Lenny put on a Boston accent—Bobby Kennedy’s voice pushed into soprano range.

  “Now you listen to me, Mr. Hoffa! You quit associating with those nasty gangsters and nasty truck drivers and snitch off all your friends or I’ll tell my daddy on you!”

  The room rocked. The room rolled. Foot stomps had the floor shaking.

  “Mr. Hoffa, you’re a no-goodnik and a nasty man! You quit trying to unionize my six children or I’ll tell my daddy and my big brother Jack on you! You be nice or I’ll tell my daddy to buy your union and make all your nasty truck drivers servants at our family compound in Hyannis Port!”

  The room roared. Littell felt queasy-hot and lightheaded.

  Lenny minced. Lenny preened. Lenny DID Robert F. Kennedy, faggot crusader.

  “Mr. Hoffa, you stop that nasty forced bargaining this instant!”

  “Mr. Hoffa, stop yelling, you’re wilting my hairdo!”

  “Mr. Hoffa, be NIIICE!”

  Lenny squeezed the room dry. Lenny wrung it out from the basement to the roof.

  “Mr. Hoffa, you’re just SOOOOO butch!”

  “Mr. Hoffa, quit scratching—you’ll ruin my nylons!”

  “Mr. Hoffa, your Teamsters are just TOOOOO sexy! They’ve got the McClellan Committee and me in such a TIZZY!”

  Lenny kept it cranking. Littell caught something three drinks in: he never ridiculed John Kennedy. Kemper called it the Bobby/Jack dichotomy: if you liked one man, you disliked the other.

  “Mr. Hoffa, stop confusing me with facts!”

  “Mr. Hoffa, stop berating me, or I won’t share my hairdressing secrets with your wife!”

  The Elks Hall broiled. Open windows laced in freezing air. The drink ice ran out—strippers filled bowls with fresh snow.

  Mob men table-hopped. Littell spotted file-photo faces.

  Sam “Mo”/“Momo”/“Mooney” Giancana. Icepick Tony Iannone, Chimob underboss. Donkey Dan Versace, Fat Bob Paolucci, Mad Sal D’Onofrio himself.

  Lenny wrapped it up. The strippers shimmied on stage and took bows.

  “So fly me to the stars, union paycheck fat! Jimmy Hoffa is our tiger now—Bobby’s just a scrawny rat! In other words, Teamsters are kings!!!!”

  Table thumps, claps, cheers, yells, whistles, howls—

  Littell ran out a back exit and sucked air in. His sweat froze; his legs fluttered; his scotch dinner stayed down.

  He checked the door. A conga line snaked through the rec hall—strippers and Teamsters linked up hands-to-hips. Mad Sal joined them—his tennis shoes squished and leaked snow.

  Littell caught his breath and slow-walked around to the parking lot. Lenny Sands was cooling off by his car, scooping ice packs from a snow drift.

  Mad Sal walked up and hugged him. Lenny made a face and pulled free.

  Littell crouched behind a limousine. Their voices carried his way.

  “Lenny, what can I say? You were stupendous.”

  “Insider crowds are easy, Sal. You just gotta know what switches to flip.”

  “Lenny, a crowd’s a crowd. These Teamsters are working Joes, just like my junket guys. You lay off the politics and pour on the Italian stuff. I fuckin’ guarantee, every time you lay on the paisan stuff you’ll have a roomful of hyenas on your hands.”

  “I don’t know, Sal. I might have a Vegas gig coming up.”

  “I am fuckin’ begging you, Lenny. And my fuckin’ junketeers are well known as the biggest casino losers in fuckin’ captivity. Va-va-voom, Lenny. The more they lose, the more we make.”

  “I don’t know, Sal. I might have a chance to open for Tony Bennett at the Dunes.”

  “Lenny, I am begging. On all fours like a fuckin’ dog I am begging.”

  Lenny laughed. “Before you start barking, go to fifteen percent.”

  “Fifteen? … fuck … You Jew me up, you fuckin’ Jew hump.”

  “Twenty percent, then. I only associate with Jew haters for a price.”

  “Fuck you, Lenny. You said fifteen.”

  “Fuck you, Sal. I changed my mind.”

  Silence stretched—Littell visualized a long staredown.

  “Okay okay okay. Okay for fuckin’ twenty, you fuckin’ Jew bandit.”

  “Sal, I like you. Just don’t shake my hand, you’re too greasy to touch.”

  Car doors slammed. Littell saw Mad Sal snag his Caddy and slalom out to the street.

  Lenny turned on his headlights and idled the engine. Cigarette smoke blew out the driver’s-side window.
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  Littell walked to his car. Lenny was parked two rows over—he’d spot his departure.

  Lenny just sat there. Drunks careened in front of his beams and took pratfalls on ice.

  Littell wiped ice off his windshield. The car sat in snow up to its bumpers.

  Lenny pulled out. Littell cut him a full minute’s slack and followed his tracks in the slush.

  They led straight to Lake Shore Drive northbound. Littell caught up with him just short of the ramp.

  Lenny swung on. Littell stayed four car lengths behind him.

  It was a crawl tail—tire chains on crusted blacktop—two cars and one deserted expressway.

  Lenny passed the Gold Coast off-ramps. Littell dawdled back and fixed on his taillights.

  They crawled past Chicago proper. They crawled past Glencoe, Evans ton and Wilmette.

  Signs marked the Winnetka town limits. Lenny spun right and pulled off the highway at the very last second.

  There was no way to follow him—he’d spin out or clip a guardrail.

  Littell took the next off-ramp down. Winnetka was 1:00 a.m. quiet and beautiful—all Tudor mansions and freshly plowed streets.

  He grid-cruised and hit a business thoroughfare. A stretch of cars were parked outside a cocktail lounge: Perry’s Little Log Cabin.

  Lenny’s Packard Caribbean was nosed up to the curb.

  Littell parked and walked in. A ceiling banner brushed his face: “Welcome 1959!” in silver spangles.

  The place was cold-weather cozy. The decor was rustic: mock-timber walls, hardwood bar, Naugahyde lounging sofas.

  The clientele was all male. The bar was standing room only. Two men sat on a lounge sofa, fondling—Littell looked away.

  He stared straight ahead. He felt eyes strafe him. He spotted phone booths near the rear exit—enclosed and safe.

  He walked back. Nobody approached him. His holster rig had rubbed his shoulders raw—he’d spent the whole night sweating and fidgeting.

  He sat down in the first booth. He cracked the door and caught a full view of the bar.

  There’s Lenny, drinking Pernod. There’s Lenny and a blond man rubbing legs.

  Littell watched them. The blond man slipped Lenny a note and waltzed off. A Platters medley hit the jukebox.

  The room thinned out a few couples at a time. The sofa couple stood up, unzipped. The bartender announced last call.

  Lenny ordered Cointreau. The front door opened. Icepick Tony Iannone walked in.

  “One of Giancana’s most feared underbosses” started French-kissing the barman. The Chicago Mob killer suspected of nine mutilation murders was sucking and biting on the barman’s ear.

  Littell went dizzy. Littell went dry-mouthed. Littell felt his pulse go crazy.

  Tony/Lenny/Lenny/Tony—who knows who’s QUEER?

  Tony saw Lenny. Lenny saw Tony. Lenny ran out the rear exit.

  Tony chased Lenny. Littell froze. The phone booth went airless and sucked all the breath out of him.

  He got the door open. He stumbled outside. Cold air slammed him.

  An alley ran behind the bar. He heard noise down and left, by the back of the adjoining building.

  Tony had Lenny pinned down on a snowdrift. Lenny was biting and kicking and gouging.

  Tony pulled out two switchblades. Littell pulled his gun, fumbled it and dropped it. His warning scream choked out mute.

  Lenny kneed Tony. Tony pitched sideways. Lenny bit his nose off.

  Littell slid on ice and fell. Soft-packed snow muffled the sound. Fifteen yards between him and them—they couldn’t see him or hear him.

  Tony tried to scream. Lenny spat his nose out and jammed snow in his mouth. Tony dropped his knives; Lenny grabbed them.

  They couldn’t see him. He slid on his knees and crawled for his gun.

  Tony pawed at the snow. Lenny stabbed him two-handed—in his eyes, in his cheeks, in his throat.

  Littell crawled for his gun.

  Lenny ran.

  Tony died coughing up bloody snow.

  Music drifted outside: a soft last-call ballad.

  The exit door never opened. Jukebox noise covered the whole—

  Littell crawled over to Tony. Littell picked the corpse clean: watch, wallet, key ring. Print-sustaining switchblades shoved in hilt-deep—yes, do it.

  He pulled them free. He got his legs. He ran down the alley until his lungs gave out.

  13

  (Miami, 1/3/59)

  Pete pulled up to the cabstand. A mango splattered on his windshield.

  The street was void of tiger cars and tiger riffraff. Placard wavers prowled the sidewalk, armed with bags full of too-ripe fruit.

  Jimmy called him in L.A. yesterday. He said, “Earn your five fucking percent. The Kennedy bug went down, but you still owe me. My Cubans have been batshit since Castro took over. You go to Miami and restore fucking order and you can keep your five fucking—”

  Somebody yelled, “Viva Fidel!” Somebody yelled, “Castro, el grande puto communisto!” A garbage war erupted two doors down: kids tossing fat red pomegranates.

  Pete locked his car and ran into the hut. A redneck type was working the switchboard, solo.

  Pete said, “Where’s Fulo?”

  The geek yuk-yuk-yukked. “The trouble with this operation is half the guys are pro-Batista and half the guys are pro-Castro. You just can’t get guys like that to show up for work when there’s a nifty riot in progress, so here I am all by myself.”

  “I said, ‘Where’s Fulo?’ ”

  “Working this switchboard is an education. I’ve been getting these calls asking me where the action is and ‘What should I bring?’ I like Cubans, but I think they’re prone to untoward displays of violence.”

  The geek was cadaver thin. He had a bad Texas drawl and the world’s worst set of teeth.

  Pete cracked his knuckles. “Why don’t you tell me where Fulo is.”

  “Fulo went looking for action, and my guess is he brought his machete. And you’re Pete Bondurant, and I’m Chuck Rogers. I’m a good friend of Jimmy and some boys in the Outfit, and I am a dedicated opponent of the worldwide Communist conspiracy.”

  A garbage bomb wobbled the front window. Two lines of placard wavers squared off outside.

  The phone rang. Rogers plugged the call in. Pete wiped pomegranate seeds off his shirt.

  Rogers unhooked his headset. “That was Fulo. He said if ‘el jefe Big Pete’ got in, he should go by his place and give him a hand with something. I think it’s 917 Northwest 49th. That’s three blocks to the left, two to the right.”

  Pete dropped his suitcase. Rogers said, “So who do you like, the Beard or Batista?”

  The address was a peach stucco shack. A Tiger Kab with four slashed tires blocked the porch.

  Pete climbed over it and knocked. Fulo cracked the door and slid a chain off.

  Pete shoved his way in. He saw the damage straight off: two spics wearing party hats, muerto on the living-room floor.

  Fulo locked up. “We were celebrating, Pedro. They called my beloved Fidel a true Marxist, and I took offense at this slander.”

  He shot them in the back at point-blank range. Small-bore exit wounds—the cleanup wouldn’t be that big a deal.

  Pete said, “Let’s get going on this.”

  Fulo smashed their teeth to powder. Pete burned their fingerprints off on a hot plate.

  Fulo dug the spent rounds out of the wall and flushed them down the toilet. Pete quick-scorched the floor stains—spectograph tests would read negative.

  Fulo pulled down the living-room drapes and wrapped them around the bodies. The exit wounds had congealed—no blood seeped through.

  Chuck Rogers showed up. Fulo said he was competent and trustworthy. They dumped the stiffs into the trunk of his car.

  Pete said, “Who are you?”

  Chuck said, “I’m a petroleum geologist. I’m also a licensed pilot and a professional anti-Communist.”

  “So who foots the bill?”<
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  Chuck said, “The United States of America.”

  Chuck felt like cruising. Pete co-signed the notion—Miami grabbed his gonads like L.A. used to.

  They cruised. Fulo tossed the bodies off a deserted stretch of the Bal Harbor Causeway. Pete chain-smoked and dug the scenery.

  He liked the big white houses and the big white sky—Miami as one big shiny bleach job. He liked the breathing room between swank districts and slums. He liked the shitkicker cops out prowling—they looked like they’d be hell on rambunctious niggers.

  Chuck said, “Castro’s ideological beliefs are up in the air. He’s made statements that can be construed as very pro-U.S. and very pro-Red. My friends in the intelligence community are working on plans to cornhole him if he goes Commie.”

  They drove back to Flagler. Armed men were guarding the cabstand—off-duty fuzz with that fat-and-sassy look.

  Chuck waved to them. “Jimmy takes good care of the police contingent around here. He’s got this phantom union set up, and half the cops working this sector have got nice no-show jobs and nice paychecks.”

  A kid slammed a leaflet on their windshield. Fulo translated odd slogans—Commie-type platitudes all.

  Rocks hit the car. Pete said, “This is too crazy. Let’s go stash Fulo someplace.”

  Rogers leased a room in an all-spic boardinghouse. Radio gear and hate leaflets covered every spare inch of floor space.

  Fulo and Chuck relaxed with beers. Pete skimmed pamphlet titles and got a good laugh mojo going.

  “Kikes Kontrol Kremlin!” “Fluoridation: Vatican Plot?” “Red Storm-clouds Brewing—One Patriot’s Response.” “Why Non-Caucasians Overbreed: A Scientist Explains.” “Pro-American Checklist: Do You Score RED or Red, White and Blue?”

  Fulo said, “Chuck, it is rather crowded in here.”

  Rogers futzed with a short-wave receiver. A hate tirade kicked in: Jew bankers, blah blah.

  Pete hit a few switches. The rant sputtered out cold.

  Chuck smiled. “Politics is something you come around to slow. You can’t expect to understand the world situation immediately.”

  “I should introduce you to Howard Hughes. He’s as crazy as you are.”

  “You think anticommunism is crazy?”

  “I think it’s good for business, and anything that’s good for business is okay with me.”