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Pete shrugged. He didn’t know what to do with his hands.
Gail ran to her car. She stripped gears pulling out of the driveway—and almost plowed a woman pushing a baby carriage.
5
(Washington, D.C., 12/7/58)
Ward was scared. Kemper knew why: Mr. Hoover’s private briefings spawned legends.
They waited in his outer office. Ward sat hold-your-breath still. Kemper knew: he’ll be twenty minutes late exactly.
He wants Ward cowed. He wants me here to buttress the effect.
He’d already phoned in his report: The Shoftel job went perfectly. A Los Angeles–based agent was assigned to monitor the bug and wiretap recordings from a listening post and forward the salient tapes to Littell in Chicago. Ace wire man Ward would cull them—and send the best excerpts to Mr. Hoover.
Jack wasn’t due in L.A. until December 9th. Darleen Shoftel was servicing four tricks a night—the listening-post man praised her stamina. The L.A. Times ran a brief mention of Sol Maltzman’s suicide. Mr. Hoover said Pete Bondurant probably “fired him” rather harshly.
Ward crossed his legs and straightened his necktie. Don’t: Mr. Hoover hates fidgeters. He ordered us here to reward you—so please do not fidget.
Hoover walked in. Kemper and Littell stood up.
“Gentlemen, good morning.”
They said, “Good morning, Sir”—in unison, with no overlap.
“I’m afraid this will have to be brief. I’m meeting Vice-President Nixon shortly.”
Littell said, “I’m very pleased to be here, Sir.”
Kemper almost winced: Do not interject comments, however servile.
“My schedule forces me to effect brevity. Mr. Littell, I appreciate the Job you and Mr. Boyd did in Los Angeles. I’m rewarding you with a position on the Chicago Top Hoodlum Squad. I’m doing this at the displeasure of SAC Leahy, who considers you best suited for political surveillance work. I realize, Mr. Littell, that you consider the CPUSA ineffectual, if not moribund. I deem this attitude dangerously fatuous, and sincerely hope you’ll outgrow it. You’re a personal colleague of mine now, but I warn you not to be seduced by the dangerous life. You can’t possibly be as good at it as Kemper Boyd is.”
6
(Washington, D.C., 12/8/58)
Littell did paperwork in his bathrobe.
He did it exultantly hung over: they celebrated with Cordon Rouge and Glenlivet. The damage showed: empty bottles and room-service carts piled with untouched food.
Kemper showed restraint. He didn’t. Hoover’s “brevity” stung; champagne and scotch let him make fun of it. Coffee and aspirin hardly dented his hangover.
A snowstorm closed the airport—he was stuck in his hotel room. Hoover sent up a mimeo file for him to study.
CHICAGO TOP HOODLUM SQUAD CONFIDENTIAL: CRIME FIGURES, LOCATIONS, METHODS OF OPERATION AND RELATED OBSERVATIONS.
It ran sixty detail-padded pages. Littell popped two more aspirin and underlined salient facts.
The current stated goal of the Top Hoodlum Program (outlined in Bureau Directive #3401, 12/19/57) is the gathering of organized crime intelligence. At this date, and until direct notice of a superseding policy, any and all criminal intelligence gathered is to be retained solely for future use. The Top Hoodlum Program is not mandated to gather intelligence to be employed in the process of directly building cases for Federal prosecution. Criminal intelligence obtained through electronic surveillance methods may be, at the discretion of the Regional SAC, transmitted to municipal police agencies and prosecuting bodies.
The elliptical gist: Hoover knows you can’t prosecute the Mob and consistently win. He won’t sacrifice Bureau prestige for occasional convictions.
Top Hoodlum Program squads may employ electronic surveillance methods on their own autonomy. Verbatim tape and transcription logs are to be rigorously kept and transmitted to the Regional SAC for periodic review.
Bug-and-tap carte blanche—good.
The Chicago THP Squad has effected an electronic surveillance penetration (microphone placements only) at Celano’s Custom Tailors, 620 North Michigan Avenue. Both the U.S. Attorney’s Office (Northern Illinois Region) and the Cook County Sheriff’s Intelligence Division consider this location to be the informal headquarters of ranking Chicago mobsters, their chief lieutenants and selected underlings. A comprehensive tape and stenographer-transcribed intelligence library has been established on the listening post premises.
The suborning of informants should be considered a priority of all THP agents. As of this (12/19/57) date, no informants with intimate knowledge of the Chicago Crime Syndicate have been activated. Note: All transactions involving the exchange of informant intelligence for Bureau-vouchered monies must first be approved by the Regional SAC.
Translation: FIND YOUR OWN SNITCH.
The Top Hoodlum Program mandate currently allows for the assignment of six agents and one secretary/stenographer per regional office. Yearly budgets are not to exceed the guidelines established in Bureau directive #3403, 12/19/57.
Budget stats droned on. Littell flipped to CRIME FIGURES.
Sam Giancana, born 1908. AKA “Mo,” “Momo,” “Mooney.” Giancana is the Chicago Mob “Boss of Bosses.” He follows Al Capone, Paul “The Waiter” Ricca and Anthony “Joe Batters”/“Big Tuna” Accardo as the Chicago overlord of all gambling, loan-sharking, numbers, vending machine, prostitution and labor rackets. Giancana has been personally involved in numerous Mob-related killings. He was rejected for World War II service as a “constitutional psychopath.” Giancana lives in suburban Oak Park. He is frequently seen in the company of his personal bodyguard Dominic Michael Montalvo, AKA “Butch Montrose,” born 1919. Giancana is a close personal associate of International Brotherhood of Teamsters President James Riddle Hoffa. He is rumored to have a voice in the loan selection process of the Teamsters’ Central States Pension Fund, an exceedingly rich and dubiously administered union trust believed to have financed many illegal ventures.
Gus Alex, born 1916. (Numerous AKA’s.) Alex is the former North Side rackets boss now deployed as the Chicago Mob’s political “fixer” and liaison to corrupt elements within the Chicago Police Department and the Cook County Sheriff’s Office. He is a closely allied associate of Murray Llewellyn Humphreys, AKA “Hump” and “The Camel,” born 1899. Humphreys is the Chicago Mob’s “eider statesman.” He is semi-retired, but is sometimes consulted on Chicago Mob policy decisions.
John “Johnny” Rosselli, born 1905. Rosselli is a closely allied associate of Sam Giancana and serves as the front man of the Chicago Mob-owned Stardust Hotel and Casino in Las Vegas. Rosselli is rumored to have substantial casino-hotel holdings in Havana, Cuba, along with Cuban gambling magnates Santo Traficante Jr. and Carlos Marcello, the Mob bosses of Tampa, Florida, and New Orleans, Louisiana, respectively.
Known-associate and investment lists followed. Staggering: Giancana/Hoffa/Rosselli/Trafficante/Marcello et al. knew every major hoodlum in every major U.S. city and owned legitimate interests in trucking firms, nightclubs, factories, race horses, banks, movie theaters, amusement parks and over three hundred Italian restaurants. Their collective indictment-to-conviction ratio: 308 to 14.
Littell skimmed an appendix: MINOR CRIME FIGURES. Mob bosses wouldn’t snitch—but the little fish might.
Jacob Rubenstein, born 1911. AKA “Jack Ruby.” This man operates a striptease club in Dallas, Texas, and is known to dabble in small-time loansharking. He is rumored to occasionally transmit Chicago Mob money to Cuban politicians, including President Fulgencio Batista and rebel leader Fidel Castro. Rubenstein/Ruby is Chicago-born and has maintained extensive ties within the Chicago Mob. He is a frequent Chicago visitor.
Herschel Meyer Ryskind, born 1901. AKA “Hersh,” “Hesh,” “Heshie.” This man is a former (circa 1930s) member of the Detroit-based ‘Purple Gang.’ He resides in Arizona and Texas, but maintains strong Chicago Mob ties. He is rumored to be active in the Gulf Coast heroin tra
de. He is alleged to be a close friend of Sam Giancana and James Riddle Hoffa and is said to have mediated labor disputes for the Chicago Mob.
“Alleged to be”/“rumored to have”/“believed to be.” Key phrases revealing a key truth: the file read noncommittal and equivocal. Hoover didn’t really hate the Mob—the THP was his response to Apalachin.
Lenny Sands, born 1924. (Formerly Leonard Joseph Seidelwitz), AKA “Jewboy Lenny.” This man is considered to be a mascot to the Chicago Mob. His nominal occupation is lounge entertainer. He frequently entertains at Chicago Mob and Cook County Teamster gatherings. Sands is said to have occasionally delivered Chicago Mob funds to Cuban police officials as part of the Chicago Mob’s efforts to maintain a friendly political climate in Cuba and insure the continued success of their Havana casinos. Sands has a vending machine pick-up route and is a salaried employee of the Chicago Mob’s quasi-legitimate “Vendo-King” business front. (Note: Sands is a well-established Las Vegas/Los Angeles entertainment business “fringe character.” He is also rumored to have given U.S. Senator John Kennedy (D–Massachusetts) speech lessons during his 1946 Congressional campaign.)
A Mob flunky knew Jack Kennedy. And he wired a whore’s pad to entrap him.
Littell jumped back and forth: MINOR CRIME FIGURES to RELATED OBSERVATIONS.
Chicago Mob territories are geographically divided. The North Side, Near North Side, West Side, South Side, Loop, Lakefront and northern suburb areas are run by underbosses who report directly to Sam Giancana.
Mario Salvatore D’Onofrio, born 1912. AKA “Mad Sal.” This man is an independent loan shark and bookmaker. He is allowed to operate because he pays Sam Giancana a large operating tribute. D’Onofrio was convicted of 2nd Degree Manslaughter in 1951 and served a five-year sentence at the Illinois State Penitentiary at Joliet. A prison psychiatrist described him as a “Psychopathically-derived criminal sadist with uncontrollable psycho-sexual urges to inflict pain.” He was recently a suspect in the torture-murders of two Bob O’Link Country Club golf professionals rumored to owe him money.
Independent bookmaker-loansharks flourish in Chicago. This is due to Sam Giancana’s policy of extracting high-percentage operating tributes. One of Giancana’s most fearsome underbosses, Anthony “Icepick Tony” Iannone (born 1917), serves as the Chicago Mob’s liaison to independent bookmaker-loanshark factions. Iannone is strongly believed to be responsible for the mutilation murders of no less than nine heavily indebted loanshark customers.
Names jumped out. Odd appellations made him laugh.
Tony “the Ant” Spilotro, Felix “Milwaukee Phil” Alderisio, Frank “Franky Strongy” Ferraro.
Joe Amato, Joseph Cesar Di Vareo, Jackie “Jackie the Lackey” Cerone.
The Teamsters’ Central States Pension Fund remains a source of constant law énforcement speculation. Does Sam Giancana have final Fund loan approval? What is the established protocol for granting loans to criminals, quasi-legitimate businessmen and labor racketeers seeking capital?
Jimmy “Turk” Torello, Louie “the Mooch” Eboli.
The Miami PD Intelligence Squad believes that Sam Giancana is a silent partner in the Tiger Kab Kompany, a Teamster-owned taxi service run by Cuban refugees believed to possess extensive criminal records.
Daniel “Donkey Dan” Versace, “Fat Bob” Paolucci—
The phone rang. Littell fumbled for it—eyestrain had him seeing double.
“Hello?”
“It’s me.”
“Kemper, hi.”
“What have you been doing? When I left you were two sheets to the wind.”
Littell laughed. “I’ve been reading the THP file. And so far, I’m not too impressed with Mr. Hoover’s anti-Mob mandate.”
“Watch your mouth, he might have bugged your room.”
“That’s a cruel thought.”
“Yes, if not far-fetched. Ward, look, it’s still snowing, and you’ll never be able to fly out today. Why don’t you meet me at the Committee office? Bobby and I are grilling a witness. He’s a Chicago man, and you might learn something.”
“I could use some air. You’re at the old Senate Office Building?”
“Right, suite 101. I’ll be in interview room A. It’s got an observation corridor, so you’ll be able to watch. And remember my cover. I’m retired from the FBI.”
“You’re a glib dissembler, Kemper. It’s rather sad.”
“Don’t get lost in the snow.”
The setup was perfect: a closed hallway with one-way glass access and wall-mounted speakers. Partitioned off in cubicle A: the Kennedy brothers, Kemper, and a blond man.
Cubicles B, C and D were vacant. He had the watching gallery to himself—the snowstorm must have scared people home.
Littell hit the speaker switch. Voices crackled out with minimum static.
The men sat around a desk. Robert Kennedy played host and worked the tape recorder.
“Take your time, Mr. Kirpaski. You’re a voluntary witness, and we’re here at your disposal.”
The blond man said, “Call me Roland. Nobody calls me Mr. Kirpaski.”
Kemper grinned. “Any man who rolls over on Jimmy Hoffa deserves that formality.”
Brilliant Kemper—reviving his Tennessee drawl.
Roland Kirpaski said, “That’s nice, I guess. But you know, Jimmy Hoffa’s Jimmy Hoffa. What I mean is, it’s like they say about the elephant. He don’t forget.”
Robert Kennedy laced his hands behind his head. “Hoffa will have plenty of time in prison to remember everything that put him there.”
Kirpaski coughed. “I’d like to say something. And I’d … uh … like to read it off when I testify in front of the Committee.”
Kemper said, “Go ahead.”
Kirpaski leaned his chair back. “I’m a union guy. I’m a Teamster. Now, I told you all them stories about Jimmy doing this and doing that, you know, telling his guys to lean on these other guys that wouldn’t play ball and so forth. I guess maybe all that stuff is illegal, but you know what? That don’t bother me so much. The only reason I’m so-called rolling over on Jimmy is because I can add up two and two and get four, and I heard enough at fucking Chicago Local 2109 to figure out that Jimmy Fucking Hoffa is cutting side deals with management, which means that he is a scab piece of shit, pardon my French, and I want to go on the record as saying that that is my motive for ratting him off.”
John Kennedy laughed. Littell flashed on the Shoftel job and winced.
Robert Kennedy said, “Duly noted, Roland. You’ll be able to read any statement you like before you testify. And remember, we’re saving your testimony for a televised session. Millions of people will see you.”
Kemper said, “The more publicity you get, the more unlikely it is that Hoffa will attempt reprisals.”
Kirpaski said, “Jimmy don’t forget. He’s like an elephant that way. You know those gangster pictures you showed me? Those guys I saw Jimmy with?”
Robert Kennedy held up some photos. “Santo Trafficante Jr. and Carlos Marcello.”
Kirpaski nodded. “Right. I also want to go on the record as saying that I’ve heard good things about those guys. I heard they hire union men exclusively. No Mafia guy ever said, ‘Roland, you’re a dumb Southside Polack’ to me. Like I said, they visited Jimmy at his suite at the Drake, and all they talked about was the weather, the Cubs and politics in Cuba. I want to go on the record as saying I got no gripe against the fucking Mafia.”
Kemper winked at the one-way. “Neither does J. Edgar Hoover.”
Littell laughed. Kirpaski said, “What?”
Robert Kennedy drummed the table. “Mr. Boyd is performing for some unseen colleague of his. Now, Roland, let’s get back to Miami and Sun Valley.”
Kirpaski said, “I’d like to. Jesus, this snow.”
Kemper stood up and stretched his legs. “Walk us through your observations again.”
Kirpaski sighed. “I was a Chicago delegate to the convention last year. We stayed a
t the Deauville in Miami. I was still friendly with Jimmy then, because I hadn’t figured out he was a scab cocksucker cutting side deals with—”
Robert Kennedy cut in. “Stick to the point, please.”
“The point is I ran some errands for Jimmy. I went by the Tiger Kab stand, which is spelled with a goddamn K, and picked up some cash so Jimmy could take some guys from the Miami locals out on a boat to shoot sharks with Tommy guns, which is one of Jimmy’s favorite Florida things to do. I must have picked up three grand easy. The cabstand was like the planet Mars. All these crazy Cuban guys wearing tiger-colored shirts. The boss Cuban was this guy Fulo. He was selling these hot TVs out of the parking lot. The Tiger Kab business is strictly cash-operated. If you want my considered opinion, it’s a tax evasion bounce looking to happen.”
Static rattled the speaker—Littell tapped the squelch button and smoothed the volume out. John Kennedy looked bored and restless.
Robert Kennedy doodled on a notepad. “Tell us about Anton Gretzler again.”
Kirpaski said, “We all went out shark shooting. Gretzler came along. Him and Jimmy were talking by themselves over on one end of the boat away from the shark shooters. I was down in the can, being seasick. I guess they thought they had privacy, because they were talking up this not-too-legal-sounding stuff, which I want to go on the record as stating was no skin off my ass, because it didn’t involve collusion with management.”
John Kennedy tapped his watch. Kemper prompted Kirpaski. “What exactly did they discuss?”
“Sun Valley. Gretzler said he had land surveys done, and his surveyor said the land wouldn’t fall into the swamp for five years or so, which would let them off the hook, legally speaking. Jimmy said he could tap the Pension Fund for three million dollars to purchase the land and prefab material, and maybe they could pocket some cash up front.”