American Tabloid Page 8
Four tiger-shirted Cubans stood up and circled him. They wore their shirttails out to cover waistband bulges.
Kemper pulled his mug shots out. The tiger men circled in tighter. A man pulled out a stiletto and scratched his neck with the blade.
The other tiger men laughed. Kemper braced the closest one. “Have you seen him?”
The man passed the mug strip around. Every man flashed recognition and said “No.”
Kemper grabbed the strip. He saw a white man on the sidewalk checking his car out.
The knife man sidled up close. The other tiger men giggled. The knife man twirled his blade right upside the gringo’s eyes.
Kemper judo-chopped him. Kemper snapped his knees with a side-kick. The man hit the floor prone and dropped his shiv.
Kemper picked it up. The tiger men backed off en masse. Kemper stepped on the knife man’s knife hand and slammed the blade through it.
The knife man screamed. The other tiger men gasped and tittered. Kemper exited with a tight little bow.
• • •
He drove out 1-95 to Sun Valley. A gray sedan stuck close behind him. He changed lanes, dawdled and accelerated—the car followed from a classic tail distance.
Kemper eased down an off-ramp. A hicktown main street ran perpendicular to it—just four gas stations and a church. He pulled into a Texaco and parked.
He walked to the men’s room. He saw the tail car idle up to the pumps. The white man dawdling by Tiger Kab got out and looked around.
Kemper shut the door and pulled his piece. The room was smelly and filthy.
He counted seconds off his watch. He heard foot scuffs at fifty-one.
The man nudged the door open. Kemper yanked him in and pinned him to the wall.
He was fortyish, sandy-haired, and slender. Kemper pat-searched him from the ankles up.
No badge, no gun, no leatherette ID holder.
The man didn’t blink. The man ignored the revolver in his face.
The man said, “My name is John Stanton. I’m a representative of a U.S. Government agency, and I want to talk to you.”
“About what?”
Stanton said, “Cuba.”
9
(Chicago, 12/11/58)
Snitch candidate at work: “Jew-boy Lenny” Sands collecting jukebox cash.
Littell tailed him. They hit six Hyde Park taverns in an hour—Lenny worked fast.
Lenny kibitzed. Lenny cracked jokes. Lenny passed out Johnnie Walker Red Label miniatures. Lenny told the story of Come-San-Chin, the Chinese cocksucker—and bagged his coin receipts inside seven minutes.
Lenny was a deficient tail-spotter. Lenny had unique THP stats: lounge entertainer/Cuban bagman/Mob mascot.
Lenny pulled up to the Tillerman’s Lounge. Littell parked and walked in thirty seconds behind him.
The place was overheated. A bar mirror tossed his reflection back: lumberjack coat, chinos, work boots.
He still looked like a college professor.
Teamster regalia lined the walls. A framed glossy stood out: Jimmy Hoffa and Frank Sinatra holding up trophy fish.
Workingmen walked through a hot buffet line. Lenny sat at a back table, with a stocky man wolfing corned beef.
Littell ID’d him: Jacob Rubenstein/AKA Jack Ruby.
Lenny brought his coin sacks. Ruby brought a suitcase. It was a probable vending cash transfer.
There were no empty tables adjoining them.
Men stood at the bar drinking lunch: rye shots and beer chasers. Littell signaled for the same—nobody laughed or snickered.
The barman served him and took his money. He downed his lunch quick—just like his Teamster brothers.
The rye made him sweat; the beer gave him goose bumps. The combination tamped down his nerves.
He’d had one THP Squad meeting. The men seemed to resent him—Mr. Hoover slotted him in personally. An agent named Court Meade came on friendly; the others welcomed him with nods and perfunctory handshakes.
He had three days in as a THP agent. Including three shifts at the bug post, studying Chi-mob voices.
The barman cruised by. Littell raised two fingers—the same way his Teamster brothers called for refills.
Sands and Ruby kept talking. There was no table space near them—he couldn’t get close enough to listen.
He drank and paid up. The rye went straight to his head.
Drinking on duty was a Bureau infraction. Not strictly illegal—like wiring fuck pads to entrap politicians.
The agent working the Shoftel post was probably swamped—he hadn’t sent a single tape out yet. Mr. Hoover’s Kennedy hate seemed insanely misguided.
Robert Kennedy seemed heroic. Bobby’s kindness to Roland Kirpaski seemed pure and genuine.
A table opened up. Littell walked through the lunch line and grabbed it. Lenny and Rubenstein/Ruby were less than three feet away.
Ruby was talking. Food dribbled down his bib.
“Heshie always thinks he’s got cancer or some farkakte disease. With Hesh a pimple’s always a malignant tumor.”
Lenny picked at a sandwich. “Heshie’s a class guy. When I played the Stardust Lounge in ’54 he came every night. Heshie always preferred lounge acts to the main-room guys. Jesus Christ and the Apostles could be playing the big room at the Dunes, and Heshie’d be over at some slot palace checking out some guinea crooner ’cause his cousin’s a made guy.”
Ruby said, “Heshie loves blow jobs. He gets blow jobs exclusively, ’cause he says it’s good for his prostrate. He told me he hasn’t dipped the schnitzel since he was with the Purples back in the ’30s and some shiksa tried to schlam him with a paternity suit. Heshie told me he’s had over ten thousand blow jobs. He likes to watch ‘The Lawrence Welk Show’ while he gets blown. He’s got nine doctors for all these diseases he thinks he’s got, and all the nurses blow him. That’s how he knows it’s good for his prostrate.”
“Heshie” was most likely Herschel Meyer Ryskind: “active in the Gulf Coast heroin trade.”
Lenny said, “Jack, I hate to stiff you with all these coins, but I didn’t have time to go to the bank. Sam was very specific. He said you were making rounds and only had limited time. I’m glad we had time to nosh, though, ’cause I always enjoy watching you eat.”
Ruby wiped his bib. “I’m worse when the food’s better. There’s a deli in Big D that’s to die for. Here, my shirt’s just spritzed. At that deli it’s spray-painted.”
“Who’s the money for?”
“Batista and the Beard. Santo and Sam are hedging their bets political-wise. I’m flying down next week.”
Lenny pushed his plate aside. “I’ve got this new routine where Castro comes to the States and gets a job as a beatnik poet. He’s smoking maryjane and talking like a shvartze.”
“You’re big-room talent, Lenny. I’ve always said so.”
“Keep saying it, Jack. If you keep saying it, somebody might hear you.”
Ruby stood up. “Hey, you never know.”
“That’s right, you never do, Shalom, Jack. It’s always a pleasure watching you eat.”
Ruby walked out with his suitcase. Jewboy Lenny lit a cigarette and rolled his eyes up to God.
Lounge acts. Blow jobs. Rye and beer for lunch.
Littell walked back to his car lightheaded.
Lenny left twenty minutes later. Littell tailed him to Lake Shore Drive northbound.
Whitecap spray hit the windshield—booming wind had the lake churning. Littell cranked up his heater—too hot replaced too cold.
The liquor left him cotton-mouthed and just a tad woozy. The road kept dipping—just a little.
Lenny signaled to exit. Littell leaped lanes and eased up behind him. They swung down into the Gold Coast—too upscale to be Vendo-King turf.
Lenny turned west on Rush Street. Littell saw high-toned cocktail spots up ahead: brownstone fronts and low-key neon signs.
Lenny parked and walked into Hernando’s Hideaway. Littell cruised b
y extra-slow.
The door swung back. He saw two men kissing—a little half-second teaser blip.
Littell double-parked and switched jackets: lumberjack to blue blazer. The chinos and boots had to stay.
He walked in bucking wind. The place was dark and mid-afternoon quiet. The decor was discreet: all polished wood and forest-green leather.
A banquette section was roped off. Two duos sat at opposite ends of the bar: older men, Lenny and a college boy.
Littell took a seat between them. The bartender ignored him.
Lenny was talking. His inflections were polished now—devoid of growl and Yiddish patter.
“Larry, you should have seen this wretched man eat.”
The bartender came over. Littell said, “Rye and beer.” Heads turned his way.
The barman poured a shot. Littell downed it and coughed. The barman said, “My, aren’t we thirsty!”
Littell reached for his wallet. His ID holder popped out and landed on the bar badge-up.
He grabbed it and threw some change down. The barman said, “Don’t we want our beer?”
Littell drove to the office and typed up a tail report. He chewed a roll of Clorets to kill his liquor breath.
He omitted mention of his beverage intake and his blunder at Hernando’s Hideaway. He stressed the basic gist: that Lenny Sands might have a secret homosexual life. This might prove to be a recruitment wedge: he was obviously hiding that life from his Mob associates.
Lenny never noticed him. So far, his tail stood uncompromised.
Court Meade rapped on his cubicle screen. “You’ve got a long-distance call, Ward. A man named Boyd in Miami on line 2.”
Littell picked up. “Kemper, hi. What are you doing back in Florida?”
“Working at cross-purposes for Bobby and Mr. Hoover, but don’t tell anyone.”
“Are you getting results?”
“Well, people keep approaching me, and Bobby’s witnesses keep disappearing, so I’d have to call it a toss-up. Ward …”
“You need a favor.”
“Actually, two.”
Littell leaned his chair back. “I’m listening.”
Boyd said, “Helen’s flying into Chicago tonight. United flight 84, New Orleans to Midway. She gets in at 5:10. Will you pick her up and take her to her hotel?”
“Of course. And I’ll take her to dinner, too. Jesus, that’s last-minute but great.”
Boyd laughed. “That’s our Helen, an impetuous traveler. Ward, do you remember that man Roland Kirpaski?”
“Kemper, I saw him three days ago.”
“Yes, you did. In any event, he’s allegedly down in Florida, but I can’t seem to find him. He was supposed to call Bobby and report on Hoffa’s Sun Valley scheme, but he hasn’t called, and he left his hotel last night and hasn’t returned.”
“Do you want me to go by his house and talk to his wife?”
“Yes, if you wouldn’t mind. If you get anything pertinent, leave a coded message with Communications in D.C. I haven’t found a hotel here yet, but I’ll check in with them to see if you’ve called.”
“What’s the address?”
“It’s 818 South Wabash. Roland’s probably off on a toot with some bimbo, but it can’t hurt to see if he’s called home. And Ward?”
“I know. I’ll remember who you’re working for and play it close to the vest.”
“Thanks.”
“You’re welcome. And by the way, I saw a man today who’s as good a role player as you are.”
Boyd said, “That impossible.”
Mary Kirpaski rushed him inside. The house was overfurnished and way overheated.
Littell took off his overcoat. The woman almost pushed him into the kitchen.
“Roland always calls home every night. He said if he didn’t call on this trip, I should cooperate with the authorities and show them his notebook.”
Littell smelled cabbage and boiled meat. “I’m not with the McClellan Committee, Mrs. Kirpaski. I haven’t really worked with your husband.”
“But you know Mr. Boyd and Mr. Kennedy.”
“I know Mr. Boyd. He’s the one who asked me to check on you.”
She’d chewed her nails bloody. Her lipstick was applied way off-center.
“Roland didn’t call last night. He kept this notebook on Mr. Hoffa’s doings, and he didn’t take it to Washington because he wanted to talk to Mr. Kennedy before he agreed to testify.”
“What notebook?”
“It’s a list of Mr. Hoffa’s Chicago phone calls, with dates and everything like that. Roland said he stole the phone bills of some of Mr. Hoffa’s friends because Mr. Hoffa was afraid to call long distance from his hotel, because he thought his phone might be tapped.”
“Mrs. Kirpaski …”
She grabbed a binder off the breakfast table. “Roland would be so mad if I didn’t show it to the authorities.”
Littell opened the binder. Page 1 listed names and phone numbers, neatly arranged in columns.
Mary Kirpaski crowded up to him. “Roland called up the phone companies in all the different cities and found out who the numbers belonged to. I think he impersonated policemen or something like that.”
Littell flipped pages front to back. Roland Kirpaski printed legibly and neatly.
Several “calls received” names were familiar: Sam Giancana, Carlos Marcello, Anthony Iannone, Santo Trafficante Jr. One name was familiar and scary: Peter Bondurant, 949 Mapleton Drive, Los Angeles.
Hoffa called Big Pete three times recently: 11/25/58, 12/1/58, 12/2/58.
Bondurant snapped manacles bare-handed. He allegedly killed people for ten thousand dollars and plane fare.
Mary Kirpaski was fondling rosary beads. She smelled like Vicks VapoRub and cigarettes.
“Ma’am, could I use the phone?”
She pointed to a wall extension. Littell pulled the cord to the far end of the kitchen.
She left him alone. Littell heard a radio snap on one room over.
He dialed the long-distance operator. She put him through to the security desk at L.A. International Airport.
A man answered. “Sergeant Donaldson, may I help you?”
“This is Special Agent Littell, Chicago FBI. I need an expedite on some reservation information.”
“Yes, sir. Tell me what you need.”
“I need you to query the airlines that fly Los Angeles to Miami round-trip. I’m looking for reservations going out on either December the eighth, ninth or tenth, and returning any time after that. I’m looking for a reservation under the name Peter Bondurant, spelled B-O-N-D-U-R-A-N-T, or reservations charged to the Hughes Tool Company or Hughes Aircraft. If you turn up positive on any of that, and the reservation is in a man’s name, I need a physical description of the man either picking up his ticket or boarding the airplane.”
“Sir, that last part is needle-in-a-haystack stuff.”
“I don’t think so. My suspect is a male Caucasian in his late thirties, and he’s about six-foot-five and very powerfully built. If you see him, you don’t forget him.”
“I copy. Do you want me to call you back?”
“I’ll hold. If you don’t get me anything in ten minutes, come back on the line and take my number.”
“Yes, sir. You hold now. I’ll get right on this.”
Littell held the line. An image held him: Big Pete Bondurant crucified. The kitchen cut through it: cramped, hot, saints’ days marked on a parish calendar—
Eight minutes crawled by. The sergeant came back on the line, excited.
“Mr. Littell?”
“Yes.”
“Sir, we hit. I didn’t think we would, but we did.”
Littell got out his notebook. “Tell me.”
“American Airlines flight 104, Los Angeles to Miami. It left L.A. at 8:00 a.m. yesterday, December 10th, and arrived in Miami at 4:10 p.m. The reservation was made under the name Thomas Peterson and was charged to Hughes Aircraft. I talked to the agent who issue
d the ticket, and she remembered that man you described. You were right, you don’t forget—”
“Is there a return reservation?”
“Yes, sir. American flight 55. It arrives in Los Angeles at 7:00 a.m. tomorrow morning.”
Littell felt dizzy. He cracked a window for some air.
“Sir, are you there?”
Littell cut the man off and dialed O. A cold breeze flooded the kitchen.
“Operator.”
“I need Washington, D.C. The number is KL4-8801.”
“Yes, sir, just one minute.”
The call went through fast. A man said, “Communications, Special Agent Reynolds.”
“This is Special Agent Littell in Chicago. I need to transmit a message to SA Kemper Boyd in Miami.”
“Is he with the Miami office?”
“No, he’s on a detached assignment. I need you to transmit the message to the Miami SAC and have him locate SA Boyd. I think it’s a matter of a hotel check, and if it wasn’t so urgent, I’d do it myself.”
“This is irregular, but I don’t see why we can’t do it. What’s your message?”
Littell spoke slowly. “Have circumstantial and suppositional—underline those two words—evidence that J.H. hired our old oversized French confrere to eliminate Committee witness R.K. Our confrere leaves Miami late tonight, American flight 55. Call me in Chicago for details. Urge that you inform Robert K. immediately. Sign it W.J.L.”
The agent repeated the message. Littell heard Mary Kirpaski sobbing just outside the kitchen door.
Helen’s flight was late. Littell waited in a cocktail lounge near the gate.
He rechecked the phone call list. His instinct held firm: Pete Bondurant killed Roland Kirpaski.
Kemper mentioned a dead witness named Gretzler. If he could connect the man to Bondurant, TWO murder charges might fly.
Littell sipped rye and beer. He kept checking the back wall mirror to gauge his appearance.
His work clothes looked wrong. His glasses and thinning hair didn’t jibe with them.
The rye burned; the beer tickled. Two men walked up to his table and grabbed him.
They jerked him upright. They clamped down on his elbows. They steered him back to an enclosed phone bank.
It was swift and sure—no civilian patrons caught it.