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Jack rolled his eyes. Kemper winked at him.
Kirpaski sighed. “I said I’m hungry.”
Kemper checked his watch. “Wrap it up for the senator, Roland. Tell us how Gretzler got drunk and shot his mouth off.”
“I get the picture. Sing for your supper.”
Bobby said, “Goddamnit-”
“All right, all right. It was after the shark shoot. Gretzler was pissed because Jimmy ridiculed him for holding his Tommy gun like a sissy. Grander started talking up these rumors he’d heard about the Pension Fund. He said he heard the Fund is a lot fucking richer than people knew, and nobody could subpoena the books, because the books weren’t real. See, Gretzler said there were these ‘real’ Teamster Fund books, probably in code, with fucking tens of millions of dollars accounted for in them. This money gets loaned out at these exorbitant rates. There’s supposed to be some retired Chicago gangster-a real brain-who’s the bookkeeper for the ‘real’ books and the ‘real’ money, and if you’re thinking about corroboration, forget it-I’m the only one Gretzler was talking to.”
Bobby Ke
“It’s our big wedge, Jack. First we subpoena the front books again and determine their solvency. We trace the loaned-out money the Teamsters admit to and try to determine the existence of hidden assets within the Fund and the probability that those ‘real’ books exist.”
Littell pressed up to the glass. He felt magnetized: tousle-haired, passionate Bobby-
Jack Ke
Kirpaski applauded. “Hey, he speaks. Hey, Senator, glad you could join us.”
Jack Ke
Jack said, “Eventually?” Littell translated: “Too late to bolster my career.”
The brothers locked eyes. Kemper leaned across the table between them. “Hoffa’s got a block of houses set up at Sun Valley. He’s down there himself, giving PR tours. Roland’s going down to look around. He runs a Chicago local, so it won’t look suspicious. He’ll be calling in to report what he sees.”
Kirpaski said, “Yeah, and I’m also go
Jack motioned Kemper in close. Littell caught static-laced whispers:
“I’m flying to L.A. when this snow lets up.”/”Call Darleen Shoftel-I’m sure she’d love to meet you.”
Kirpaski said, “I’m hungry.”
Robert Ke
The men filed out a back door. Littell hugged the glass for one last look at Bobby.
7
Darleen Shoftel faked a mean climax. Darleen Shoftel had whore pals over for shop talk.
Darleen was a bigggg name dropper.
She said Franchot Tone dug bondage. She called Dick Contino a champion muff diver. She dubbed B-movie man Steve Cochran “Mr. King Size.”
Phone calls came in and went out. Darleen talked to tricks, hooker chums and Mom in Vince
Darleen loved to talk. Darleen said nothing to explain why two Feds wired her crib.
They attached the Fed apparatus four days ago. 1541 North Alta Vista was miked up floor to rafters.
Fred Turentine piggybacked the Boyd/Littell setup. He heard everything the FBI heard. The Feds ranted a listening-post house down the block; Freddy monitored his hookups from a van parked next door and kept Pete supplied with tape copies.
And Pete smelled money and called Jimmy Hoffa-maybe a bit premature.
Jimmy said, “You got a good sense of smell. Come down to Miami on Thursday and tell me what you got. If you got nothing, we can go out on my boat and shoot sharks.”
Thursday was tomorrow. Shark shooting was strictly for geeks. Freddy’s pay was two hundred a day-steep for a crash course in extraneous sex jive.
Pete moped around the watchdog house. Pete savored the hints he dropped on Mr. Hughes: I know you lent Dick Nixon’s brother some coin. Pete kept playing the piggyback tapes out of sheer boredom.
He hit Play. Darleen moaned and groaned. Bedsprings creaked; something headboard-like slammed something wall-like. Dig it: Darleen with a big fat porker in the saddle.
The phone rang-Pete grabbed it fast.
“Who’s this?”
“It’s Fred. Get over here now-we just hit paydirt.”
o o o
The van was crammed with contraptions and gadgets. Pete banged his knees climbing in.
Freddy looked all hopped up. His zipper was down, like he’d been choking the chicken.
He said, “I recognized that Boston accent immediately, and I called you the second they started screwing. Listen, this is live.”
Pete put on headphones. Darleen Shoftel spoke, loud and clear.
“…you’re a bigger hero than your brother. I read about you in Time magazine. Your PT boat got rammed by the Japs or something.”
“I’m a better swimmer than Bobby, that’s certainly true.” 3-cherry jackpot: Gail Hendee’s old squeeze, Jack the K.
Darleen: “I saw your brother’s picture in Newsweek magazine. Doesn’t he have like four thousand kids?”
Jack: “At least three thousand, with new ones popping up all the time. When you visit his house the little shits attach themselves to your ankles. My wife finds Bobby’s need to breed vulgar.”
Darleen: “‘Need to breed’-that’s cute.”
Jack: “Bobby’s a true Catholic. He needs to have children and punish the men that he hates. If his hate instincts weren’t so unerring, he’d be a colossal pain in the ass.”
Pete clamped his headset down. Jack Ke
“I don’t hate like Bobby does. Bobby hates with a fury. Bobby hates Jimmy Hoffa very powerfully and simply, which is why he’ll win in the end. I was in Washington with him yesterday. He was taking a deposition from a Teamster man who’d become disgusted with Hoffa and had decided to inform on him. Here’s this dumb brave Polack, Roland something from Chicago, and Bobby takes him home for di
“Darleen.”
“Right, Darleen. You see, Darleen, Bobby’s more heroic than I am because he’s truly passionate and generous.”
Gadgets blinked. Tape spun. They hit the royal flush/Irish Sweepstakes jackpot-Jimmy Hoffa would SHIT when he heard it.
Darleen: “I still think that PT boat thing was pretty swell.”
Jack: “You know, you’re a good listener, Arlene.”
Fred looked ready to DROOL. His fucking eyes were dollar-sign dilated.
Pete made fists. “This is mine. You just sit tight and do what I tell you to.”
Freddy cringed. Pete smiled-his hands put the fear out every time.
o o o
A Tiger Kab met his plane. The driver talked Cuban politics nonstop: El grande Castro advancing! El puto Batista in retreat!
Pancho dropped him off at the cabstand. Jimmy had the dispatch shack commandeered-goons were packing up life jackets and Tommy guns.
Hoffa shooed them out. Pete said, “Jimmy, how are you?”
Hoffa picked up a nail-studded baseball bat. “I’m all right. You like this? Sometimes the sharks get up close to the boat and you can give them a few whacks.”
Pete opened up his tape rig and plugged it into a floor outlet. The tiger-stripe wallpaper made his head swim.