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Bobby knew that he was pimping for Jack-supplying him with the numbers of especially susceptible old flames.
Questions and answers next: practice for deflecting skepticism.
Kemper braked for a woman lugging groceries. His game snapped to the present tense.
Bobby thinks I’m chasing leads on Anton Gretzler. I’m really protecting Howard Hughes’ pet thug.
Q: You seem bent on crashing the Ke
A: I can spot corners a mile off. Cozying up to Democrats doesn’t make me a Communist. Old Joe Ke
Q: You “cozied up” to Jack rather fast.
A: If circumstances had been different, I could have been Jack.
Kemper checked his notebook.
He had to go by Tiger Kab. He had to go to Sun Valley and show mug shots to the witness who saw the “big man” avert his face off the Interstate.
He’d show him old mug shots-bad current Bondurant likenesses. He’d discourage a confirmation: you didn’t really see this man, did you?
A tiger-striped taxi swerved in front of him. He saw a tigerstriped hut down the block.
Kemper pulled up and parked across the street. Some curbside loungers smelled COP and dispersed.
He walked into the hut. He laughed-the wallpaper was freshflocked tiger-striped velveteen.
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 sidekick. The man hit the floor prone and dropped his shiv.
Kemper picked it up. The tiger men backed off en masse. Kernper 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.
o o o
He drove out I-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 fiftyone.
The man nudged the door open. Kemper yanked him in and pi
He was fortyish, sandy-haired, and slender. Kemper patsearched 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
Snitch candidate at work: “Jewboy Le
Littell tailed him. They hit six Hyde Park taverns in an hour- Le
Le
Le
Le
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. Le
Littell ID’d him: Jacob Rubenstein/AKA Jack Ruby.
Le
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 Ke
Robert Ke
A table opened up. Littell walked through the lunch line and grabbed it. Le
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.”
Le
Ruby said, “Heshie loves blow jobs. He gets blow jobs exclusively, ‘cause he says it’s good for his prostate. 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 prostate.”
“Heshie” was most likely Herschel Meyer Ryskind: “active in the Gulf Coast heroin trade.”
Le
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.”