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“To Sam Giancana?”
“That’s one theory.”
“Then elaborate on it.”
“The theory is that Giancana consults with Jimmy Hoffa on all the big-money loan applications. Then they get accepted or refused.”
“Are there alternative Pension Fund books? What I’m thinking of is coded books hiding secret assets.”
“I don’t know.”
Kemper Boyd always said COW YOUR INFORMANTS.
Le
Littell poured himself a double scotch. Lounge-Act Le
Littell tucked the switchblades in his pocket. “I checked your address book, and I noticed that your addresses don’t match the addresses that the Top Hoodlum Program has on file.”
“What addresses?”
“The addresses of members of the Chicago Crime Cartel.”
“Oh, those addresses.”
“Why don’t they match?”
Le
Littell downed his drink. “I saw you kill Ia
Le
Whisky sprayed out. Blood mixed with it. Le
Littell tossed his glass on the couch. “I know you made a deal with Sal D’Onofrio.”
No response.
“I know you’re going to travel with his gambling junkets.”
No response.
“Sal’s a loan shark. Could he refer prospects up the Pension Fund ladder?”
No response.
Littell said, “Come on, talk to me. I’m not going to leave until I have what I came for.”
Le
“What about Jack Ruby? He sharks part-time down in Dallas.”
“Jack’s a clown. He knows people, but he’s a clown.”
Littell lowered his voice. “Do the Chicago boys know you’re a homosexual?”
Le
Le
“Then answer this question. Will you be my informant?”
Le
“The papers said Ia
No response.
“Le
“Yes. He was married.”
“Did he have a fuck pad?”
“He must have.”
Littell buttoned up his overcoat. “I might do you a solid, Le
No response.
“I’ll be in touch. You know what I’m interested in, so get on it.”
Le
o o o
He took a key ring off Ia
Two car keys and one assumed house key. The remaining key might be for a fuck-pad door.
Littell drove up to Evanston. He hit on some dumb late-night luck: the locksmith lived in back of his shop.
The unexpected FBI roust scared the man. He identified the keys as his work. He said he installed all of Ia
2409 Kenilworth in Oak Park 84 Wolverton in Evanston.
Ia
The locksmith supplied easy-to-follow directions. Littell found the address in just a few minutes.
It was a garage apartment behind a Northwestern U frat house. The neighborhood was dark and dead quiet.
The key fit the door. Littell let himself in, gun first The place was uninhabited and musty.
He turned on the lights in both rooms. He tossed every cupboard, drawer, shelf, cubbyhole and crawl space. He found dildoes, whips, spiked dog collars, amyl nitrite ampules, twelve jars of K-Y Jelly, a bag of marijuana, a brass-studded motorcycle jacket, a sawed-off shotgun, nine rolls of Benzedrine, a Nazi armband, oil paintings depicting all-male sodomy and soixante-neuf and a snapshot of Icepick Tony Ia
Kemper Boyd always said PROTECT YOUR INFORMANTS.
Littell called Celano’s Tailor Shop. A man answered- “Yeah?”- unmistakably Butch Montrose.
Littell disguised his voice. “Don’t worry about Tony Ia
“Hey, what are you say-?”
Littell hung up. He nailed the snapshot to the wall for the whole world to see.
16
Hush-Hush was cramming toward deadline. The office staff was buzzing on Benzedrine-spiked coffee.
“Artists” were pasting up a cover: “Paul Robeson-Royal Red Recidivist.” A “correspondent” was typing copy: “Wife Beater Spade Cooley-Will the Country Stomper Stomp Too Far?” A “researcher” was browsing pamphlets, trying to link nigger hygiene to cancer.
Pete watched.
Pete was bored.
MIAMI bopped through his head. Hush-Hush felt like a giant cactus shoved up his ass.
Sol Maltzman was dead. Gail Hendee was long gone. The new Hush-Hush staff was 100% geek. Howard Hughes was frantic to find a dirt digger.
His prospects all said NO. Everybody knew the L.A. fuzz seized the Ke
Hughes CRAVED dirt. Hughes CRAVED slander skank to share with Mr. Hoover. What Hughes CRAVED, Hughes BOUGHT.
Pete bought an issue’s worth of dirt. His cop contacts supplied him with a one-week load of lackluster skank.
“Spade Cooley, Boozefried Misogynist!” “Marijuana Shack Raid Nets Sal Mineo!” “Beatnik Arrests Shock Hermosa Beach!”
It was pure bullshit. It was very un-Miami.
Miami was goood. Miami was this drug he got withdrawals from. He left Miami with a mild concussion-not bad for the pounding he took.
Jimmy Hoffa called him in to restore order. He got out of jail and did it.
The cabstand demanded order-political rifts had business fucked six ways from Sunday. The riots sputtered out, but Tiger Kab still simmered with factional jive. He had pro-Batista and pro-Castro guys to deal with-left- and right-wing ideologue thugs who needed to be toilet-trained and broken in to the White Man’s Rule of Order.
He laid down laws.
No drinking and placard waving on the job. No guns or knives-check your weapons with the dispatcher. No political fraternizing-rival factions must remain segregated.
One Batistaite challenged the rules. Pete beat him half-dead.
He laid down more laws.
No pimping on duty-leave your whores at home. No B amp;Es or stickups on duty.
He made Chuck Rogers the new day dispatcher. He considered it a political appointment.
Rogers was a CIA contract goon. Co-dispatcher Fulo Machado was CIA-linked.
John Stanton was a mid-level CIA agent-and a new cabstand habituй. He got Fulo’s murder-one beef squelched with a snap of his fingers.
Stanton’s pal Guy Banister hated Ward Littell. Banister and Stanton were hipped on Kemper Boyd.
Jimmy Hoffa owned Tiger Kab. Jimmy Hoffa had points in two Havana casinos.
Littell and Boyd made him for two killings. Stanton and Banister probably didn’t know that. Stanton fed him that little teaser: “I may ask a favor of you one day.”