American Tabloid - James Ellroy [102]
“Wellllll …”
Kemper slipped him ten dollars.
“Wellllll …”
Kemper went to fifty. The clerk palmed it and handed him his earphones.
Kemper slipped them on. Lenny Sands was talking, very high-pitched and fey.
“… As terrible as he was he’s dead, and he worked for the drunk just like me. There’s the drunk and the brute, and now the brute has me writing these preposterous articles about Cuba. I can’t name names, but Laura, my God …”
“You don’t mean my friend Kemper Boyd?”
“He’s not the one I’m afraid of. It’s the brute and the drunk. You never know what the drunk will do, and I haven’t heard from him since Sal was killed, which is driving me absolutely stark raving …”
It was compartmental turbulence. It would have to be contained.
35
(Chicago, 10/1/59)
Waves pushed litter up on the shore. Paper cups and cruise-boat programs shredded at his feet.
Littell kicked them out of his way. He passed the spot where he dumped the Montrose B&E swag.
Garbage then, garbage now.
He had three dead men to light candles for. Jack Ruby seemed to be safe—he called the Carousel Club once a week to hear his voice.
Sal resisted torture. Sal never said “Littell” or “Ruby.” Kabikoff knew him only as a cop in a ski mask.
“Mad Sal” and “Sid the Yid”—the nomenclature used to amuse him. Bobby Kennedy allegedly loved Mob nicknames.
He was sloughing off his Phantom reports. He was sloughing off his Red Squad work. He told SAC Leahy that God and Jesus Christ were leftists.
He cut Helen down to one night a week. He quit calling Lenny Sands. He had two constant companions: Old Overholt and Pabst Blue Ribbon.
A sodden magazine washed in. He saw a picture of Jack Kennedy and Jackie.
Kemper said the senator had hound blood. Kemper said Bobby held his marriage vows sacred.
Fat Sid said their dad knew Jules Schiffrin. Schiffrin kept the real Pension Fund books—liquor couldn’t numb that one fact.
Littell cut over to Lake Shore Drive. His feet ached and his trouser cuffs spilled sand.
It was dusk. He’d been walking due south for hours.
His bearings clicked in. He saw that he was three blocks away from a real live destination.
He walked over and knocked on Lenny Sands’ door. Lenny opened up and just stood there.
Littell said, “It’s over. I won’t ask anything else of you.” Lenny stepped closer. Words roared out in one long string. Littell heard “stupid” and “worthless” and “coward.” He looked Lenny in the eyes and stood there while he roared himself breathless.
36
(Chicago, 10/2/59)
Kemper snapped the lock with his Diners Club card. Lenny didn’t learn that it takes deadbolts to keep rogue cops out.
Littell never learned that INFORMANTS DON’T RETIRE. He observed the retirement gala from the street—and saw Ward soak up abuse like a true flagellant.
Kemper closed the door and stood in the dark. Lenny walked to the A&P ten minutes ago, and should return within half an hour.
Laura learned not to press embarrassing topics. She never mentioned that call at the St. Regis.
Kemper heard footsteps and key sounds. He moved toward the light switch and screwed the silencer to his piece.
Lenny walked in. Kemper said, “It’s not over.”
A shopping bag fell. Glass broke.
“You don’t talk to Laura or Littell again. You work Hush-Hush for Pete. You find out everything you can about the Pension Fund books and report exclusively to me.”
Lenny said, “No.”
Kemper hit the switch. The living room lit up—antique-overfurnished and très, très effete.
Lenny blinked. Kemper shot the legs off an armoire. The crash shattered bone china and crystal.
He shot up a bookcase. He shot a Louis Fourteen couch into stuffing wads and wood chips. He shot up a hand-painted Chippendale wardrobe.
Sawdust and muzzle smoke swirled. Kemper got out a fresh clip.
Lenny said, “Yes.”
DOCUMENT INSERT: 10/5/59. Hush-Hush magazine article. Written by Lenny Sands, under the pseudonym Peerless Politicopundit.
CANCEROUS CASTRO COMMUNISTICALLY CALCIFIES CUBA WHILE HEROIC HERMANOS HUNGER FOR HOMELAND!
He’s been in power a scant ten months, but the