American Tabloid - James Ellroy [111]
Santo Junior sat at his desk. Ruby stood in front of it. Three fat German shepherds drooped off the couch.
Pete watched Ruby grovel. The office stunk: Santo gave his dogs free run of the furniture.
Ruby said, “I am desperate. I am here before you like a supplicant before his local pontiff.”
Trafficante said, “No. You brought some girls down when I was locked up in Havana, but that is not ten grand’s worth of collateral. I can let you have a thousand out of my pocket, but that’s it.”
Ruby stuck his hand out. Santo greased him with C-notes off a flash roll. Pete got up and opened the door.
Ruby walked out fondling the money. Santo spritzed cologne on the spot where he stood groveling.
“That man is rumored to have strange sexual tastes. He could give you diseases that would put cancer to shame. Now, tell me some good things, because I don’t like to start my day with beggars.”
Pete said, “Profits went up 2% in December and January. I think Wilfredo Delsol’s okay on his cousin, and I don’t think he’d ever rat off the Cadre. Nobody’s stealing from us, and I think the Obregón thing put a good little scare out.”
“Somebody’s fucking up, or you wouldn’t’ve asked to see me.”
“Fulo’s been running whores. He’s got them turning tricks for five-dollar pops and candy bars. He’s turning over all the money, but I still think it’s bad business.”
Trafficante said, “Make him stop.”
Pete sat on the edge of the couch. King Tut put out a cursory growl.
“Lockhart and his Klan buddies built a social club down the road from the campsite, and now they’re talking about lynching spooks. On top of that, Lockhart’s pals with that Dallas cop guy J.D. that drove down here with Ruby. Chuck Rogers wants to take J.D. up in his plane and drop some hate leaflets. He’s talking about saturation-bombing South Florida.”
Trafficante slapped his desk blotter. “Make this foolishness stop.”
“I will.”
“You didn’t have to run this by me.”
“Kemper thinks all discipline should initiate with you. He wants the men to think we’re labor as opposed to management.”
“Kemper’s a subtle guy.”
Pete stroked King Farouk and King Arthur. Fucking King Tut evil-eyed him.
“He’s every bit of subtle.”
“Castro turned my casinos into pigsties. He lets goats shit on the carpets my wife picked out personally.”
Pete said, “He’ll pay.”
He drove back to Miami. The cabstand was packed with loafers: Lockhart, Fulo, and the whole fucking Cadre.
Minus Chuck Rogers—up in his airplane dropping hate bombs.
Pete shut down the stand and laid down The Law. He called it the Declaration of Cadre Non-Independence and the New KKK Bill of Non-Rights.
No pimping. No robbery. No flim-flam. No B&E. No extortion. No hijacking.
No lynching. No nigger assaults. No church bombings. No racial shit directed at Cubans.
The Blessington Klan’s specific mandate:
Love all Cubans. Leave them alone. Fuck up anybody who fucks with your new Cuban brethren.
Lockhart called the mandate quasi-genocidal. Pete cracked his knuckles. Lockhart shut his mouth.
The huddle broke up. Jack Ruby came by and begged a ride—his carburetor blew, and he needed to run his girls down to Blessington.
Pete said okay. The girls wore capris and halter tops—things could be worse.
Ruby rode up front. J.D. Tippit and the strippers rode in the back of the truck. Rain clouds were brewing—if a storm hit, they were screwed.
Pete took two-lane roadways south. He played the radio to keep Ruby quiet. Chuck Rogers flew down from deep nowhere and spun tree-level backflips.
The girls cheered. Chuck dropped a six-pack; J.D. caught it. Hate leaflets blew down—Pete plucked one out of the air.
“Six Reasons Why Jesus Was Pro-Klan.” #1 set the tone: because Commies fluoridated the Red