American Tabloid - James Ellroy [116]
The Outfit dropped some coin on Jack’s campaign—quietly and anonymously. Big fat compartmentalized donations.
Jimmy Hoffa didn’t know. Jack didn’t know—and wouldn’t be told until the optimum moment to call in the debt.
Sam G. said he could buy Jack Illinois. Lenny Sands said Sam spent a fortune in Wisconsin. West Virginia ditto—Chi-Mob money had the state locked in for Jack.
Pete asked Lenny if Boyd knew about all that finagling. Lenny said, I don’t think so. Pete said, Let’s keep it that way—Kemper wouldn’t like to think that he’d put Jack in hock.
Boyd inspired confidence. Trafficante loved him. Santo passed the Cuban Cause hat—Giancana, Rosselli and Marcello ponied up large.
It was classic compartmentalization.
The CIA high brass condoned the gifts. And they learned about the Cadre dope biz—before Kemper informed them.
They condoned it. They considered it plausibly deniable and told John Stanton to continue. They told Stanton to hide this knowledge from non-CIA personnel.
Like outside police agencies. Like moralistic politicians.
Stanton was relieved. Kemper was amused. He said the issue illustrated the Jack/Bobby dichotomy: dope peddling as divisive moral issue.
Big Brother would wince and try to ignore the alliance. Little Brother would side with God and banish all Mob-CIA contact.
Big Brother was worldly, like his dad. Little Brother was prissy, like a dejuiced Ward Littell with functioning balls.
Bobby had his father’s money and his brother’s cache. Littell had booze and religion. Jack Ruby had a five-grand pointer’s fee—if Littell swerved through his life again, Big Pete would be notified.
Boyd told him not to kill Littell. Boyd co-signed Littell’s Pension Fund hard-on—which meant at least an outside chance at co-opting big money.
Littell loved Bad-Back Jack.
Like Darleen Shoftel. Like Gail Hendee.
Like himself.
Hey, Jack—you fucked my old girlfriend. I don’t care—Kemper Boyd says you’re a white man.
I’m selling dope for you. I’m running cash to a man named Banister—who links YOU to a Jew/papist plot to butt-fuck America.
You’d dig Fort Blessington, Jack. It’s a Mob resort now—the Boys come by to catch the anti-Castro floorshow. Santo Junior bought a motel outside town. He’d put you up for free—if you dump your kid brother in the Everglades.
Sam G. drops by. Carlos Marcello visits. Johnny Rosselli brings Dick Contino and his accordion. Lenny Sands puts on shows—his transvestite Fidel shtick brings the house down.
Dope profits were up. Cadre morale was sky-high. Ramón Gutiérrez kept a tally of speedboat-run scalpees. Heshie Ryskind started up a scalp bonus fund.
Lenny Sands was on smear duty: the Beard as scandal-sheet whipping boy. Mr. Hughes dug the political thrust, but preferred to see Hush-Hush exposit sex skank exclusively.
Pete called Hughes once a week. The fucker ranted nonstop.
The TWA gig was dragging on. Dick Steisel kept Hughes look-alikes on retainer. Hughes believed that niggers caused cancer—and kept urging Ike to reinstate slavery.
Germ-obsessed Mormon nuts kept Big Howard company. They kept his bungalow sanitized: A-bomb-strength bug spray worked wonders. Some doofus named Duane Spurgeon bossed the crew. He stretched lubricated rubbers over every doorknob spooks might have touched.
Hughes was on a new kick: getting weekly blood transfusions. He sucked in pure Mormon blood exclusively—purchased from a blood bank outside Salt Lake City.
Hughes always said, Thanks for the dope. Pete always said, Thank the Agency.
He still got a Hughes paycheck. He still got twenty-three alimony cuts. He got 5% of Tiger Kab and his contract agent pay.
He used to pimp and pull shakedowns. Now he rode shotgun to History.
Jimmy Hoffa stopped by the cabstand every few days. His standard M.O. was to rave at non-English-speaking drivers. Wilfredo Delsol was running the switchboard now—whacking his cousin killed his appetite for strongarm.
Wilfredo understood English. He said Jimmy teed off on Cubans, but couldn’t sustain it. Whoever