American Tabloid - James Ellroy [119]
“Lenny, come on—”
“—and it all felt so ugly that I popped a few more Peres, and here I am, and if I’m lucky I won’t remember all this in the morning.”
Littell stepped closer. Lenny slapped and scratched and flailed and kicked him away.
The bookcase fell. Lenny tripped and weaved out the door.
Law texts hit the floor. A framed photograph of Helen Agee shattered.
Littell drove to Lake Geneva. He arrived at midnight and checked in at a motel off the Interstate. He paid cash in advance and registered under a fake name.
The phone book in his room listed Jules Schiffrin. His address was marked “Rural Free Delivery.” Littell checked a local map and pegged it: a woodland estate near the lake.
He drove out and parked off the road. Binoculars got him in close.
He saw a stonework mansion on a minimum of ten acres. Trees enclosed the property. There were no walls or fences.
No floodlamps. Two hundred yards from the door to the roadway. Alarm tape bracketing the front windows.
No guard hut and no gate. The Wisconsin State Police probably kept watch on an informal basis.
Lenny said “safes or safe-deposit boxes.” Lenny said “Mr. Boyd”/“information”/“profit potential.”
Lenny was drugged up but lucid. His Mr. Boyd line was easy to decode.
Kemper was chasing Fund leads independently.
Littell drove back to his motel. He checked the Yellow Pages and found listings for nine local banks.
Discreet behavior would cloak his lack of sanction. Kemper Boyd always stressed boldness and discretion.
Kemper shook down Lenny on his own. The revelation didn’t shock him at all.
• • •
He slept until 10:00. He checked a map and saw that the banks were all within walking distance.
The first four managers cooperated. Their replies were direct: Mr. Schiffrin does not rent with us. The next two managers shook their heads. Their replies were direct: Our facilities do not include safe-deposit boxes.
Manager number seven asked to see a bank writ. It was no great loss: the name Schiffrin sailed past him, unrecognized.
Banks number eight and nine: no safe-deposit boxes on the premises.
There were several major cities nearby. There were two dozen small towns spread out in a hundred-mile radius. Safe-deposit box access was a pipe dream.
“Safes” meant on-site placement. Safe-alarm companies retained placement diagrams—and did not release them without suit for legal cause.
Lenny played an on-site engagement. He might have seen the safe or safes firsthand.
Lenny was too combustible to approach now.
But—
Jack Ruby was a probable Schiffrin acquaintance. Jack Ruby was bribable and acquiescent.
Littell found a pay phone. A long-distance operator patched him through to Dallas.
Ruby picked up on the third ring. “This is the Carousel Club, where your entertainment dollar goes—”
“It’s me, Jack. Your friend from Chicago.”
“Fuck … this is grief I don’t …”
He sounded flummoxed, flabbergasted and dyspeptically peeved.
“How well do you know Jules Schiffrin, Jack?”
“Casual. I know Jules casual at best. Why? Why? Why?”
“I want you to fly up to Wisconsin and drop by his place in Lake Geneva on some pretext. I need to know the interior layout of his house, and I’ll give you my life savings if you do it.”
“Fuck. You are grief I don’t—”
“Four thousand dollars, Jack.”
“Fuck. You are grief I don’t—”
Dog yaps cut Ruby off.
45
(Blessington, 5/12/60)
Jimmy Hoffa said, “I know how Jesus must have felt. The fucking pharaohs rose to power on his coattails like the fucking Kennedy brothers are rising on mine.”
Heshie Ryskind said, “Get your history straight. It was Julius Caesar that did Jesus in.”
Santo Junior said, “Joe Kennedy is a man you can reason with. It’s strictly Bobby that’s the bad seed. Joe will explain certain facts of life to Jack if he makes it.”
Johnny Rosselli said, “J. Edgar Hoover hates Bobby. And he knows you can’t fight the Outfit and win. If the kid is elected, cooler heads than that little cocksucker Bobby’s will prevail.”
The Boys were sprawled in deck chairs out on the speedboat dock. Pete kept their