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American Tabloid - James Ellroy [133]

By Root 1427 0
ascended left to right—straight up to early 1960.

The average amount lent was $1.6 million. With repayment fees: $2.4 million.

The smallest loan was $425,000. The largest was $8.6 million.

Numbers growing left to right. Multiplications and divisions in the far right-hand columns—odd percentage calculations.

He EXTRAPOLATED:

The odd numbers were loan investment profits, tallied in over and above payback interest.

Eyestrain made him stop. Three quick shots of scotch refueled him.

He got a brainstorm:

Look for Hoffa’s Sun Valley skim money

He scanned columns with a pencil. He linked the dots: mid ’56 to mid ’57 and ten symbols to spell “Jimmy Hoffa.”

He found 1.2 and 1.8—hypothetically Bobby Kennedy’s “spooky” three million. He found five symbols, six, and five in a perfectly intersecting column.

5, 6, 5 = James Riddle Hoffa.

Hoffa laughed off the Sun Valley charges. With valid assurance: his chicanery was very well cloaked.

Littell skimmed the books and picked out odd totals. Tiny zeros extended—the Fund was billionaire rich.

Double vision set in. He corrected it with a magnifying glass.

He quick-scanned the books again. Identical numbers kept recurring—in four-figure brackets.

[1408]—over and over.

Littell went through the brown books page by page. He found twenty-one 1408s—including two next to the Spooky Three Million. Quick addition gave him a total: forty-nine million dollars lent out or borrowed. Mr. 1408 was well-heeled either way.

He checked the black book initial column. It was alphabetically arranged and entered in Jules Schiffrin’s neat block printing.

It was 9:00 a.m. He had five hours of study in.

The “Loan %” subhead tweaked him. He saw “B-E” straight down the graph—the number/letter code decoded to 25%.

He EXTRAPOLATED:

The initials tagged Pension Fund lenders—repaid at a fat but not brutal rate.

He checked the “Transfer #” column. The listings were strictly uniform: initials and six digits, no more.

He EXTRAPOLATED:

The initials were bank account numbers—repaid mobster money laundered clean. Said initials all ended in B—most likely short for the word “branch.”

Littell copied over letters on a scratch pad.

BOABHB = Bank of America, Beverly Hills branch. HSALMBB = Home Savings & Loan, Miami Beach branch.

It worked.

He was able to form known bank names out of every set of letters.

He jumped columns tracing 1408. Right there on the money: JPK, SR/SFNBB/811512404.

SFN meant Security-First National. BB could mean Buffalo branch, Boston branch, or other B-city branches.

The SR probably denoted a “Senior.” Why the added designation?

Just above JPK, SR: JPK [1693] BOADB. The man was a piker compared to 1408: he lent the Fund a paltry $6.4 million.

The added SR was simply to distinguish the lender from someone with the same initials.

JPK, SR [1408] SFNBB/811512404. One filthy-rich money-lending—

Stop.

Stop right there.

JPK, SR.

Joseph P. Kennedy, Senior.

BB for Boston branch.

August ’59—Sid Kabikoff talking to Mad Sal:

“I knew Jules way back when”/“when he was SELLING DOPE and USING THE PROFITS to finance movies with RKO back when JOE KENNEDY owned it.”

Stop. Make the call. Impersonate a Bureau hard-on and confirm it or refute it.

Littell dialed O. He dripped sweat all over the telephone.

An operator came on. “What number, please?”

“I want the Security-First National Bank, in Boston, Massachusetts.”

“One moment, sir. Til look the number up and connect you.”

Littell held the line. Adrenaline hit: he went dizzy and parched.

A man answered. “Security-First National.”

“This is Special Agent Johnson, FBI. Let me speak to the manager, please.”

“Please hold. I’ll transfer you.”

Littell heard connection clicks. A man said, “This is Mr. Carmody. May I help you?”

“Th-this is Special Agent Johnson, FBI. I have an account number at your bank here, and I need to know who it belongs to.”

“Is this an official request? It’s a Sunday, and I’m here overseeing our monthly inventory—”

“This is an official request. I can get a bank writ, but I’d rather not put you to the trouble of an

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