American Tabloid - James Ellroy [134]
“I see. Well … I guess.…”
Littell came on firm. “The number is 811512404.”
The man sighed. “Well, uh, the 404 listings denote safe-deposit-box storage accounts, so if you’re interested in balance figures, I’m afraid—”
“How many storage boxes are rented out to that account number?”
“Well, that account is quite familiar to me, because of its size. You see—”
“How many boxes?”
“An entire vault now of ninety.”
“Can valuables be transferred directly into that vault from outside sources?”
“Certainly. They could be placed in the boxes sight unseen, by second parties with access to the account holder’s password.”
Ninety stash boxes. Millions in Mob-laundered CASH—
“Who does that account number belong to?”
“Well …”
“Shall I get a writ?”
“Well, I …”
Littell almost shouted it. “Is the account holder Joseph P. Kennedy Sr.?”
“Well … uh … yes.”
“The senator’s father?”
“Yes, the senator’s—”
The phone slipped out of his hand. Littell kicked it across the room.
The black book. Mr. 1408, millionaire loan shark.
He went back over the numbers and confirmed it. He triple-checked every digit until his vision blurred.
Yes: Joe Kennedy lent the Fund Sun Valley seed money. Yes: The Fund lent the money out to James Riddle Hoffa.
Sun Valley constituted felony land fraud. Sun Valley spawned two Pete Bondurant killings: Anton Gretzler and Roland Kirpaski.
Littell tracked 1408s across paper. He saw continuous commas—and no cash-out bottom-line one-time profit.
Joe only took interest out. Joe’s base loan sums stayed liquid inside the Fund.
Growing.
Laundered, hidden, obfuscated, tax-sheltered and funneled—
disbursed to labor thugs, dope pushers, shylocks and mobbed-up fascist dictators.
The all-code books contained specifics. He could crack the code and know exactly where the money went.
My secrets, Bobby—I’ll never let you hate your father.
Littell went eight drinks over his limit. He passed out shouting numbers.
54
(Hyannis Port, 11/8/60)
Jack stood a million votes up and way ahead in the electoral. Nixon gouged at his lead—the Midwest looked problematic.
Kemper watched three TVs and juggled four phones. His motel room was one big cable socket—the Secret Service demanded multiple lines in and out.
The red phone was his personal line. The two white phones hooked in direct to the Kennedy compound. The blue phone linked the Secret Service to the almost-President-elect.
It was 11:35 p.m.
CBS called Illinois tight. NBC said “Cliffhanger!” ABC said Jack would win, with 51% of the vote.
Kemper checked the window. Secret Service men mingled outside—they’d booked up the entire motel complex.
White phone #2 rang. It was Bobby, with complaints.
A journalist pole-vaulted into the compound. A hot rod sporting Nixon banners plowed the main house lawn.
Kemper called two off-duty cops and sent them over. He told them to beat up all trespassers and impound their vehicles.
The red phone rang. It was Santo Junior, with Mob scuttlebutt.
He said, Illinois looks dicey. He said, Sam G. threw some weight to help Jack.
Lenny Sands was out stuffing ballot boxes. He had a hundred aldermen helping him. Jack should blitz Cook County and eke out a statewide win by a nun’s-cunt-hair margin.
Kemper hung up. The red phone rang again. It was Pete, with more secondhand gossip.
He said Mr. Hoover called Mr. Hughes. Mr. Hughes told Pete that Marilyn Monroe was quite naughty.
The Feds had her hot-wired. During the past two weeks she banged disc jockey Allan Freed, Billy Eckstine, Freddy Otash, Rin Tin Tin’s trainer, Jon “Ramar of the Jungle” Hall, her pool cleaner, two pizza delivery boys, talk-show man Tom Duggan and her maid’s husband—but no Senator John F. Kennedy.
Kemper laughed and hung up. CBS judged the race “too close to call.”
ABC retracted its prediction. The race was now “too close to call.”
White phone #1 rang.
Kemper picked up. “Bob?”
“It’s me. I just called to say we’re way ahead in the electoral, and Illinois and Michigan should put us over. The Hughes loan thing helped, Kemper. Your ‘unnamed source