American Tabloid - James Ellroy [135]
“You don’t sound too elated.”
“I won’t believe it until it’s final. And a friend of Dad’s just died. He was younger than him, so he’s taking it hard.”
“Anybody I know?”
“Jules Schiffrin. I think you met him a few years ago. He had a heart attack in Wisconsin. He came home and found his house burglarized, and just keeled over. A friend of Dad’s in Lake Geneva called—”
“Lake Geneva?”
“Right. North of Chicago. Kemper …”
The Littell assault location. Schiffrin: a Chicago-based gonif type.
“Kemper …”
“I’m sorry. I was distracted.”
“I was going to say something …”
“About Laura?”
“How did you know that?”
“You never come off hesitant unless it’s about Laura.”
Bobby cleared his throat. “Call her. Tell her we’d appreciate it if she didn’t contact the family for a while. I’m sure she’ll understand.”
Court Meade said Littell vanished. It was circumstantial, but—
“Kemper, are you listening to me?”
“Yes.”
“Call Laura. Be kind, but be firm.”
“I’ll do it.”
Bobby hung up. Kemper placed a red phone call through the switchboard: Chicago, BL8-4908.
It went through. He heard two rings and two very faint tap-clicks.
Littell said, “Hello?”
Kemper covered the mouthpiece.
Littell said, “Is that you, Boyd? Are you coming back into my life because you’re scared, or because you think I might have something you want?”
Kemper disconnected.
Ward J. Littell—Jesus Fucking Christ.
55
(Miami, 11/9/60)
Guy Banister screeched long-distance. Pete felt an earache coming on.
“We’re looking at a new papist hegemony. He loves niggers and Jews, and he’s been soft-line on Communism since he was a congressman. I can’t believe he won. I can’t believe the American people bought his line of bull—”
“Get to it, Guy. You said J.D. Tippit picked up something.”
Banister de-throttled his spiel. “I forgot I called you for a reason. And I forgot you were soft-line on Kennedy.”
Pete said, “I like his hair. It gets my dick hard.”
Banister re-throttled. Pete cut him off quick.
“It’s 8:00 fucking a.m. I’ve got cab calls backed up and three drivers out sick. Tell me what you want.”
“I want Dick Nixon to demand a recount.”
“Guy—”
“All right, then. Boyd was supposed to tell you to talk to Wilfredo Delsol.”
“He did.”
“Did you talk to him?”
“No. I’ve been busy.”
“Tippit said he heard Delsol’s been seen with some Castro guys. A bunch of us think he should explain.”
“I’ll go see him.”
“You do that. And while you’re at it, try to develop some political brains.”
Pete laughed. “Jack’s a white man. I’ve got a big hard-on just thinking about his hair.”
Pete drove to Wilfredo’s pad and knocked on the door. Delsol opened up in his skivvies.
He was bleary-eyed. He was scrawny. He looked too sleepy to stand upright.
He shivered and plucked at his balls. He shook the cobwebs out of his head and caught on fast.
“Somebody told you something bad about me.”
“Keep going.”
“You only visit people in order to scare them.”
“That’s right. Or to ask them to explain some things.”
“Ask me, then.”
“You were seen talking to some pro-Castro guys.”
“That’s true.”
“So?”
“So they heard how my cousin Tomás died. They thought they could get me to betray the Cadre.”
“And?”
“And I told them I hated what happened to Tomás, but I hate Fidel Castro more.”
Pete leaned against the door. “You don’t much like speedboat runs.”
“Killing odd militiamen is futile.”
“Suppose you get assigned to an invasion group?”
“I’ll go.”
“Suppose I tell you to whack one of those guys you were seen talking to?”
“I would say Gaspar Blanco lives two blocks from here.”
Pete said, “Kill him.”
Pete cruised Niggertown—for the pure time-marking fuck of it. The radio ran election news exclusively.
Nixon conceded. Frau Nixon pitched some boo-hoo. Bad-Back Jack thanked his staff and announced that Frau Bad-Back was pregnant.
Nigger junkies were cliqued up by a shine stand. Fulo and Ramón drove up to service them. Chuck was trading bindles for signed-over welfare checks.
Jack talked up the New Frontier. Fulo dropped off a fat load of shit with