American Tabloid - James Ellroy [136]
A local bulletin flashed on.
Shots fired outside Coral Gables bodega! Police ID dead man as one Gaspar Ramon Blanco!
Pete smiled. November 8, 1960, was an all-time classic day.
He stopped at Tiger Kab after lunch. Teo Paez had a parking-lot sale going: hot TVs for twenty scoots a pop.
The sets were hooked up to a battery pack. Jack the K beamed out of two dozen screens.
Pete mingled with potential buyers. Jimmy Hoffa popped out of the crowd, popping sweat on a nice cool day.
“Hi, Jimmy.”
“Don’t gloat. I know you and Boyd wanted that cunt-lapping faggot to win.”
“Don’t worry. He’ll put his kid brother on a tight leash.”
“As if that’s my only worry.”
“What do you mean?”
“I mean Jules Schiffrin’s dead. His place in Lake Geneva got clouted for some priceless fucking paintings, and some priceless fucking paperwork got lost in the process. Jules had a heart attack, and now our shit has probably been torched in some burglar’s fucking basement.”
LITTELL. 100% certifiably insane.
Pete started laughing.
Hoffa said, “What’s so fucking funny?”
Pete roared.
Hoffa said, “Stop laughing, you frog fuck.”
Pete couldn’t stop. Hoffa pulled a piece and shot Jack the Haircut six TV screens across.
56
(Washington, D.C., 11/13/60)
The mailman brought a special-delivery letter. It was postmarked Chicago and sent without a return address. Kemper opened the envelope. The one page inside was neatly typed.
I have the books. They are fail-safed against my death or disappearance in a dozen different ways. I will release them only to Robert Kennedy, if I am given a Kennedy Administration appointment within the next three months. The books are safely hidden. Hidden with them is an 83-page deposition, detailing my knowledge of your McClellan Committee-Kennedy incursion. I will destroy that deposition only if I am given a Kennedy Administration appointment. I remain fond of you, and am grateful for the lessons you taught me. At times, you acted with uncharacteristic selflessness and risked exposure of your many duplicitous relationships in an effort to help me achieve what I must fatuously describe as my manhood. That said, I will also state that I do not trust your motives regarding the books. I still consider you a friend, but I do not trust you one iota.
Kemper jotted a note to Pete Bondurant.
Forget about the Teamster books. Littell finessed us, and I’m beginning to rue the day I taught him some things. I made some discreet queries with the Wisconsin State Police, who are frankly baffled. I’ll supply forensic details the next time we talk. I think you’ll be grudgingly impressed. Enough pissing and moaning. Let’s depose Fidel Castro.
57
(Chicago, 12/8/60)
Wind rocked the car. Littell turned up the heat and pushed his seat back to stretch out.
His stakeout was strictly cosmetic. He might join the party himself—Mal would get a huge kick out of it.
It was a Bust the Blacklist bash. The Chicago Board of Ed had hired Mal Chamales to teach remedial math.
Guests walked up to the house. Littell recognized leftists with Red Squad sheets half a mile long.
A few waved to him. Mal said he might send his wife out with coffee and cookies.
Littell watched the house. Mal turned his Christmas lights on—the tree by the porch bloomed all blue and yellow.
He’d stay until 9:30. He’d write the bash up as a routine holiday soiree. Leahy would accept his assessment pro forma—their stalemate precluded direct confrontations.
His door-kicking episode and Lake Geneva time went unquestioned. He had thirty-nine days to go until his retirement. The Bureau’s no-confrontation policy would hold and see him through to civilian life.
He had the Fund books stashed in a bank vault in Duluth. He had two dozen cryptography texts at home. He had seventeen days logged in without an ounce of liquor.
He could send the Fund books to Bobby on a moment’s notice. He could delete Joe Kennedy’s name with a few swipes of a pencil.
Dead leaves strafed the windshield. Littell got out of the car and stretched his legs.
He saw men