American Tabloid - James Ellroy [167]
August ’61: A South Florida grand jury is cut off at the knees. A Littell brief proves that evidence was obtained through entrapment.
He’d come full circle.
He quit drinking. He rented a beautiful Georgetown apartment and finally cracked the Fund book code.
Numbers and letters became words. Words became names—to track against police files, city directories and every financial listing in the public domain.
He tracked those names for four months straight. He chased celebrity names, political names, criminal names and anonymous names. He ran obituary checks and criminal record checks. He quadruple-checked names, dates and figures, and cross-referenced all salient data.
He tracked names linked to numbers linked to public stockholder reports. He assessed names and numbers for his own investment portfolio—and amassed a staggering secret history of financial collusion.
Among the Teamster Central States Pension Fund lendees:
Twenty-four U.S. senators, nine governors, 114 congressmen, Allen Dulles, Rafael Trujillo, Fulgencio Batista, Anastasio Somoza, Juan Perón, Nobel Prize researchers, drug-addicted movie stars, loan sharks, labor racketeers, union-busting factory owners, Palm Beach socialites, rogue entrepreneurs, French right-wing crackpots with extensive Algerian holdings, and sixty-seven unsolved homicide victims extrapolatable as Pension Fund deadbeats.
The chief cash conduit/lender was one Joseph P. Kennedy Sr.
Jules Schiffrin died abruptly. He might have sensed uncharted Fund potential—machinations past the grasp of the common mobsters.
He could implement Schiffrin’s knowledge. He could put the full force of his will behind that one thing.
Five months stone-cold sober taught him this:
You’re capable of anything.
Part IV
HEROIN
December 1961–September 1963
72
(Miami, 12/20/61)
Agency guys called the place “Suntan U.” Girls in shorts and halter tops five days before Christmas—no shit.
Big Pete wants a woman. Extortion experience preferred, but not mandat—
Boyd said, “Are you listening to me?”
Pete said, “I’m listening, and I’m observing. It’s a nice tour, but the coeds are impressing me more than JM/Wave.”
They cut between buildings. The Ops station was cattycorner to the women’s gym.
“Pete, are you—?”
“You were saying Fulo and Néstor could run the Cadre business by themselves. You were saying Lockhart went off contract status to start up his own Klan in Mississippi and snitch for the Feds. Chuck’s taking his place at Blessington, and my new gig is funneling guns to Guy Banister in New Orleans. Lockhart’s got some gun connections I can tap into, and Guy’s touting some guy named Joe Milteer, who’s hooked into some guys in the John Birch Society and the Minutemen. They’ve got beaucoup fucking gun money, and Milteer will be dropping some off at the cabstand.”
They hit a shady walkway and grabbed a bench out of the sun. Pete stretched his legs and eyeballed the gym.
“That’s good retention for a bored listener.”
Pete yawned. “JM/Wave and Mongoose are boring. Coastal harassment, gun running and monitoring exile groups is one big snore.”
Boyd straddled the bench. College kids and Cuban hard-ons fraternized two benches over.
“Describe your ideal course of action.”
Pete lit a cigarette. “We should clip Fidel. I’m for it, you’re for it, and the only guys that aren’t for it are your pals Jack and Bobby.”
Boyd smiled. “I’m starting to think we should do it anyway. If we could develop a patsy to take the fall, the hit would probably never be traced back to the Agency or to us.”
“Jack and Bobby would just figure they got lucky.”
Boyd nodded. “I should run it by Santo.”
“I already did.”
“Did he like the idea?”
“Yeah, he did. And he ran it by Johnny Rosselli and Sam G., and they both said they wanted to be in on it.”
Boyd rubbed his collarbone. “You got a quorum just like that?”
“Not exactly. They all like the idea, but it sounds like they’ll need some more convincing.”
“Maybe we should hire Ward Littell to whip up a few briefs. He’s certainly the chief