American Tabloid - James Ellroy [174]
“And obvious that you want to try it again.”
“This is true.”
“Call Pete, Jimmy. I don’t have much use for him, but he’s the best shakedown man alive.”
Hoffa leaned across the desk. His trouser legs slid up and showed off cheap white sweat socks.
“I want you in on it, too.”
75
(Los Angeles, 2/4/62)
Pete rubbed his neck. It was all kinked and knotted—he flew out in a coach seat made for midgets.
“I jump when you say ‘jump,’ Jimmy, but coast-to-coast for coffee and pastry is pushing it.”
“I think L.A.’s the place to set this up.”
“Set what up?”
Hoffa dabbed eclair cream off his necktie. “You’ll see soon enough.”
Pete heard noise in the kitchen. “Who’s that poking around?”
“It’s Ward Littell. Sit down, Pete. You’re making me nervous.”
Pete dropped his garment bag. The house stunk of cigars—Hoffa let visiting Teamsters use it for stag nights.
“Littell, shit. This is grief I don’t need.”
“Come on. Ancient history’s ancient history.”
Recent history: Your lawyer stole your Fund books—
Littell walked in. Hoffa put his hands up, peacemaker-style. “Be nice, you guys. I wouldn’t put the two of you in the same room unless it was good.”
Pete rubbed his eyes. “I’m a busy guy, and I flew overnight for this little breakfast klatch. Give me one good reason why I should take on additional fucking work, or I’m heading back to the airport.”
Hoffa said, “Tell him, Ward.”
Littell warmed his hands on a coffee cup. “Bobby Kennedy’s coming down unacceptably hard on Jimmy. We want to work up a derogatory tape profile on Jack and use it as a wedge to get him to call off Bobby.
If I hadn’t interfered, the Shoftel operation might have worked. I think we should do it again, and I think we should recruit a woman that Jack would find interesting enough to sustain an affair with.”
Pete rolled his eyes. “You want to shake down the President of the United States?”
“Yes.”
“You, me and Jimmy?”
“You, me, Fred Turentine and the woman we bring in.”
“And you’re going at this like you think we can trust each other.”
Littell smiled. “We both hate Jack Kennedy. And I think we’ve got enough dirt on each other to buttress a non-aggression pact.”
Pete popped some prickly little goosebumps. “We can’t tell Kemper about this. He’d rat us in a second.”
“I agree. Kemper has to stay out of the loop on this one.”
Hoffa belched. “I’m watching you two humps stare at each other, and I’m starting to feel like I’m out of the fucking loop, even though I’m financing the fucking loop.”
Littell said, “Lenny Sands.”
Hoffa sprayed eclair crumbs. “What the fuck does Jewboy Lenny have to do with fucking anything?”
Pete looked at Littell. Littell looked at Pete. Their brainwaves meshed somewhere over the pastry tray.
Hoffa looked dead flummoxed. His eyes went out of focus somewhere near the planet Mars. Pete steered Littell to the kitchen and shut the door.
“You’re thinking Lenny’s this big Hollywood insider. You’re thinking he might know some women we could use as bait.”
“Right. And if he doesn’t come through, at least we’re here in Los Angeles.”
“Which is the best place on earth to find shakedown-type women.”
Littell sipped coffee. “Right. And Lenny was my informant once. I’ve got a hold on him, and if he doesn’t cooperate, I’ll squeeze him with it.”
Pete cracked some knuckles. “He’s a homo. He shanked this made guy in an alley behind some fruit bar.”
“Lenny told you that?”
“Don’t look so hurt. People have this tendency to tell me things they don’t want to.”
Littell dumped his cup in the sink. Hoffa paced outside the door.
Pete said, “Lenny knows Kemper. And I think he’s tight with that Hughes woman that Kemper had a thing with.”
“Lenny’s safe. If worse comes to worse, we can squeeze him with the Tony Iannone job.”
Pete rubbed his neck. “Who else knows we’re planning this?”
“Nobody. Why?”
“I was wondering if it was common knowledge all over the Outfit.”
Littell shook his head. “You, me and Jimmy. That’s the loop.”
Pete said, “Let’s keep it that way. Lenny’s tight