American Tabloid - James Ellroy [180]
“Answer Mr. Littell’s question, goddamnit.”
Lenny shook his head. “No. What the Secret Service does is eat, drink and discuss Jack’s protean sex drive.”
Pete said, “ ‘Barb, this is Jack. Jack, this is Barb.’ ”
Lenny sighed. “I’m not an imbecile.”
Pete smiled. “We’re upping your fee to ten thousand, because we know you’re way too smart to mention this to anybody.”
Littell pushed the liquor cart out of his sight. “That specifically includes Sam Giancana and your Outfit friends, Laura Hughes, Claire Boyd and Kemper Boyd, on the extreme off-chance that you run into them.”
Lenny laughed. “Kemper’s not in on this? Toooo bad—I wouldn’t mind rubbing whatevers with him again.”
Pete said, “Don’t treat this like a joke.”
Littell said, “Don’t think Sam will let you walk for the Tony job.”
Pete said, “Don’t think that Sam still likes Jack, or that he’d lift a finger to help him. Sam bought Jack West Virginia and Illinois, but that was a long time ago, and Bobby’s been goddamn unfriendly to the Outfit since then.”
Lenny weaved into the cart. Littell steadied him.
Lenny pushed him away. “Sam and Bobby must have something cooking, ’cause Sam said the Outfit’s been doing some work to help Bobby out with Cuba, but Bobby doesn’t know about it, and Sam said, ‘We sort of think he should be told.’ ”
Pete caught a quick flash:
The Whack Fidel auditions. Three Outfit biggies, bored and noncommittal.
Littell said, “Lenny, you’re drunk. You’re not making any—”
Pete cut him off. “What else did Giancana say about Bobby Kennedy and Cuba?”
Lenny leaned against the door. “Nothing. I just heard two seconds of this conversation he was having with Butch Montrose.”
“When?”
“Last week. I went to Chicago for a Teamster smoker.”
Littell said, “Forget about Cuba.” Lenny weaved and flashed the V-for-victory sign.
“Viva Fidel! Down with the U.S. imperialist insect!”
Pete slapped him.
Littell said, “ ‘Barb, this is Jack.’ And remember what we’ll do if you betray us.”
Lenny spat out some gold bridgework.
The combo played way off-key. Pete figured they were zorched on his Dilaudid.
The Reef Club rocked. Twist nuts had the floor shaking.
Barb danced close to chaste by her standards. Pete figured the potential gig had her distracted.
Littell commandeered a wraparound bar booth. Barb waved when she saw them walk in.
Pete drank beer. Littell drank club soda. Amplifier boom shook their table.
Pete yawned. He got a room at the Statler and slept through the day and half the evening.
Hoffa sent two grand to Fred Otash. Littell wrote a note to Hoover and sent it via Jimmy’s FBI contact.
The note said, We want to install bugs and wiretaps. The note said, We want to fuck one of YOUR MAJOR ENEMIES.
Hoffa retained Fred Turentine. Freddy was set to tap phones and plant bugs where needed.
Pete yawned. Lenny’s Bobby/Cuba pitch kept twisting through his head.
Littell nudged him. “She’s got the looks.”
“And the style.”
“How smart is she?”
“A lot smarter than my last extortion partner.”
Barb worked the “Frisco Twist” into a crescendo. Her junkie backup group kept playing like she wasn’t even there.
She walked off stage. Twist clowns jostled her across the dance floor. A horny geek followed her and scoped out her cleavage close up.
Pete waved. Barb slid into the booth next to him.
Pete said, “Miss Lindscott, Mr. Littell.”
Barb lit a cigarette. “It’s technically ‘Jahelka.’ When my mother-in-law dies, I’ll go back to ‘Lindscott.’ ”
Littell said, “I like ‘Lindscott.’ ”
Barb said, “I know. It fits my face better.”
“Have you ever worked as an actress?”
“No.”
“What about that charade with Lenny Sands and Rock Hudson?”
“I only had to fool the police and spend a night in jail.”
“Was two thousand dollars worth the risk?”
Barb laughed. “Compared to four hundred dollars for three Twist shows a night, six nights a week?”
Pete pushed his beer and pretzels aside. “You’ll make a lot more than two thousand dollars with us.”
“For doing what? Besides sleeping with some powerful man, I mean.”
Littell leaned toward her. “It’s high risk, but