American Tabloid - James Ellroy [188]
John Coates was still alive. The Mob did not clip cops without big provocation.
Grateful Barb married Joey. Grateful Barb carried the debt.
The cop was late. Pete studied the foldout for the ten millionth time.
They airbrushed her breasts. They powdered her freckles. The picture didn’t nail her smarts and je ne sais quoi.
Pete put the magazine away. Pete doodled up another dispatch sheet.
He called Barb once a week. He tossed out little love checks—You don’t really dig Jack, do you?
She didn’t. She dug the allure—but Jack was just a six-minute erection and some chuckles.
The shakedown was proceeding. Turentine flew out to L.A. and checked up on Lenny Sands. Freddy said Lenny was solid. Freddy said Lenny would never rat off the operation.
He played the Barb tapes over and over. He reran Lenny’s blurt almost as much.
Three major Mob contributors abandoned the Cuban Cause. Littell said Carlos Marcello was the only Outfit big who still cared.
Why?
His guess was MONEY.
Pete kept his nose down for two months straight. His theory percolated.
He kept playing theoretical match-ups. He kept linking Cuban Cause and Outfit personnel. Last week he made a big theoretical jump.
November 1960.
Wilfredo Olmos Delsol is seen talking to pro-Castro agents. Wilfredo Olmos Delsol was recently seen:
Driving a new car. Wearing new threads. Showing off new women.
He hired a Miami cop to spot-tail Delsol. The man reported back.
Delsol met with hinky Cubans six nights running. Their license plates were fake number/fake tag counterfeits.
The cop tailed the men to their pads. The pads were rented under obvious fake names. The Cubans were pro-Castro agents with no visible means of support.
The cop glommed a phone-company snitch. He paid him five hundred dollars and told him to steal Delsol’s recent phone bills.
The cop said his snitch succeeded. The cop was late with the goods.
Pete doodled. He drew little hearts and arrows, ad fucking infinitum.
Sergeant Carl Lennertz showed up a full hour late. Pete waltzed him out to the parking lot.
They exchanged envelopes. The transaction went down in two seconds flat.
Lennertz took off. Pete opened his envelope and pulled out two sheets of paper.
The Florida Bell man delivered. Delsol made four months’ worth of suspicious phone calls.
He called Santo and Sam G. at their unlisted numbers. He called six pro-Castro front groups a total of twenty-nine times.
Pete felt his pulse go snap/crackle/pop.
He drove to Delsol’s house. The puto’s new-money Impala was parked on the front lawn.
He boxed it in with his car. He slashed the tires with his pocket knife. He wedged a porch chair under the front doorknob. He ripped a cord off an outside air cooler and balled it around his right fist.
He heard running water and music inside the house.
Pete walked around to the back. The kitchen door stood ajar.
Delsol was washing dishes. The geek was snapping his dishrag to a mambo beat.
Pete waved. Delsol waved soapy hands—Come on in.
A little radio was perched on the sink ledge. Perez Prado was cranking out “Cherry Pink and Apple Blossom White.”
Pete walked in. Delsol said, “Hola, Pedro.”
Pete sucker-punched him. Delsol jackknifed. Pete dropped the radio in the sink.
Water fizzed. Pete kicked Delsol in the ass and shot him into sink water up to his elbows.
He screamed. He pulled his arms out and cut loose with this godawful shriek.
Steam whooshed through the kitchen—dig that baby mushroom cloud.
Pete shoved the dishrag in his mouth. Delsol’s arms were scorched bright red and hairless.
“You’ve been calling Trafficante, Giancana and some pro-Castro guys. You’ve been seen with some left-wing Cubans, and you’ve been spending money.”
Delsol flipped him off. Dig that firecracker-red “Fuck You” finger.
“I think most of the Outfit’s quits on the Cause, and I want to know why. You put all this together or your face goes into the water.”
Delsol spat the rag out. Pete lashed his hands with the air-cooler cord and rabbit-punched him back