American Tabloid - James Ellroy [191]
SDS: And Frank shot his big fucking mouth off and Mo believed him. Jack’s my boy, blah, blah. Jewboy Lenny told me he stuffed half the fucking ballot boxes in Cook County.
UM: You say Frank like you know the man personal.
SDS: I do, you fuck. I met him backstage at the Dunes Hotel once.
UM: Sinatra’s a hump. He walks Outfit and talks Outfit, but he’s really just a stupe from Hoboken, New Jersey.
SDS: He’s a stupe who should pay, Billy.
UM: He should. Every time that rat prick Bobby comes down on the Outfit, Frankie should take a shot to the nuts. He should pay double for what that cunt Bobby’s doing to Jimmy and the Teamsters, and triple for that stroll through Guatemala Uncle Carlos had to take.
SDS: The Kennedys should pay.
UM: In the best of all worlds they would.
SDS: They got no sense of fucking gratitude.
UM: They got no sense, period. I mean, Joe Kennedy and Raymond Patriarca go way back.
SDS: No sense.
UM: No fucking sense.
Non-applicable conversation follows.
Chicago, 4/26/62. Placement: North Side Elks Club pay phone. Number dialed: BL4-0808 (pay phone at Saparito’s Trattoria Restaurant). Caller: Dewey “The Duck” Di Pasquale. (See THP file #709.9, Chicago Office.) Person called: Pietro “Pete Sap” Saparito. Four minutes and twenty-nine seconds of non-applicable conversation precedes the following.
DDP: What’s worse than the clap and the syph is the Kennedys. They are trying to grind the Outfit into duck shit. Bobby’s got these racket squads set up all over the country. These are cocksuckers who can’t be bought for love or money.
PS: Jack Kennedy ate at my restaurant once. I should have poisoned the cocksucker.
DDP: Quack, quack. You should have.
PS: Don’t start that duck routine with me, you hump.
DDP: You should invite Jack and Bobby and his racket squad guys to your place and poison them all.
PS: I should. Hey, you know my waitress, Deeleen?
DDP: Sure. I heard she plays skin clarinet with the best.
PS: She does. And she banged Jack Kennedy. She said he had this little piccolo dick.
DDP: The Irish ain’t hung for shit. It’s a well-known fact.
PS: Italian men have the biggest.
DDP: And the best.
PS: I heard Mo’s hung like a mule.
DDP: Who told you?
PS: Mo himself.
Non-applicable conversation follows.
Newark, 5/1/62. Placement: Lou’s Lucky Lounge pay phone. Number dialed: MU6-9441 (pay phone at Reuben’s Delicatessen, New York City). Caller: Herschel “Heshie” Ryskind (See THP file #887.8, Dallas Office). Person called: Morris Milton Weinshank (See THP file #400.5, New York City Office). Three minutes and one second of non-applicable conversation precedes the following.
MMW: We’re all sorry you’re sick, Hesh. We’re all pulling for you and praying for you.
HR: I want to live long enough to see Sam G. kick Sinatra’s skinny bantamweight tuchus from here to Palermo. Sinatra and some CIA shitheel convinced Sam and Santo that Jack the K. was kosher. Use your noggin and think, Morris. Think about Ike and Harry Truman and FDR. Did they give us grief like this?
MMW: They did not.
HR: I know it’s Bobby and not Jack that’s the instigator. But Jack knows the rules. Jack knows you can’t sic your rabid dogs on people who did you favors.
MMW: Sam thought Frank had pull with the brothers. He thought he could get Jack to call Bobby off.
HR: Frank was dreaming. The only pull Frank’s got is with his putz. All Frank and that CIA guy Boyd want to do is suck the big Kennedy cock.
MMW: Jack and Bobby got nice hair.
HR: Which somebody should part with a forty-five caliber dum-dum.
MMW: Such hair. I should have such hair.
HR: You want hair? Buy a fucking wig.
Non-applicable conversation follows.
DOCUMENT INSERT: 5/1/62. Personal note: Howard Hughes to J. Edgar Hoover.
Dear Edgar,
Duane Spurgeon,