American Tabloid - James Ellroy [23]
Independent bookmaker-loansharks flourish in Chicago. This is due to Sam Giancana’s policy of extracting high-percentage operating tributes. One of Giancana’s most fearsome underbosses, Anthony “Icepick Tony” Iannone (born 1917), serves as the Chicago Mob’s liaison to independent bookmaker-loanshark factions. Iannone is strongly believed to be responsible for the mutilation murders of no less than nine heavily indebted loanshark customers.
Names jumped out. Odd appellations made him laugh.
Tony “the Ant” Spilotro, Felix “Milwaukee Phil” Alderisio, Frank “Franky Strongy” Ferraro.
Joe Amato, Joseph Cesar Di Vareo, Jackie “Jackie the Lackey” Cerone.
The Teamsters’ Central States Pension Fund remains a source of constant law énforcement speculation. Does Sam Giancana have final Fund loan approval? What is the established protocol for granting loans to criminals, quasi-legitimate businessmen and labor racketeers seeking capital?
Jimmy “Turk” Torello, Louie “the Mooch” Eboli.
The Miami PD Intelligence Squad believes that Sam Giancana is a silent partner in the Tiger Kab Kompany, a Teamster-owned taxi service run by Cuban refugees believed to possess extensive criminal records.
Daniel “Donkey Dan” Versace, “Fat Bob” Paolucci—
The phone rang. Littell fumbled for it—eyestrain had him seeing double.
“Hello?”
“It’s me.”
“Kemper, hi.”
“What have you been doing? When I left you were two sheets to the wind.”
Littell laughed. “I’ve been reading the THP file. And so far, I’m not too impressed with Mr. Hoover’s anti-Mob mandate.”
“Watch your mouth, he might have bugged your room.”
“That’s a cruel thought.”
“Yes, if not far-fetched. Ward, look, it’s still snowing, and you’ll never be able to fly out today. Why don’t you meet me at the Committee office? Bobby and I are grilling a witness. He’s a Chicago man, and you might learn something.”
“I could use some air. You’re at the old Senate Office Building?”
“Right, suite 101. I’ll be in interview room A. It’s got an observation corridor, so you’ll be able to watch. And remember my cover. I’m retired from the FBI.”
“You’re a glib dissembler, Kemper. It’s rather sad.”
“Don’t get lost in the snow.”
The setup was perfect: a closed hallway with one-way glass access and wall-mounted speakers. Partitioned off in cubicle A: the Kennedy brothers, Kemper, and a blond man.
Cubicles B, C and D were vacant. He had the watching gallery to himself—the snowstorm must have scared people home.
Littell hit the speaker switch. Voices crackled out with minimum static.
The men sat around a desk. Robert Kennedy played host and worked the tape recorder.
“Take your time, Mr. Kirpaski. You’re a voluntary witness, and we’re here at your disposal.”
The blond man said, “Call me Roland. Nobody calls me Mr. Kirpaski.”
Kemper grinned. “Any man who rolls over on Jimmy Hoffa deserves that formality.”
Brilliant Kemper—reviving his Tennessee drawl.
Roland Kirpaski said, “That’s nice, I guess. But you know, Jimmy Hoffa’s Jimmy Hoffa. What I mean is, it’s like they say about the elephant. He don’t forget.”
Robert Kennedy laced his hands behind his head. “Hoffa will have plenty of time in prison to remember everything that put him there.”
Kirpaski coughed. “I’d like to say something. And I’d … uh … like to read it off when I testify in front of the Committee.”
Kemper said, “Go ahead.”
Kirpaski leaned his chair back. “I’m a union guy. I’m a Teamster. Now, I told you all them stories about Jimmy doing this and doing that, you know, telling his guys to lean on these other guys that wouldn’t play ball and so forth. I guess maybe all that stuff is illegal, but you know what? That don’t bother me so much. The only reason I’m so-called rolling over on Jimmy is because I can add up