American Tabloid - James Ellroy [25]
Bobby fumed. Kemper said, “Bob, Gretzler has to be dead. His car was dumped in a swamp, and the man himself can’t be found. I’ve put a lot of hours in trying to find him, and I haven’t turned up one viable lead.”
“He could have faked his own death to avoid appearing before the Committee.”
“I think that’s unlikely.”
Bobby straddled his chair and gripped down on the slats. “You may be right. But I may still send you down to Florida to make sure.”
Kirpaski said, “I’m hungry.”
Jack rolled his eyes. Kemper winked at him.
Kirpaski sighed. “I said I’m hungry.”
Kemper checked his watch. “Wrap it up for the senator, Roland. Tell us how Gretzler got drunk and shot his mouth off.”
“I get the picture. Sing for your supper.”
Bobby said, “Goddamnit—”
“All right, all right. It was after the shark shoot. Gretzler was pissed because Jimmy ridiculed him for holding his Tommy gun like a sissy. Gretzler started talking up these rumors he’d heard about the Pension Fund. He said he heard the Fund is a lot fucking richer than people knew, and nobody could subpoena the books, because the books weren’t real. See, Gretzler said there were these ‘real’ Teamster Fund books, probably in code, with fucking tens of millions of dollars accounted for in them. This money gets loaned out at these exorbitant rates. There’s supposed to be some retired Chicago gangster—a real brain—who’s the bookkeeper for the ‘real’ books and the ‘real’ money, and if you’re thinking about corroboration, forget it—I’m the only one Gretzler was talking to.”
Bobby Kennedy pushed his hair back. His voice went high, like an excited child’s.
“It’s our big wedge, Jack. First we subpoena the front books again and determine their solvency. We trace the loaned-out money the Teamsters admit to and try to determine the existence of hidden assets within the Fund and the probability that those ‘real’ books exist.”
Littell pressed up to the glass. He felt magnetized: tousle-haired, passionate Bobby—
Jack Kennedy coughed. “It’s strong stuff. If you can produce verifiable testimony on those books before the Committee’s mandate ends.”
Kirpaski applauded. “Hey, he speaks. Hey, Senator, glad you could join us.”
Jack Kennedy cringed, mock-wounded. Bobby said, “My investigators will be forwarding our evidence along to other agencies. Whatever we dig up will be acted on.”
Jack said, “Eventually?” Littell translated: “Too late to bolster my career.”
The brothers locked eyes. Kemper leaned across the table between them. “Hoffa’s got a block of houses set up at Sun Valley. He’s down there himself, giving PR tours. Roland’s going down to look around. He runs a Chicago local, so it won’t look suspicious. He’ll be calling in to report what he sees.”
Kirpaski said, “Yeah, and I’m also gonna ‘see’ this cocktail waitress I met when I went down for the convention. But you know what? I’m not gonna tell my wife she’s on the menu.”
Jack motioned Kemper in close. Littell caught static-laced whispers:
“I’m flying to L.A. when this snow lets up.”/“Call Darleen Shoftel—I’m sure she’d love to meet you.”
Kirpaski said, “I’m hungry.”
Robert Kennedy packed his briefcase. “Come on, Roland. You can join the family for supper at my house. Try not to say ‘fuck’ around my children, though. They’ll learn the concept soon enough.”
The men filed out a back door. Littell hugged the glass for one last look at Bobby.
7
(Los Angeles, 12/9/58)
Darleen Shoftel faked a mean climax. Darleen Shoftel had whore pals over for shop talk.
Darleen was a bigggg name dropper.
She said Franchot Tone dug bondage. She called Dick Contino a champion muff diver. She dubbed B-movie man Steve Cochran “Mr. King Size.”
Phone calls came in and went out. Darleen talked to tricks, hooker chums and Mom in Vincennes, Indiana.
Darleen loved to talk. Darleen said nothing to explain why two Feds wired her crib.
They attached the Fed apparatus four days ago. 1541 North Alta Vista