American Tabloid - James Ellroy [27]
Pete put a hand on his arm. “An FBI man braced me. He said he had an ‘in’ on the McClellan Committee. He said he made me for the Gretzler job, and he said Mr. Hoover didn’t care. You know Hoover, Jimmy. He’s always left you and the Outfit alone.”
Hoffa pulled his arm loose. “So? You think they’ve got evidence? Is that what that tape’s all about?”
“No. I think the Fed’s spying on Bobby Kennedy and the Committee for Hoover, or something like that, and I think Hoover’s on our side. I tailed the guy and his partner up to a fuck pad in Hollywood. They bugged and wired it, and my guy Freddy Turentine hooked up a piggy-back. Now, listen.”
Hoffa tapped his foot like he was bored. Hoffa brushed tiger-striped lint off his shirt.
Pete tapped Play. Tape hissed. Sex groans and mattress squeaks escalated.
Pete timed the fuck. Senator John F. Kennedy: 2.4-minute man.
Darleen Shoftel faked a climax. There, that Boston bray: “My god-damn back gave out.”
Darleen said, “It was goooood. Short and sweet’s the best.”
Jimmy twirled his baseball bat. Goosebumps bristled up his arms.
Pete pushed buttons and cut to the good stuff. Two-Minute Jack rhapsodized:
“… a Teamster man who’d become disgusted with Hoffa … this dumb brave Polack, Roland something from Chicago.”
Hoffa popped goose bumps. Hoffa choked up a grip on his bat.
“This Roland something has working-class panache.… Bobby’s got his teeth in Hoffa. When Bobby bites down he doesn’t let go.”
Hoffa popped double goose bumps. Hoffa went bug-eyed like a fright-wig nigger.
Pete stood back.
Hoffa let fly—watch that nail-topped Louisville Slugger GO—
Chairs got smashed to kindling. Desks got knocked legless. Walls got spike-gouged down to the baseboard.
Pete stood way back. A glowing plastic Jesus doorstop got shattered into eight million pieces.
Paper stacks flew. Wood chips ricocheted. Drivers watched from the sidewalk—Jimmy roundhoused the window and glass-blasted them.
James Riddle Hoffa: heaving and voodoo-eyed stuporous.
His bat snagged on a doorjamb. Jimmy stared at it—say what?
Pete grabbed him in a bear hug. Jimmy’s eyes rolled back, catatonic-style.
Hoffa flailed and squirmed. Pete squeezed him close to breathless and baby-talked him.
“I can keep Freddy on the piggyback for two hundred a day. Sooner or later we might get something you can fuck the Kennedys with. I’ve got some political dirt files, too. They might do us some good someday.”
Hoffa focused in half-lucid. His voice came out laughing-gas squeaky.
“What … do … you … want?”
“Mr. Hughes is going nuts. I was thinking I’d get next to you and cover my bets.”
Hoffa squirmed free. Pete almost choked on his smell: sweat and bargain-basement cologne.
His color receded. He caught his breath. His voice went down a few octaves.
“I’ll give you 5% of this cabstand. You keep the piggyback going in L.A. and show up here once in a while to keep these Cubans in line. Don’t try to Jew me up to 10%, or I’ll say ‘fuck you’ and send you back to L.A. on the bus.”
Pete said, “It’s a deal.”
Jimmy said, “I’ve got a job in Sun Valley. I want you to come with me.”
They took a Tiger Kab out. Shark-shoot goodies bulged up the trunk: nail bats, Tommy guns and suntan oil.
Fulo Machado drove. Jimmy wore fresh threads. Pete forgot to bring spare clothes—Hoffa’s stink stuck to him.
Nobody talked—Jimmy Hoffa sulking killed chitchat. They passed buses filled with Teamster chumps headed for the sucker-bait tract pads.
Pete did mental arithmetic.
Twelve cab drivers working around-the-clock. Twelve men with Jimmy Hoffa-sponsored green cards—taking short-end taxi-fare splits to stay in America. Twelve moonlighters: stickup men, strikebreakers, pimps. 5% of the top-end money and whatever else he could scrounge—this gig packed potential.
Fulo pulled off the highway. Pete saw the spot where he whacked Anton Gretzler. They followed a bus convoy to the bait cribs—three miles from the Interstate easy.
Movie spotlights gave off this huge glow—extra-bright, like a premiere at Grauman’s Chinese.