American Tabloid - James Ellroy [41]
The heat needle started twitching. Littell hit the kill switch and felt the feed box go cool to the touch.
The D’Onofrio/Sands connection was interesting.
He checked Sal D.’s on-post file. The agent’s summary read horrific.
D’Onofrio lives in a South Side Italian enclave surrounded by Negro-inhabited housing projects. The majority of his bettors and loan customers live within that enclave and D’Onofrio makes his collection rounds on foot, rarely missing a day. D’Onofrio considers himself to be a guiding light within his community, and the Cook County Sheriff’s Gangster Squad believes that he plays the role of “protector”—i.e., protecting Italian-Americans against Negro criminal elements, and that this role and his strongarm collection and intimidation tactics have helped to insure his long bookmaker/loanshark reign. It should also be noted that D’Onofrio was a suspect in the unsolved 12/19/57 torture-murder of Maurice Theodore Wilkins, a Negro youth suspected of burglarizing a church rectory in his neighborhood.
A mug shot was clipped to the folder. Mad Sal was cyst-scarred and gargoyle ugly.
• • •
Littell drove to the South Side and circled D’Onofrio’s loan turf. He spotted him on 59th and Prairie.
The man was walking. Littell ditched his car and foot-tailed him from thirty yards back.
Mad Sal entered apartment buildings and exited counting money. Mad Sal tabulated transactions in a prayer book. Mad Sal picked his nose compulsively and wore low-top tennis shoes in a blizzard.
Littell stuck close behind him. Wind claps covered his footsteps.
Mad Sal peeped in windows. Mad Sal took a beat cop’s money: $5 on the Moore/Durelle rematch.
The streets were near-deserted. The tail felt like a sustained hallucination.
A deli clerk tried to stiff Mad Sal. Mad Sal plugged in a portable stapler and riveted his hands to the counter.
Mad Sal entered a church rectory. Littell stopped at the pay phone outside and called Helen.
She picked up on the second ring. “Hello?”
“It’s me, Helen.”
“What’s that noise?”
“It’s the wind. I’m calling from a phone booth.”
“You’re outside in this?”
“Yes. Are you studying?”
“I’m studying torts and welcoming this distraction. Susan called, by the way.”
“Oh, shit. And?”
“And she said I’m of age, and you’re free, white and forty-five. She said, ‘I’m going to wait and see if you two last before I tell my mother.’ Ward, are you coming over tonight?”
Mad Sal walked out and slipped on the rectory steps. A priest helped him up and waved goodbye.
Littell took his gloves off and blew on his hands. “I’ll be by late. There’s a lounge act I have to catch.”
“You’re being cryptic. You act like Mr. Hoover’s looking over your shoulder every second. Kemper tells his daughter everything about his work.”
Littell laughed. “I want you to analyze the Freudian slip you just made.”
Helen whooped. “Oh, God, you’re right!”
A Negro boy walked by. Mad Sal bolted after him.
Littell said, “I have to go.”
“Come by later.”
“I will.”
Mad Sal chased the kid. Snowdrifts and low-cut sneakers slowed him down.
The Elks Hall steps were jammed. Non-Teamster admittance looked dicey: goons were running an ID checkpoint at the door.
Men filed in with bottle bags and six-packs. They had union badges pinned to their topcoats—about the same size as Bureau shields.
A fresh swarm hit the steps. Littell held up his FBI badge and pushed to the middle. The stampede jostled him inside.
A blonde in G-string and pasties ran the coat-check concession. The foyer walls were lined with bootleg slot machines. Every pull hit a jackpot—Teamsters scooped up coins and yelled.
Littell pocketed his badge. The crowd whooshed him into a big rec hall.
Card tables faced a raised bandstand. Every table was set up with whisky bottles, paper cups and ice.
Strippers dispensed cigars. Tips bought unlimited fondling.
Littell grabbed a ringside seat.