American Tabloid - James Ellroy [42]
The lights went down. A baby spot hit the bandstand. Littell built a quick scotch-on-the-rocks.
Three other men sat at his table. Total strangers pounded his back.
Lenny Sands walked on stage, twirling a mike cord à la Sinatra. Lenny mimicked Sinatra—straight down to his spitcurl and voice:
“Fly me to the moon in my souped-up Teamster rig! I’ll put skidmarks on management’s ass, ’cause my union contract’s big! In other words, Teamsters are kings!!”
The audience hooted and yelled. A man grabbed a stripper and forced her into some dirty-dog dance steps.
Lenny Sands bowed. “Thank you thank you thank you! And ring-a-ding, men of the Northern Illinois Council of the International Brotherhood of Teamsters!”
The crowd applauded. A stripper brought ice refills by—Littell caught a breast in the face.
Lenny said, “It sure is hot up here!”
The stripper hopped on stage and dropped ice cubes down his pants. The audience howled; the man beside Littell squealed and spat bourbon.
Lenny made ecstatic faces. Lenny shook his trouser legs until the ice dropped out.
The crowd wolf-whistled and shrieked and thumped their tables—
The stripper ducked behind a curtain. Lenny put on a Boston accent—Bobby Kennedy’s voice pushed into soprano range.
“Now you listen to me, Mr. Hoffa! You quit associating with those nasty gangsters and nasty truck drivers and snitch off all your friends or I’ll tell my daddy on you!”
The room rocked. The room rolled. Foot stomps had the floor shaking.
“Mr. Hoffa, you’re a no-goodnik and a nasty man! You quit trying to unionize my six children or I’ll tell my daddy and my big brother Jack on you! You be nice or I’ll tell my daddy to buy your union and make all your nasty truck drivers servants at our family compound in Hyannis Port!”
The room roared. Littell felt queasy-hot and lightheaded.
Lenny minced. Lenny preened. Lenny DID Robert F. Kennedy, faggot crusader.
“Mr. Hoffa, you stop that nasty forced bargaining this instant!”
“Mr. Hoffa, stop yelling, you’re wilting my hairdo!”
“Mr. Hoffa, be NIIICE!”
Lenny squeezed the room dry. Lenny wrung it out from the basement to the roof.
“Mr. Hoffa, you’re just SOOOOO butch!”
“Mr. Hoffa, quit scratching—you’ll ruin my nylons!”
“Mr. Hoffa, your Teamsters are just TOOOOO sexy! They’ve got the McClellan Committee and me in such a TIZZY!”
Lenny kept it cranking. Littell caught something three drinks in: he never ridiculed John Kennedy. Kemper called it the Bobby/Jack dichotomy: if you liked one man, you disliked the other.
“Mr. Hoffa, stop confusing me with facts!”
“Mr. Hoffa, stop berating me, or I won’t share my hairdressing secrets with your wife!”
The Elks Hall broiled. Open windows laced in freezing air. The drink ice ran out—strippers filled bowls with fresh snow.
Mob men table-hopped. Littell spotted file-photo faces.
Sam “Mo”/“Momo”/“Mooney” Giancana. Icepick Tony Iannone, Chimob underboss. Donkey Dan Versace, Fat Bob Paolucci, Mad Sal D’Onofrio himself.
Lenny wrapped it up. The strippers shimmied on stage and took bows.
“So fly me to the stars, union paycheck fat! Jimmy Hoffa is our tiger now—Bobby’s just a scrawny rat! In other words, Teamsters are kings!!!!”
Table thumps, claps, cheers, yells, whistles, howls—
Littell ran out a back exit and sucked air in. His sweat froze; his legs fluttered; his scotch dinner stayed down.
He checked the door. A conga line snaked through the rec hall—strippers and Teamsters linked up hands-to-hips. Mad Sal joined them—his tennis shoes squished and leaked snow.
Littell caught his breath and slow-walked around to the parking lot. Lenny Sands was cooling off by his car, scooping ice packs from a snow drift.
Mad Sal walked up and hugged him. Lenny made a face and pulled free.
Littell crouched behind a limousine. Their voices carried his way.
“Lenny, what can I say? You were stupendous.”
“Insider crowds are easy, Sal. You just gotta know what switches to flip.”
“Lenny, a crowd’s a crowd. These Teamsters are working Joes, just like my junket