American Tabloid - James Ellroy [46]
Rubber-padded gun butts slammed him. Pete curled up his tongue so he wouldn’t bite it off.
• • •
He came to cuffed and shackled. Chair slats gouged his back; percussion bopped him upside his brain.
Light hit his eyes. One eye only—tissue flaps cut his sight in half. He made out three cops sitting around a bolted-down table.
Snare drums popped behind his ears. A-bombs ignited up and down his spine.
Pete flexed his arms and snapped his handcuff chain.
Two cops whistled. One cop applauded.
They’d double-manacled his ankles—he couldn’t give them an encore.
The senior cop crossed his legs. “We got an anonymous tip, Mr. Bondurant. One of Mr. Machado’s neighbors saw Mr. Adolfo Herendon and Mr. Armando Cruz-Martín enter Mr. Machado’s house, and he heard what might have been shots several hours later. Now, a few hours after that, you and Mr. Rogers arrive separately. The two of you and Mr. Machado leave carrying two large bundles wrapped in window curtains, and the neighbor gets Mr. Rogers’ license number. We checked Mr. Rogers’ car, and we noticed some debris that looks like skin fragments, and we certainly would like to hear your comments on all of this.”
Pete stuck his eyebrow back in place. “Charge me or release me. You know who I am and who I know.”
“We know you know Jimmy Hoffa. We know you’re pals with Mr. Rogers, Mr. Machado and some other Tiger Kab drivers.”
Pete said, “Charge me or release me.” The cop tossed cigarettes and matches on his lap.
Cop #2 leaned in close. “You probably think Jimmy Hoffa’s bought off every policeman in this town, but son, I’m here to tell you that simply ain’t the case.”
“Charge me or release me.”
“Son, you are trying my patience.”
“I’m not your son, you cracker faggot.”
“Boy, that kind of talk will get your face slapped.”
“If you slap me, I’ll go for your eyes. Don’t make me prove it.”
Cop #3 came on soft. “Whoa, now, whoa. Mr. Bondurant, you know we can hold you for seventy-two hours without charging you. You know you’ve probably got a concussion and could use some medical attention. Now, why don’t you—”
“Give me my phone call, then charge me or release me.”
The senior cop laced his hands behind his head. “We let your friend Rogers make a call. He fed the jailer some cock-and-bull story about having government connections and called a Mr. Stanton. Now, who are you gonna call—Jimmy Hoffa? You think Uncle Jimmy’s gonna go your bail on a double-homicide charge and maybe engender all kinds of bad publicity that he doesn’t need?”
An A-bomb blast hit his neck. Pete almost blacked out.
Cop #2 sighed. “This boy’s too woozy to cooperate. Let’s let him rest up a bit.”
He passed out, woke up, passed out. His headache subsided from A-bomb to nitroglycerine.
He read wall scratchings. He swiveled his neck to stay limber. He broke the world’s record for holding a piss.
He broke down the situation.
Fulo cracks or Fulo doesn’t crack. Chuck cracks or Chuck doesn’t. Jimmy buys them bail or lets them swing. Maybe the DA gets smart: spic-on-spic homicides rate bubkes.
He could call Mr. Hughes. Mr. Hughes could nudge Mr. Hoover—which meant case fucking closed.
He told Hughes he’d be gone three days. Hughes agreed to the trip, no questions asked. Hughes agreed because the Kennedy shakedown backfired. Joe and Bobby shrunk his balls down to peanut size.
And Ward J. Littell slapped him.
Which decreed the cocksucker’s death sentence.
Gail was gone. The Jack K. gig went pfffft. Hoffa’s Kennedy hate sizzled—hot, hot, hot. Hughes was still gossip/smear crazed and hot to find a new Hush-Hush stringer.
Pete read wall musings. The Academy Award winner: “Miami PD Sucks Rhino Dick.”
Two men walked in and pulled chairs up. A jailer unshackled his legs and walked out fast.
Pete stood up and stretched. The interrogation room dipped and swayed.
The younger man said, “I’m John Stanton, and this is Guy Banister. Mr. Banister is retired FBI, and he was assistant superintendent of the New Orleans Police for a spell.”
Stanton was slight and sandy-haired. Banister was big