American Tabloid - James Ellroy [50]
One strange thing: His Mob address/numbers didn’t match the on-file THP listings.
Littell flipped pages. Odd names hit him.
Senator John Kennedy, Hyannis Port, Mass.; Spike Knode, 114 Gardenia, Mobile, Alabama; Laura Hughes, 881 5th Ave., New York City; Paul Bogaards, 1489 Fountain, Milwaukee.
He shot through the book alphabetically. He held the pen flash in his teeth and snapped one photograph per page. He notched thirty-two exposures up to the M’s.
His legs ached from squatting down to shoot. The flash kept slipping out of his mouth.
He heard key/lock noise. He heard door rattles—NINETY MINUTES AHEAD OF SCHED—
Littell hugged the wall by the door. He replayed every judo move Kemper taught him.
Lenny Sands walked in. Littell grabbed him from behind and cupped his mouth shut. Remember—“Jam one thumb to the suspect’s carotid and take him down supine.”
He did it Kemper-pure. Lenny went prone with no resistance. Littell pulled his muzzle hand free and kicked the door shut.
Lenny didn’t scream or yell. His face was jammed into a wad of scrunched-up carpet.
Littell eased off the carotid. Lenny coughed and retched.
Littell knelt beside him. Littell pulled out his revolver and cocked it.
“I’m with the Chicago FBI. I’ve got you for the Tony Iannone killing, and if you don’t work for me I’ll hand you up to Giancana and the Chicago PD. I’m not asking you to inform on your friends. What I’m interested in is the Teamsters’ Pension Fund.”
Lenny heaved for breath. Littell stood up and hit a wall switch—the room went bright with glare.
He saw a liquor tray by the couch. Cut-glass decanters full of scotch, bourbon and brandy.
Lenny pulled his knees up and hugged them. Littell tucked his gun in his waistband and pulled out a glassine bag.
It held two blood-crusted switchblades.
He showed them to Lenny. He said, “I dusted them for prints and got four latents that matched your DMV set.”
It was a bluff. All he got were smears.
“You’ve got no choice in this, Lenny. You know what Sam would do to you.”
Lenny broke a sweat. Littell poured him a scotch—the smell made him salivate.
Lenny sipped his drink two-handed. His tough-guy voice didn’t quite work.
“I know bubkes about the Fund. What I know is that connected guys and certain businessman types apply for these large-interest loans and get pushed up some kind of loan ladder.”
“To Sam Giancana?”
“That’s one theory.”
“Then elaborate on it.”
“The theory is that Giancana consults with Jimmy Hoffa on all the big-money loan applications. Then they get accepted or refused.”
“Are there alternative Pension Fund books? What I’m thinking of is coded books hiding secret assets.”
“I don’t know.”
Kemper Boyd always said COW YOUR INFORMANTS.
Lenny hauled himself into a chair. Schizophrenic Lenny knew that tough Jewboys don’t cringe on the floor.
Littell poured himself a double scotch. Lounge-Act Lenny said, “Make yourself at home.”
Littell tucked the switchblades in his pocket. “I checked your address book, and I noticed that your addresses don’t match the addresses that the Top Hoodlum Program has on file.”
“What addresses?”
“The addresses of members of the Chicago Crime Cartel.”
“Oh, those addresses.”
“Why don’t they match?”
Lenny said, “Because they’re fuck pads. They’re pads where guys go to cheat on their wives. I’ve got keys to some of the pads, because I drop off jukebox receipts to them. In fact, I was bagging receipts at that fucking queer bar when that fucking faggot Iannone came on to me.”
Littell downed his drink. “I saw you kill Iannone. I know why you were at Perry’s Little Log Cabin, and why you frequent Hernando’s Hideaway. I know you’ve got two lives and two voices and two sets of God knows what else. I know that Iannone went after you because he didn’t want you knowing that he did, too.”
Lenny SQUEEEZED his glass, two-handed. Thick-cut crystal snapped and shattered—
Whisky sprayed out. Blood mixed with it. Lenny did not yelp or