American Tabloid - James Ellroy [52]
It was pure bullshit. It was very un-Miami.
Miami was goood. Miami was this drug he got withdrawals from. He left Miami with a mild concussion—not bad for the pounding he took.
Jimmy Hoffa called him in to restore order. He got out of jail and did it.
The cabstand demanded order—political rifts had business fucked six ways from Sunday. The riots sputtered out, but Tiger Kab still simmered with factional jive. He had pro-Batista and pro-Castro guys to deal with—left- and right-wing ideologue thugs who needed to be toilet-trained and broken in to the White Man’s Rule of Order.
He laid down laws.
No drinking and placard waving on the job. No guns or knives—check your weapons with the dispatcher. No political fraternizing—rival factions must remain segregated.
One Batistaite challenged the rules. Pete beat him half-dead.
He laid down more laws.
No pimping on duty—leave your whores at home. No B&Es or stick-ups on duty.
He made Chuck Rogers the new day dispatcher. He considered it a political appointment.
Rogers was a CIA contract goon. Co-dispatcher Fulo Machado was CIA-linked.
John Stanton was a mid-level CIA agent—and a new cabstand habitué. He got Fulo’s murder-one beef squelched with a snap of his fingers.
Stanton’s pal Guy Banister hated Ward Littell. Banister and Stanton were hipped on Kemper Boyd.
Jimmy Hoffa owned Tiger Kab. Jimmy Hoffa had points in two Havana casinos.
Littell and Boyd made him for two killings. Stanton and Banister probably didn’t know that. Stanton fed him that little teaser: “I may ask a favor of you one day.”
Things were dovetailing tight and cozy. His feelers started perk-perk-perking.
Pete buzzed the receptionist. “Donna, get me long distance person-to-person. I want to talk to a man named Kemper Boyd at the McClellan Committee office in Washington, D.C. Tell the operator to try the Senate Office Building, and if you get through, say I’m the caller.”
“Yes, sir.”
Pete hung up and waited. The call was a longshot—Boyd was probably out somewhere, conniving.
His intercom light flashed. Pete picked up the phone.
“Boyd?”
“Speaking. And surprised.”
“Well, I owe you one, so I thought I’d deliver.”
“Keep going.”
“I was in Miami last week. I ran into two men named John Stanton and Guy Banister, and they seemed real interested in you.”
“Mr. Stanton and I have already spoken. But thanks. It’s nice to know they’re still interested.”
“I gave you a good reference.”
“You’re a sport. Is there anything I can do for you?”
“You can find me a new dirt digger for Hush-Hush.”
Boyd hung up, laughing.
17
(Miami, 1/13/59)
The Committee booked him into a Howard Johnson’s. Kemper upgraded to a two-room suite at the Fontainebleau.
He made up the difference out of his own pocket. He was closing in on three salaries—it wasn’t that big an extravagance.
Bobby sent him back to Miami. He instigated the trip himself—and promised to return with some key Sun Valley depositions. He didn’t tell Bobby that the CIA was thinking about recruiting him.
The trip was a little vacation. If Stanton was good, they’d connect.
Kemper carried a chair out to the balcony. Ward Littell had mailed him a report—he needed to edit it before sending it on to Bobby.
The report was twelve typed pages. Ward included a longhand preface.
K.B.,
Since we’re partners in this gentle subterfuge, I’m giving you a verbatim account of my activities. Of course, you’ll want to omit mention of my more flagrant illegalities, given Mr. Kennedy’s proviso. As you’ll note, I have made substantial progress. And believe me, given the extreme circumstances, I have been very careful.
Kemper read the report. “Extreme circumstances” didn’t quite cover it.
Littell witnessed a homosexual murder. The victim was a Chicago Mob underboss. The killer was a Mob fringe dweller named Lenny Sands.
Sands was now Littell’s snitch. Sands had recently partnered up with a bookie/loanshark named “Mad Sal” D’Onofrio. D’Onofrio shepherded gambling junkets to Las Vegas and Lake Tahoe