American Tabloid - James Ellroy [54]
“You ‘retired’ from the FBI rather precipitously. You were close to Mr. Hoover, who hates and fears the Kennedy brothers. Post hoc, propter ergo hoc. You were an FBI agent on Tuesday, a prospective pimp for Jack Kennedy on Wednesday, and a McClellan Committee investigator on Thursday. I can follow logical—”
“What’s the standard pay rate for CIA contract recruits?”
“Eight-fifty a month.”
“But my ‘affiliations’ make me a special case?”
“Yes. We know you’re getting close to the Kennedys, and we think Jack Kennedy might be elected President next year. If the Castro problem extends, we’ll need someone to help influence his Cuban policy.”
“As a lobbyist?”
“No. As a very subtle agent provocateur.”
Kemper checked the view. Lights seemed to shimmer way past Cuba.
“I’ll consider your offer.”
18
(Chicago, 1/14/59)
Littell ran into the morgue. Kemper called him from the airport and said MEET ME THERE NOW.
He called half an hour ago. He didn’t elaborate. He said just those four words and slammed the phone down.
A row of autopsy rooms extended off the foyer. Sheet-covered gurneys blocked the hallway.
Littell pushed through them. Kemper stood by the far wall, next to a row of freezer slabs.
Littell caught his breath. “What the fuck is—?”
Kemper pulled a slab out. The tray held a male Caucasian dead body.
The boy was torture slashed and cigarette burned. His penis was severed and stuffed in his mouth.
Littell recognized him: the kid in Icepick Tony’s nude snapshot.
Kemper grabbed his neck and forced him down close. “This is on you, Ward. You should have destroyed every bit of evidence pointing to Iannone’s known associates before you tipped off those Mob guys. Guilty or not, they had to kill someone, so they decided to kill the boy in the picture you left for them to see.”
Littell jerked backward. He smelled stomach bile and blood and forensic dental abrasive.
Kemper shoved him down closer.
“You’re working for Bobby Kennedy, and I set it up, and Mr. Hoover will destroy me if he finds out. You’re damn lucky I decided to check some missing-persons reports, and you had damn well better convince me you won’t fuck up like this again.”
Littell closed his eyes. Tears spilled out. Kemper shoved him in cheek to cheek with the dead boy.
“Meet me at Lenny Sands’ apartment at ten. We’ll shore things up.”
Work didn’t help.
He tailed Commies and wrote out a surveillance log. His hands shook; his printing was near-illegible.
Helen didn’t help.
He called her just to hear her voice. Her law school chitchat brought him close to screaming.
Court Meade didn’t help.
They met for coffee and exchanged reports. Court told him he looked lousy. Court said his report looked threadbare—like he wasn’t spending much time at the listening post.
He couldn’t say, I’m slacking off because I found a snitch. He couldn’t say, I fucked up and got a boy killed.
Church helped a little.
He lit a candle for the dead boy. He prayed for competence and courage. He cleaned up in the bathroom and remembered something Lenny said: Sal D. was recruiting junketeers at Saint Vibiana’s this evening.
A tavern stop helped.
Soup and crackers settled his stomach. Three rye-and-beers cleared his head.
Sal and Lenny had the Saint Vib’s rec hall all to themselves. A dozen K of C men took in their pitch.
The group sat at a clump of bingo tables near the stage. The Knights looked like drunks and wife beaters.
Littell loitered outside a fire exit. He cracked the door to watch and listen.
Sal said, “We leave in two days. Lots of my regulars couldn’t get away from their jobs, so I’m lowering my price to nine-fifty, airfare included. First we go to Lake Tahoe, then Vegas and Gardena, outside L.A. Sinatra’s playing the Cal-Neva Lodge in Tahoe, and you’ll be front row center to catch his show. Now, Lenny Sands, formerly Lenny Sanducci, and a Vegas star in his own right, will give you a Sinatra that out-Sinatras Sinatra. Go, Lenny! Go, paisan!”
Lenny blew smoke rings Sinatra-style. The K of C men clapped.