American Tabloid - James Ellroy [6]
The phone rang—Strange-O #20 loomed. Pete heard crackle on the line—the call was probably long distance.
“Who’s this?”
“Pete? It’s Jimmy.”
HOFFA.
“Jimmy, how are you?”
“Right now I’m cold. It’s cold in Chicago. I’m calling from a pal’s house, and the heater’s on the blink. Are you sure your phone’s not tapped?”
“I’m sure. Freddy Turentine runs tap checks on all of Mr. Hughes’ phones once a month.”
“I can talk then?”
“You can talk.”
Hoffa cut loose. Pete held the phone at arm’s length and heard him juuuust fine.
“The McClellan Committee’s on me like flies on shit. That little weasel cocksucker Bobby Kennedy’s got half the country convinced the Teamsters are worse than the goddamn Commies, and he’s fucking hounding me and my people with subpoenas, and he’s got investigators crawling all over my union like—”
“Jimmy—”
“—fleas on a dog. First he chases Dave Beck out, and now he wants me. Bobby Kennedy is a fucking avalanche of dogshit. I’m building this resort in Florida called Sun Valley, and Bobby’s trying to trace the three million that bankrolled it. He figures I took it from the Central States Pension Fund—”
“Jimmy—”
“—and he thinks he can use me to get his pussy-hound brother elected President. He thinks James Riddle Hoffa’s a fucking political steppingstone. He thinks I’m gonna bend over and take it in the keester like some goddamn homosexual queer. He thinks—”
“Jimmy—”
“—I’m some pansy like him and his brother. He thinks I’m gonna roll over like Dave Beck. As if all this ain’t enough, I own this cabstand in Miami. I’ve got these hothead Cuban refugees working there, and all they do is debate fucking Castro versus fucking Batista like like like …”
Hoffa gasped out hoarse. Pete said, “What do you want?”
Jimmy caught some breath. “I’ve got a job for you in Miami.”
“How much?”
“Ten thousand.”
Pete said, “I’ll take it.”
He booked a midnight flight. He used a fake passenger name and charged a first-class seat to Hughes Aircraft. The plane landed at 8:00 a.m., on time.
Miami was balmy working on hot.
Pete cabbed over to a Teamster-owned U-Drive and picked up a new Caddy Eldo. Jimmy pulled strings: no deposit or ID was required.
A note was taped under the dashboard.
“Go by cabstand: Flagler at N.W. 46th. Talk to Fulo Machado.” Directions followed: causeways to surface streets marked on a little map.
Pete drove over. The scenery evaporated quick.
Big houses got smaller and smaller. White squares went to white trash, jigs and spics. Flagler was wall-to-wall low-rent storefronts.
The cabstand was tiger-striped stucco. The cabs in the lot had tiger-stripe paint jobs. Dig those tiger-shirted spics on the curb—snarfing doughnuts and T-Bird wine.
A sign above the door read: Tiger Kab. Se Habla Español.
Pete parked directly in front. Tiger men scoped him out and jabbered. He stretched to six-five-plus and let his shirttail hike. The spics saw his piece and jabbered on overdrive.
He walked in to the dispatch hut. Nice wallpaper: tiger photos taped floor to ceiling. National Geographic stock—Pete almost howled.
The dispatcher waved him over. Dig his face: scarred by tic-tac-toe knife cuts.
Pete pulled a chair up. Butt-Ugly said, “I’m Fulo Machado. Batista’s secret police did this to me, so take your free introductory look now and forget about it, all right?”
“You speak English pretty well.”
“I used to work at the Nacional Hotel in Havana. An American croupier guy taught me. It turned out he was a maricón trying to corrupt me.”
“What did you do to him?”
“The maricón had a shack on a pork farm outside of Havana, where he brought little Cuban boys to corrupt them. I found him there with another maricón and murdered them with my machete. I stole all the pigs’ food from their troughs and left the door of the shack open. You see, I had read in the National Geographic that starving pigs found decomposing human flesh irresistible.”
Pete said, “Fulo, I like you.”
“Please reserve judgment. I can be volatile where the enemies of Jesus