American Tabloid - James Ellroy [7]
Pete stifled a yuk. “Did one of Jimmy’s guys leave an envelope for me?”
Fulo forked it over. Pete ripped it open, itchy to roll.
Nice—a simple note and a photo.
“Anton Gretzler, 114 Hibiscus, Lake Weir, Fla. (near Sun Valley). OL4-8812.” The pic showed a tall guy almost too fat to live.
Pete said, “Jimmy must trust you.”
“He does. He sponsored my green card, so he knows that I will remain loyal.”
“What’s this Sun Valley place?”
“It is what I think is called a ‘sub-division.’ Jimmy is selling lots to Teamster members.”
Pete said, “So who do you think’s got more juice these days—Jesus or Castro?”
“I would say it is currently a toss-up.”
Pete checked in at the Eden Roc and buzzed Anton Gretzler from a pay phone. The fat man agreed to a meet: 3:00, outside Sun Valley.
Pete took a snooze and drove out early. Sun Valley was the shits: three dirt roads gouged from swampland forty yards off the Interstate.
It was “sub-divided”—into matchbook-size lots piled with junk siding. Marshland formed the perimeter—Pete saw gators out sunning.
It was hot and humid. A wicked sun cooked greenery dry brown.
Pete leaned against the car and stretched some kinks out. A truck crawled down the highway belching steam; the man in the passenger seat waved for help. Pete turned his back and let the geeks pass by.
A breeze kicked dust clouds up. The access road hazed over. A big sedan turned off the Interstate and barreled in blind.
Pete stood aside. The car brodied to a stop. Fat Anton Gretzler got out.
Pete walked over to him. Gretzler said, “Mr. Peterson?”
“That’s me. Mr. Gretzler?”
Fats stuck his hand out. Pete ignored it.
“Is something wrong? You said you wanted to see a lot.”
Pete steered Fat Boy down to a marsh glade. Gretzler caught on quick: Don’t resist. Gator eyes poked out of the water.
Pete said, “Look at my car. Do I look like some union schmuck in the market for a do-it-yourself house?”
“Well … no.”
“Then don’t you think you’re doing Jimmy raw by showing me these piece-of-shit pads?”
“Well …”
“Jimmy told me he’s got a nice block of houses around here just about ready to go. You’re supposed to wait and show them to the Teamsters.”
“Well … I thought I—”
“Jimmy says you’re an impetuous guy. He says he shouldn’t have made you a partner in this thing. He says you’ve told people he borrowed money from the Teamsters’ Pension Fund and skimmed some off the top. He’s says you’ve been talking up the Fund like you’re a made guy.”
Gretzler squirmed. Pete grabbed his wrist and snapped it—bones sheared and poked out through his skin. Gretzler tried to scream and choked up mute.
“Has the McClellan Committee subpoenaed you?”
Gretzler made “yes” nods, frantic.
“Have you talked to Robert Kennedy or his investigators?”
Gretzler made “no” nods, shit-your-pants scared.
Pete checked the highway. No cars in view, no witnesses—
Gretzler said, “PLEASE.”
Pete blew his brains out halfway through a rosary.
2
Kemper Boyd
(Philadelphia, 11/27/58)
The car: a Jaguar XK-140, British racing green/tan leather. The garage: subterranean and dead quiet. The job: steal the Jag for the FBI and entrap the fool who paid you to do it.
The man pried the driver’s-side door open and hot-wired the ignition. The upholstery smelled rich: full leather boosted the “resale” price into the stratosphere.
He eased the car up to the street and waited for traffic to pass. Cold air fogged the windshield.
His buyer was standing at the corner. He was a Walter Mitty crime-voyeur type who had to get close.
The man pulled out. A squad car cut him off. His buyer saw what was happening—and ran.
Philly cops packing shotguns swooped down. They shouted standard auto-theft commands: “Get out of the car with your hands up!”/“Out—now!”/“Down on the ground!”
He obeyed them. The cops threw on full armor: cuffs, manacles and drag chains.
They frisked him and jerked him to his feet. His head hit a prowl car cherry light—
The cell looked familiar. He swung his legs off the bunk and got his identity straight.
I’m