American Tabloid - James Ellroy [73]
Littell sighed. “Cuba doesn’t interest me. Did Ruby give you anything on the Pension Fund?”
Mad Sal said, “Weeeeel …”
“Sal, goddamnit—”
“Naughty, naughty, Padre. Now say ten Hail Marys and check this. Jack told me he forwarded this Texas oil guy straight to Sam G. for a Pension Fund loan, like maybe a year ago. Now this is a class-A tip, and I deserve a reward for it, and I need some fuckin’ money to cover bets with, because bookies and shylocks with no bankroll get hurt and can’t snitch to candy-ass Fed cocksuckers like you.”
Ruby’s THP designation: bagman/small-time loan shark.
“Padre Padre Padre. Forgive me because I have bet. Forgive me because—”
“I’ll try to get you some money, Sal. If I can find a borrower for you to introduce to Giancana. I’m talking about a direct referral, from you to Sam.”
“Padre … Jesus.”
“Sal …”
“Padre, you’re fucking me so hard it hurts.”
“I saved your life, Sal. And this is the only way you’ll ever get another dime out of me.”
“Okay okay okay. Forgive me, Father, for I have taken it up the dirt road from this ex-seminarian Fed who—”
Littell hung up.
The squadroom was weekend quiet. The agent manning the phone lines ignored him.
Littell cadged the teletype machine and queried the Dallas office.
The reply would take at least ten minutes. He called Midway for flight information—and hit lucky.
A Pan-Am connector departed for Dallas at noon. A return flight would have him home shortly after midnight.
The kickback rolled off the wire: Jacob Rubenstein/AKA Jack Ruby, DOB 3/25/11.
The man had three extortion arrests and no convictions: in ’47, ’49 and ’53.
The man was a suspected pimp and Dallas PD informant.
The man was the subject of a 1956 ASPCA investigation. The man was strongly suspected of sexually molesting dogs. The man was known to occasionally shylock to businessmen and desperate oil wildcatters.
Littell ripped up the teletype. Jack Ruby was worth the trip.
Airplane hum and three scotches lulled him to sleep. Mad Sal’s confessions merged like a Hit Parade medley.
Sal makes the Negro boy beg. Sal feeds the bet welcher Drano. Sal decapitates two kids who wolf-whistle at a nun.
He’d verified those deaths. All four stood “Unsolved.” All four victims were rectal-raped postmortem.
Littell woke up sweaty. The stewardess handed him a drink unsolicited.
The Carousel Club was a striptease-row dive. The sign out front featured zaftig girls in bikinis.
Another sign said, Open 6:00 P.M.
Littell parked behind the building and waited. His rental car reeked of recent sex and hair pomade.
A few cops cruised by. One man waved. Littell caught on: They think you’re a brother cop with your hand in Jack’s pocket.
Ruby drove up at 5:15, alone.
He was a dog fucker and a pimp. This would have to be ugly.
Ruby got out and unlocked the back door. Littell ran up and intercepted him.
He said, “FBI. Let’s see your hands.” He said it in the classic Kemper Boyd style.
Ruby looked skeptical. He was wearing a ridiculous porkpie hat.
Littell said, “Empty your pockets.” Ruby obeyed him. A cash roll, dog biscuits, and a .38 snub-nose hit the ground.
Ruby spat on them. “I know out-of-town shakedowns on an intimate level. I know how to deal with cops in cheap blue suits with liquor breath. Now take what you want and leave me the fuck alone.”
Littell picked up a dog biscuit. “Eat it, Jack.”
Ruby got up on his toes—some kind of lighter-weight boxer’s stance. Littell flashed his gun and handcuffs.
“I want you to eat that dog biscuit.”
“Now look …”
“ ‘Now look, sir.’ ”
“Now look, sir, who the fuck do you—?”
Littell jammed the biscuit in his mouth. Ruby chewed on it to keep from gagging.
“I’m going to make demands of you, Jack. If you don’t comply, the IRS will audit you, Federal agents will