American Tabloid - James Ellroy [74]
Ruby chewed. Ruby sprayed crumbs. Littell kicked his legs out from under him.
Ruby went down on his knees. Littell kicked the door open and kicked him inside.
Ruby tried to stand up. Littell kicked him back down. The room was ten-by-ten and littered with piles of striptease gowns.
Littell kicked a pile in Ruby’s face. Littell dropped a fresh dog biscuit in his lap.
Ruby put it in his mouth. Ruby made horrible choking sounds.
Littell said, “Answer this question. Have you ever referred borrowers to higher-end loan sharks than yourself?”
Ruby nodded—yes yes yes yes yes.
“Sal D’Onofrio lent you the money to buy this place. Nod if that’s true.”
Ruby nodded. His feet were snagged up in soiled brassieres.
“Sal kills people routinely. Did you know that?”
Ruby nodded. Dogs started barking one room over.
“He tortures people, Jack. He enjoys inflicting pain.”
Ruby thrashed his head. His cheeks bulged like that dead boy on the morgue slab.
“Sal burned a man to death with a blowtorch. The man’s wife came home unexpectedly. Sal shoved a gasoline-soaked rag in her mouth and ignited it. He said she died shooting flames like a dragon.”
Ruby pissed in his pants. Littell saw the lap stain spread.
“Sal wants you to know a few things. One, your debt to him is erased. Two, if you don’t cooperate with me or you rat me to the Outfit or any of your cop friends, he’ll come to Dallas and rape you and kill you. Do you understand?”
Ruby nodded—yes yes yes. Biscuit crumbs shot out of his nostrils.
Kemper Boyd always said DON’T FALTER.
“You’re not to contact Sal. You’re not to know my name. You’re not to tell anyone about this. You’re to contact me every Tuesday at 11:00 a.m. at a pay phone in Chicago. I’ll call you and give you the number. Do you understand?”
Ruby nodded—yes yes yes yes yes yes. The dogs keened and clawed at a door just a few feet in front of him.
“I want you to find a high-end borrower for Sal. Somebody Sal can send up to Giancana and the Pension Fund. Nod if you agree to do it, and nod twice if you understand the whole situation.”
Ruby nodded three times.
Littell walked out.
The dog noise went cacophonous.
His return flight landed at midnight. He drove home, keyed up and exhausted.
Helen’s car was parked out front. She’d be up; she’d be earnest; she’d be eager to reconcile.
Littell drove to a liquor store and bought a half-pint. A wino panhandled him. He gave him a dollar—the poor shit looked sort of like Jack Ruby.
It was 1:00 a.m. Sunday morning. Court Meade might be working the listening post.
He called. No one answered. Some THP man was ditching his shift.
Kemper urged him to avoid the post. Kemper might not consider one last visit too risky.
Littell drove over and let himself in. The bug transmitter was unplugged; the room was freshly cleaned and tidied up. A note taped to the main console box explained why.
Memo:
Celano’s Tailor Shop is undergoing fumigation 5/17-5/20/59. All on-premises shifts will be suspended during that time.
Littell cracked his bottle. A few drinks revitalized him and sent his thoughts scattergunning out in a million directions.
Some brain wires crackled and crossed.
Sal needed money. Court Meade was talking up a dice-game heist. Mr. Hoover said to let the matter rest.
Littell checked the bug transcript logs. He found a colloquy on the job, filed by SA Russ Davis last month.
4/18/59. 2200 hrs. Alone at tailor shop: Rocco Malvaso & Dewey “The Duck” Di Pasquale. What sounded like drinking toasts was obscured by jackhammer and general construction noise outside on Michigan Ave. Two minutes passed while both men apparently used the bathroom. Then this conversation occurred.
Malvaso: Te salud, Duck.
Di Pasquale: Quack, quack. The nice thing is, you know, they can’t report it.
Malvaso: The Kenilworth cops would shit. That is the squarejohn town to end all squarejohn towns. The last time two handsome big dick guys like us took down eighty grand in a crap