American Tabloid - James Ellroy [91]
Dogs yapped. Ruby should rename his dive the Carousel Kennel Club. Littell walked up to the door and popped the latch with his penknife.
It was dark. A crack of light cut through the dressing room.
He tiptoed up to the source. He smelled perfume and dog effluvia. The crack was a connecting door left ajar.
He heard overlapping voices. He made out Ruby, Kabikoff and a man with a deep Texas twang.
He squinted into the light. He saw Ruby, Kabikoff and a uniformed Dallas cop—standing by a striptease runway.
Littell craned his neck. His view expanded.
The runway was packed. He saw four girls and four boys, all buck naked.
Ruby said, “J.D., are they not gorgeous?”
The cop said, “I’m partial to women exclusively, but all in all I got to agree.”
The boys stroked erections. The girls oohed and aahed. Three dachshunds cavorted on the runway.
Kabikoff giggled. “Jack, you’re a better talent scout than Major Bowes and Ted Mack combined. 100%, Jack. I’m talking no rejections for these lovelies.”
J.D. said, “When do we meet?”
Kabikoff said, “Tomorrow afternoon, say 2:00. We’ll meet at the coffee shop at the Sagebrush Motel in McAllen, and drive across to the shoot from there. What an audition! All auditions should go so smooth!”
One boy had a tattooed penis. Two girls were knife-scarred and bruised. A dogfight erupted—Ruby yelled, “No, children, no!”
Littell ordered a room-service dinner: steak, Caesar salad and Glenlivet.
It was a robbery-stash splurge—and more Kemper’s style than his.
Three drinks honed his instincts. A fourth made him certain. A nightcap made him call Mad Sal in L.A.
Sal pitched a tantrum: I need money, money, money.
Littell said, I’ll try to get you some.
Sal said, Try hard.
Littell said, It’s on. I want you to refer Kabikoff for a Fund loan. Call Giancana and set up a meeting. Call Sid in thirty-six hours and confirm it.
Sal gulped. Sal oozed fear. Littell said, I’ll try to get you some money.
Sal agreed to do it. Littell hung up before he started begging again.
He didn’t tell Sal that his robbery stash was down to eight hundred dollars.
Littell left a 2:00 a.m. wake-up call. His prayers ran long—Bobby Kennedy had a large family.
The drive took eleven hours. He hit McAllen with sixteen minutes to spare.
South Texas was pure hot and humid. Littell pulled off the highway and inventoried his backseat.
He had one blank-paged scrapbook, twelve rolls of Scotch tape and a Polaroid Land Camera with a long-range Rolliflex zoom lens. He had forty rolls of color film, a ski mask and a contraband FBI flashing roof light.
It was a complete mobile evidence kit.
Littell eased back into traffic. He spotted the Sagebrush Motel: a horseshoe-shaped bungalow court right on the main drag.
He pulled in and parked in front of the coffee shop. He put the car in neutral and idled with the air conditioner on.
J.D. Tippit pulled in at 2:06. His convertible was overloaded: six smut kids up front and camera gear bulging out of the trunk.
They entered the coffee shop. Littell snapped a zoom-lens shot to capture the moment.
The camera whirred. A picture popped out and developed in his hand in less than a minute.
Amazing—
Kabikoff pulled up and beeped his horn. Littell snapped a shot of his rear license plate.
Tippit and the kids walked out with soft drinks. They divided up between the cars and headed out southbound.
Littell counted to twenty and followed them. Traffic was light—they drove surface streets for five minutes and hit the border crossing one-two-three.
A guard waved them through. Littell popped a location-setting snapshot: two cars en route to Federal violations.
Mexico was a dusty extension of Texas. They drove through a long string of tin-shack villages.
A car squeezed in behind Tippit. Littell used it for protective cover.
They drove up into scrub hills. Littell fixed on J.D.’s foxtail-tipped antenna. The road was half dirt and half blacktop—gravel chunks snapped under his tires.
Kabikoff turned right at a sign: Domicilio