American Tabloid - James Ellroy [92]
Tippit followed Kabikoff. The road was all dirt—the cars sent dust clouds swirling. They fishtailed up a little rock-clustered mountain.
Littell stayed on the main road and kept going. He saw some tree cover fifty yards up the mountainside—a thick clump of scrub pines to shoot from.
He pulled over and parked off the road. He packed his gear into a duffel bag and covered his car with scrub branches and tumbleweeds.
Echoes bounced his way. The “shoot” was just over the top of the hill.
He followed the sounds. He lugged his gear up a 90-degree grade.
The crest looked down on a dirt-packed clearing. His vantage point was goddamn superb.
The “barracks” was a tin-roofed shack. State Police cars were parked beside it—Chevys and old Hudson Hornets.
Tippit was lugging film cans. Fat Sid was bribing Mexican cops. The smut kids were checking out some handcuffed women.
Littell crouched behind a bush and laid out his gear. His zoom lens brought him into close-up range.
He saw wide-open barracks windows and mattresses set up inside. He saw black shirts and armbands on the cops.
The cop cars had leopard-skin seat covers. The women wore prison ID bracelets.
The crowd dispersed. The blackshirts uncuffed the women. Kabikoff hauled equipment inside the barracks.
Littell went to work. The heat had him weaving on his knees. His zoom lens got him in very close.
He snapped pictures and watched them develop. He placed them in neat rows inside his duffel bag.
He snapped smut girls entwined on a mattress. He snapped Sid Kabikoff coercing lesbian action.
He snapped obscene insertions. He snapped dildo gang bangs. He snapped smut boys whipping Mexican women bloody.
The Polaroid cranked out instant closeups. Fat Sid was color-glossy indicted:
For Suborning Lewd Conduct. For Felony Assault. For Filming Pornography for Interstate Sales, in violation of nine Federal statutes.
Littell shot his way through forty rolls of film. Sweat soaked the ground all around him.
Sid Kabikoff was evidence-snapped:
White slaving. Violating the Mann Act. Serving as an accessory to kidnapping and sexual battery.
Snap!—a snack break—cops baking tortillas on a prowl-car roof.
Snap!—a prisoner tries to escape. Snap!/snap!/snap!—two cops catch her and rape her.
Littell walked back to his car. He started sobbing just over the border.
He taped the pictures into his scrapbook and calmed down with prayers and a half-pint. He found a good spot to perch: the access-road curb, a half-mile north of the border.
The road ran one way. It was the only route to the Interstate. It was nicely lit—you could almost read license plate numbers.
Littell waited. Air-conditioner blasts kept him from dozing. Midnight came and went.
Cars drove by law-abidingly slow—the Border Patrol gave tickets all the way to McAllen.
Headlights swept by. Littell kept scanning rear plates. The air-conditioner freeze was making him sick.
Kabikoff’s Cadillac passed—
Littell slid out behind him. He slapped the cherry light to his roof and pulled on his ski mask.
The light swirled bright red. Littell hit his high beams and tapped the horn.
Kabikoff pulled over. Littell boxed him in and walked up to his door.
Kabikoff screamed—the mask was bright red with white devil’s horns.
Littell remembered making threats.
Littell remembered his final pitch: YOU’RE GOING TO TALK TO GIANCANA WIRED UP.
He remembered a tire iron.
He remembered blood on the dashboard.
He remembered begging God PLEASE DON’T LET ME KILL HIM.
30
(Miami, 8/29/59)
“Cocksucking Commie fuckers shoot up my cabstand! First it’s Bobby Kennedy, now it’s these Red Cuban shitheels!”
Heads turned their way—Jimmy Hoffa talked loud. Lunch with Jimmy was risky—the hump sprayed food and coffee routinely.
Pete had a headache. The Tiger Kab hut stood catty-corner from the diner—the fucking tiger stripes were giving him eyestrain.
He turned away from the window. “Jimmy, let’s talk—”
Hoffa cut him off. “Bobby Kennedy’s got every shithead grand jury in America