American Tabloid - James Ellroy [97]
“Never. And I want to see Jack elected President, and I will not intercede with the Kennedys to help Hoffa. I keep—”
“—things compartmentalized, I know.”
Kemper held the ring up. “Stanton wants me to help influence Jack’s Cuban policy. We want the Cuban problem to extend, Pete. Hopefully into a Kennedy administration.”
Pete cracked his thumbs. “Jack’s got a nice head of hair, but I don’t see him as President of the United States.”
“Qualifications don’t count. All Ike did was invade Europe and look like your uncle.”
Pete stretched. His shirttail slid up over two revolvers.
“Whatever happens, I’m in. This is too fucking big to pass up.”
His rent-a-car came with a discreet dashboard Jesus. Kemper slipped the ring over its head.
The air conditioner died outside Miami. A radio concert kept his mind off the heat.
A virtuoso played Chopin. Kemper replayed the scene at Pavilion.
Jack played peacemaker and smoothed things out. Old Joe’s freeze thawed out nicely. They stayed for one awkward drink.
Bobby sulked. Ava Gardner was plain flummoxed. She had no idea what the scene meant.
Joe sent him a note the next day. It closed with, “Laura deserves a man with balls.”
Laura said “I love you” that night. He made up his mind to propose to her at Christmas.
He could afford Laura now. He had three paychecks and two full-time hotel suites. He had a low six-figure bank-account balance.
And if Trafficante says yes …
Trafficante understood abstract concepts.
“Self-budgeted,” “autonomous” and “compartmentalized” amused him.
“Agency-aligned pharmacological sources” made him laugh outright.
He wore a nubby-weave silk suit. His office was turned out in blond-wood Danish modern.
He loved Kemper’s plan. He grasped its political thrust immediately.
The meeting extended. A yes-man served anisette and pastry.
Their conversation veered in odd directions. Trafficante critiqued the Big Pete Bondurant myth. The paper bag by Kemper’s feet went unmentioned.
The yes-man served espresso and Courvoisier VSOP. Kemper marked the moment with a bow.
“Raúl Castro sent this in, Mr. Trafficante. Pete and I want you to have it, as a symbol of our good faith.”
Trafficante picked up the bag. He smiled at the weight and gave it a few little squeezes.
Kemper swirled his brandy. “If Castro is eliminated as a direct or indirect result of our efforts, Pete and I will insure that your contribution is recognized. More importantly, we’ll try to convince the new Cuban ruler to allow you, Mr. Giancana, Mr. Marcello and Mr. Rosselli to regain control of your casinos and build new ones.”
“And if he refuses?”
“We’ll kill him.”
“And what do you and Pete want for all your hard work?”
“If Cuba is liberated, we want to split 5% of the profits from the Capri and Nacional Hotel casinos in perpetuity.”
“Suppose Cuba stays Communist?”
“Then we get nothing.”
Trafficante bowed. “I’ll talk to the other boys, and of course, my vote is ‘Yes.’ ”
32
(Chicago, 9/4/59)
Littell picked up static interference. House-to-car bug feeds always ran rough.
The signal fed in from fifty yards out. Sid Kabikoff wore the microphone taped to his chest.
Mad Sal had arranged the meet. Sam G. insisted on his apartment—take it or leave it. Butch Montrose met Sid on the stoop and walked him up to the left-rear unit.
The car was broiling. Littell kept his windows up as a sound filter.
Kabikoff: “You’ve got a nice place, Sam. Really, what a choice pad-à-terre.”
Littell heard scratching noise—flush on the mike. He visualized the at-the-source cause.
Sid’s stretching the tape. He’s rubbing those bruises I inflicted down in Texas.
Giancana’s voice came in garbled. Littell thought he heard Mad Sal mentioned.
He tried to find Sal this morning. He cruised his collection turf and couldn’t locate him.
Montrose: “We know you knew Jules Schiffrin back in the old days. We know you know some of the boys, so it’s like you’re recommended from the gate.”
Kabikoff: “It’s like a loop. If you’re in the loop you’re in the