The Cold Six Thousand - James Ellroy [166]
Sam scratched his feet. “Too bad Jimmy won’t be around to see it.”
“I may be able to keep him out until after we get in.”
Sam sneezed. “So he celebrates en route to Leavenworth. We keester Howard Hughes, and Jimmy packs his pj’s for the pen.”
“That’s about it, yes.”
Sam sneezed. “I don’t like that look in your eyes. It says, ‘I got some momentous shit for you, even though you called me in.’ ”
Littell cleaned his glasses. “I’ve talked to the others. They have an idea that they think you should consider.”
Sam rolled his eyes. “Then tell me. You’ve got this tendency to coax things and lay out these big preambles.”
Littell leaned in. “They think you’re through in Chicago. They think you’re a sitting duck for the Feds and the State AG. They think you should move to Mexico and run your personal operations from there. They think you should start making Latin-American connections, to aid us in our foreign casino strategy, which will begin sometime after we sell Mr. Hughes the hotels.”
Sam scratched his neck. Sam scratched his arms. Sam scratched his balls. A bug leaped. Sam caught it. Sam smashed it.
“Okay, I’ll play. I know when over’s over, and I know the future when I see it.”
Littell smiled. Sam rocked his chair back.
“You still got that look. You should unload before I start itching again.”
Littell squared his necktie. “I want to oversee the buyouts for the pension-book plan, assist in the foreign casino negotiations, and retire. I’m going to ask Carlos formally, but I wanted to get your blessing first.”
Sam smiled. Sam stood up. Sam played street mime. He sprayed holy water. He gave Holy Communion. He ran the Stations of the Cross.
“You’ve got it. If you help us out on one last thing.”
“Tell me. I’ll do it.”
Sam straddled his chair. “We got hurt on the ’60 election. I bought Jack West Virginia and Illinois, and he sicced his cocksucking kid brother on us. Now, Johnson’s okay, but he’s soft on the niggers, and he might not run in ’68. The thing is, we’re prepared to be very generous to the right candidate, if he pardons Jimmy and helps us out on some other fronts, and we want you to work it out.”
Littell inhaled. Littell exhaled. Littell went dead faint.
“Jesus Christ.”
Sam scratched his hands. “We want Mr. Hughes to put up 25% of our contribution. We want our guy to agree to a hands-off policy on the Teamsters. We want him to slow down any Fed shit aimed at the Outfit. We want no foreign-policy grief aimed at the countries where we plant our casinos, right- or left-wing.”
Littell inhaled. Littell exhaled. Littell went faint-faint.
“When?”
“The ’68 primaries. Around that time. You know, the conventions.”
A bug jumped. Sam caught it. Sam smashed it.
“Breed no more, you fuck.”
Charts: Profit flow/overhead/debits.
Littell read charts. Littell studied charts. Littell took notes. He worked on the terrace. The view distracted him. He loved Lake Michigan.
The Drake Hotel—two-bedroom suite—on Sam Giancana.
Littell read charts. Fund-book stats jumped. Money lent/money invested/money repaid.
Business targets. Fund-financed. Potential takeover prey. Let’s extort said businesses. Let’s build foreign casinos. Let’s buy a President. Let’s shape policy. Let’s reverse 1960. Let’s spread our bets. Let’s cover all odds. Let’s subvert left-wing nations.
That was odd—the Outfit leaned right—the Outfit bribed right per said leaning.
Chicago broiled. Wind scoured the lake. Littell ditched his charts. Littell studied briefs.
Appeal briefs—let’s keep Jimmy out. Stock briefs—let’s get Drac in. It was shit work. It was repetitive. It was post-dead.
He got up. He stretched. He watched Lake Shore Drive. He saw car lights as streamers.
He went by his banks yesterday. He withdrew tithe money. He cut tithe checks. He mailed them. He worried a phone call.
He called Bayard Rustin. He lied off Bogalusa. He did it to protect himself. He did it to protect Pete and Wayne.
He’d read the papers. He saw the news. The church blew “accidental.” No one linked Chuck. No one linked