The Cold Six Thousand - James Ellroy [39]
Littell studied the photos. Littell studied her.
She had one brown eye. She had one hazel eye. Her left breast was smaller than her right. He bought her a cashmere sweater. It stretched snug on one side.
Jimmy Hoffa said, “I’m going down? After the fucking coup we just pulled?”
Littell went ssshhh. Hoffa shut up. Littell tossed the room. He checked the lamps. He checked the rugs. He checked under the desk.
“Ward, you worry too much. I got a fucking guard outside my office twenty-four hours a day.”
Littell checked the window. Window mounts worked. Suction cups could be rigged to glass.
“Ward, Jesus fucking—”
No mounts/no glass plates/no cups.
Hoffa stretched out. Hoffa yawned. Hoffa dipped his chair and dropped his feet on his desk.
Littell sat on the edge. “You’ll probably be convicted. The appeal process will buy you at least—”
“That cunt-lapping homo Bobby F-for-Faggot—”
“—but jury tampering is not an offense that falls under Federal sentencing guidelines, which means a discretionary decree, which—”
“—means Bobby F-for-Fuckface Kennedy wins and James R-for-Ridiculous Hoffa goes to the fucking shithouse for five or six fucking years.”
Littell smiled. “That’s my summary, yes.”
Hoffa picked his nose. “There’s more. ‘That’s my summary’ is no kind of summary that’s worth a fucking shit.”
Littell crossed his legs. “You’ll stay out on appeals for two or three years. I’m developing a long-range strategy to legitimize Pension Fund money and divert and launder it through foreign sources, which should kick into high gear around the time you get out. I’m meeting the Boys in Vegas next month to discuss it. I can’t emphasize how important this may prove to be.”
Hoffa picked his teeth. “And in the fucking meantime?”
“In the meantime, we have to worry about those other grand juries that Bobby’s impaneled.”
Hoffa blew his nose. “That cunt-lapping cocksucker. After what we did to fuck—”
“We need to know what Bobby thinks about the hit. Mr. Hoover wants to know, too.”
Hoffa cleaned his ears. Hoffa shined on Littell. He gouged. He went in deep. He jabbed a pen. He prospected for wax.
He said, “Carlos has a lawyer at Justice.”
New Orleans was hot. The air hung wet and ripe.
Carlos owned a motel—twelve rooms and one office. Carlos made people wait.
Littell waited. The office smelled—chicory and bug spray. Carlos left a bottle out—Hennessy X.O—Carlos doubted his will to abstain.
He got off the plane. He drove to Tulane. He went through catalogs. He compiled a list of GI Bill classes.
He called Mr. Hoover. He asked his favor. Mr. Hoover agreed. Yes, I’ll do it—I’ll plant your paper.
The air cooler died. Littell dumped his jacket. Littell undid his tie. Carlos walked in. Carlos slapped the wall unit. Cold air blew high.
“Come va, Ward?”
Littell kissed his ring. “Bene, padrone.”
Carlos sat on the desk. “You love that shit, and you’re not even Italian.”
“Stavo perdiventare un prete, Signor Marcello. Aurei potuto il tuo confessore. ”
Carlos cracked the bottle. “Say the last part in English. Your Italian’s better than mine.”
Littell smiled. “I could have been your confessor.”
Carlos poured two fingers. “You’d be out of a job. I never do anything to piss God off.”
Littell smiled. Carlos offered the bottle. Littell shook his head.
Carlos lit a cigar. “So?”
Littell coughed. “We’re fine. The commission’s a whitewash, and I wrote the narrative brief that they’ll work off. It played the way I expected.”
“Despite some fuck-ups.”
“Guy Banister’s. Not Pete’s or mine.”
Carlos shrugged. “Guy’s a capable guy, on the whole.”
“I wouldn’t say that.”
“Of course you wouldn’t. You wanted your crew to go in.”
Littell coughed. “I don’t want to argue the point.”
“The fuck you don’t. You’re a lawyer.”
The wall unit died. Carlos slapped it. Cold air blew wide.
Littell said, “The meeting is set for the fourth.”
Carlos laughed. “Moe Dalitz is calling it ‘the Summit.’ ”
“That’s appropriate. Especially if we still have your vote for Pete’s business.”
“Pete’s potential business? Yeah, sure.”
“You don’t sound too optimistic.