American tabloid

23

Helen buttered a slice of toast. “Susan’s slow burn is getting to me. I don’t think we’ve spoken more than three or four times since she heard about us.”

Mad Sal was due to call. Littell pushed his breakfast aside-he had absolutely no appetite.

“I’ve spoken to her exactly twice. Sometimes I think it’s a pure tradeoff-I gained a girlfriend and lost a daughter.”

“You don’t seem too bothered by the loss.”

“Susan feeds on resentment. She’s like her mother that way.”

“Claire told me Kemper’s having an affair with some rich New York City woman, but she won’t divulge details.”

Laura Hughes was one-half Kennedy. Kemper’s Kennedy incursion was now a two-front campaign.

“Ward, you’re very remote this morning.”

“It’s work. It preoccupies me.”

“I’m not so sure.”

It was almost 9:00-7:00 a.m. Gardena time. Sal was an inveterate early-bird gambler.

Helen waved her napkin at him. “Yoo-hoo, Ward! Are you listening to-?”

“What are you saying? What do you mean, ‘I’m not so sure’?”

“I mean your Red Squad work bores and vexes you. You always describe it with contempt, but for months you’ve been engrossed in it.”

“And?”

“And you’ve been having nightmares and mumbling in Latin in your sleep.”

“And?”

“And you’re starting to hide out from me when we’re in the same room. You’re starting to act like you’re forty-six and I’m twenty-one, and there’s things you can’t tell me, because I just wouldn’t understand.”

Littell took her hands. Helen pulled them away and knocked a napkin holder off the table.

“Kemper tells Claire everything. I would think that you’d try to emulate him that way.”

“Kemper is Claire’s father. I’m not yours.”

Helen stood up and grabbed her purse. “I’ll think about that on my way home.”

“What happened to your 9:30 class?”

“It’s Saturday, Ward. You’re so ‘preoccupied’ that you don’t know what day it is.”

o o o

Sal called at 9:35. He sounded agitated.

Littell made nice to calm him down. Sal enjoyed sweet talk.

“How’s the tour going?”

“A junket’s a junket. Gardena’s good ‘cause it’s close to L.A., but fuckin’ Jewboy Lenny keeps taking off to dig up shit for Hush-Hush and keeps showing up late for his gigs. You think I should slice him like I did that guy who-”

“Don’t confess over the phone, Sal.”

“Forgive me, Father, for I have sinned.”

“Stop it. You know what I’m interested in, so if you have anything, tell me.”

“Okay, okay. I was in Vegas and heard Heshie Ryskind talking. Hesh said the boys are worried on the Cuban front. He said the Outfit paid the Beard a shitload of money in exchange for his word the fuckin’ casinos could keep operating if he took over the fuckin’ country. But now he’s gone Commie and fuckin’ nationalized the casinos. Hesh said the Beard’s got Santo T. in jail in Havana. The boys don’t like the Beard so much these days. Hesh said the Beard’s like the low man in a Mongolian cluster fuck. You know, sooner or later he’ll get really fucked.”

Littell said, “And?”

“And before I left Chicago I talked on the phone to Jack Ruby. Jack had a case of the shorts, so I lent him a wad to unload this one strip club and buy himself another one, the Carousel or something. Jack’s always good on the payback, ‘cause he sharks on the side himself down in Dallas, and-”

“Sal, you’re building up to something. Tell me what it is.”

“Whoa whoa whoa-I thought cops liked that corroboration stuff.”

“Sal-”

“Whoa, listen now. Jack corroborated what Heshie said. He said he’d talked to Carlos Marcello and Johnny Rosselli, and they both said the Beard is costing the Outfit seventy-five thousand a day in bank interest on top of their daily fucking casino profit nut. Think about it, Padre. Think of what the Church could do with seventy-five grand a day.”

Littell sighed. “Cuba doesn’t interest me. Did Ruby give you anything on the Pension Fund?”

Mad Sal said, “Weeeeel…”

“Sal, goddamnit-”

“Naughty, naughty, Padre. Now say ten Hail Marys and check this. Jack told me he forwarded this Texas oil guy straight to Sam G. for a Pension Fund loan, like maybe a year ago. Now this is a class-A tip, and I deserve a reward for it, and I need some fuckin’ money to cover bets with, because bookies and shylocks with no bankroll get hurt and can’t snitch to candy-ass Fed cocksuckers like you.”

Ruby’s THP designation: bagman/small-time loan shark.

“Padre Padre Padre. Forgive me because I have bet. Forgive me because-”

“I’ll try to get you some money, Sal. if I can find a borrower for you to introduce to Giancana. I’m talking about a direct referral, from you to Sam.”

“Padre… Jesus.”

“Sal…”

“Padre, you’re fucking me so hard it hurts.”

“I saved your life, Sal. And this is the only way you’ll ever get another dime out of me.”

“Okay okay okay. Forgive me, Father, for I have taken it up the dirt road from this ex-seminarian Fed who-”

Littell hung up.

o o o

The squadroom was weekend quiet. The agent manning the phone lines ignored him.

Littell cadged the teletype machine and queried the Dallas office.

The reply would take at least ten minutes. He called Midway for flight information-and hit lucky.

A Pan-Am connector departed for Dallas at noon. A return flight would have him home shortly after midnight.

The kickback rolled off the wire: Jacob Rubenstein/AKA Jack Ruby, DOB 3/25/11.

The man had three extortion arrests and no convictions: in ‘47, ‘49 and ‘53.

The man was a suspected pimp and Dallas PD informant.

The man was the subject of a 1956 ASPCA investigation. The man was strongly suspected of sexually molesting dogs. The man was known to occasionally shylock to businessmen and desperate oil wildcatters.

Littell ripped up the teletype. Jack Ruby was worth the trip.

o o o

Airplane hum and three scotches lulled him to sleep. Mad Sal’s confessions merged like a Hit Parade medley.

Sal makes the Negro boy beg. Sal feeds the bet welcher Drano. Sal decapitates two kids who wolf-whistle at a nun.

He’d verified those deaths. All four stood “Unsolved.” All four victims were rectal-raped postmortem.

Littell woke up sweaty. The stewardess handed him a drink unsolicited.

o o o

The Carousel Club was a striptease-row dive. The sign out front featured zaftig girls in bikinis.

Another sign said, Open 6:00 P.M.

Littell parked behind the building and waited. His rental car reeked of recent sex and hair pomade.

A few cops cruised by. One man waved. Litteli caught on: They think you’re a brother cop with your hand in Jack’s pocket.

Ruby drove up at 5:15, alone.

He was a dog fucker and a pimp. This would have to be ugly.

Ruby got out and unlocked the back door. Littell ran up and intercepted him.

He said, “FBI. Let’s see your hands.” He said it in the classic Kemper Boyd style.

Ruby looked skeptical. He was wearing a ridiculous porkpie hat.

Littell said, “Empty your pockets.” Ruby obeyed him. A cash roll, dog biscuits, and a.38 snub-nose hit the ground.

Ruby spat on them. “I know out-of-town shakedowns on an intimate level. I know how to deal with cops in cheap blue suits with liquor breath. Now take what you want and leave me the fuck alone.”

Littell picked up a dog biscuit. “Eat it, Jack.”

Ruby got up on his toes-some kind of lighter-weight boxer’s stance. Littell flashed his gun and handcuffs.

“I want you to eat that dog biscuit.”

“Now look…”

“‘Now look, sir.’”

“Now look, sir, who the fuck do you-?”

Littell jammed the biscuit in his mouth. Ruby chewed on it to keep from gagging.

“I’m going to make demands of you, Jack. If you don’t comply, the IRS will audit you, Federal agents will pat-search your customers every night and the Dallas Morning News will expose your sexual bent for dogs.”

Ruby chewed. Ruby sprayed crumbs. Littell kicked his legs out from under him.

Ruby went down on his knees. Littell kicked the door open and kicked him inside.

Ruby tried to stand up. Littell kicked him back down. The room was ten-by-ten and littered with piles of sthptease gowns.

Littell kicked a pile in Ruby’s face. Littell dropped a fresh dog biscuit in his lap.

Ruby put it in his mouth. Ruby made horrible choking sounds.

Littell said, “Answer this question. Have you ever referred borrowers to higher-end loan sharks than yourself?”

Ruby nodded-yes yes yes yes yes.

“Sal D’Onofrio lent you the money to buy this place. Nod if that’s true.”

Ruby nodded. His feet were snagged up in soiled brassieres.

“Sal kills people routinely. Did you know that?”

Ruby nodded. Dogs started barking one room over.

“He tortures people, Jack. He enjoys inflicting pain.”

Ruby thrashed his head. His cheeks bulged like that dead boy on the morgue slab.

“Sal burned a man to death with a blowtorch. The man’s wife came home unexpectedly. Sal shoved a gasoline-soaked rag in her mouth and ignited it. He said she died shooting flames like a dragon.”

Ruby pissed in his pants. Littell saw the lap stain spread.

“Sal wants you to know a few things. One, your debt to him is erased. Two, if you don’t cooperate with me or you rat me to the Outfit or any of your cop friends, he’ll come to Dallas and rape you and kill you. Do you understand?”

Ruby nodded-yes yes yes. Biscuit crumbs shot out of his nostrils.

Kemper Boyd always said DON’T FALTER.

“You’re not to contact Sal. You’re not to know my name. You’re not to tell anyone about this. You’re to contact me every Tuesday at 11:00 a.m. at a pay phone in Chicago. I’ll call you and give you the number. Do you understand?”

Ruby nodded-yes yes yes yes yes yes. The dogs keened and clawed at a door just a few feet in front of him.

“I want you to find a high-end borrower for Sal. Somebody Sal can send up to Giancana and the Pension Fund. Nod if you agree to do it, and nod twice if you understand the whole situation.”

Ruby nodded three times.

Littell walked out.

The dog noise went cacophonous.

o o o

His return flight landed at midnight. He drove home, keyed up and exhausted.

Helen’s car was parked out front. She’d be up; she’d be earnest; she’d be eager to reconcile.

Littell drove to a liquor store and bought a half-pint A wino panhandled him. He gave him a dollar-the poor shit looked sort of like Jack Ruby.

It was 1:00 a.m. Sunday morning. Court Meade might be working the listening post.

He called. No one answered. Some THP man was ditching his shift.

Kemper urged him to avoid the post Kemper might not consider one last visit too risky.

Littell drove over and let himself in. The bug transmitter was unplugged, the room was freshly cleaned and tidied up. A note taped to the main console box explained why.

Memo:

Celano’s Tailor Shop is undergoing fumigation 5/17-5/20/59. All on-premises shifts will be suspended during that time.

Littell cracked his bottle. A few drinks revitalized him and sent his thoughts scattergunning out in a million directions.

Some brain wires crackled and crossed.

Sal needed money. Court Meade was talking up a dice-game heist Mr. Hoover said to let the matter rest.

Littell checked the bug transcript logs. He found a colloquy on the job, filed by SA Russ Davis last month.

4/18/59. 2200 hrs. Alone at tailor shop: Rocco Malvaso amp; Dewey “The Duck” Di Pasquale. What sounded like drinking toasts was obscured by jackhammer and general construction noise outside on Michigan Ave. Two minutes passed while both men apparently used the bathroom. Then this conversation occurred.

Malvaso: Te salud, Duck.

Di Pasquale: Quack, quack. The nice thing is, you know, they can’t report it.

Malvaso: The Kenilworth cops would shit. That is the squarejohn town to end all squarejohn towns. The last time two handsome big dick guys like us took down eighty grand in a crap game there was the twelfth of fucking never.

Di Pasquale: Quack, quack. I say they’re independent guys who had it coming. I say if you’re not mobbed-up with Momo you’re duck shit. Hey, we wore masks and disguised our voices. To boot, those Indy cocksuckers don’t know we’re connected. I felt like Super Duck. I’m thinking I should get a Super Duck costume and wear it the next time I take my kids to Disneyland.

Malvaso: Quack, fucking quack, you web-footed cocksucker. You had to shoot your gun off, though. Like no fucking getaway is fucking complete without some duck-billed cocksucker shooting off his gun.

(Note: the Kemlworth Police report unexplained shots fired on the 2600 block of Westmoreland Ave., 2340 hrs., 4/16/59).

Di Pasquale: Hey, quack, quack. It worked. We’ve got it stashed nice and safe and

Malvaso: And too fucking public for my taste.

Di Pasquale: Quack, quack. Sixty days ain’t too long to wait for the split Donald’s been waiting fucking twenty years to bang Daisy, ‘cause Walt Disney won’t let him. Hey, remember last year? Jewboy Lenny did my birthday party? He did that routine where Daisy’s sucking Donald off with her beak, what a fucking roar.

Malvaso: Quack, quack, you cocksucker.

(Note: construction noise obscured the rest of this conversation. Door slam sounds at 2310 hrs.)

Littell checked the THP ID file. Malvaso and Di Pasquale lived in Evanston.

He played the 4/18/59 tape and compared it to the typed transcript. Russ Davis forgot to include departing shtick.

The Duck hummed “Chattanooga Choo Choo.”

Malvaso sang, “I got the key to your heart.”

o o o

“Too public,” “key” and “choo choo.” Two suburban-situated robbers waiting sixty days for their split.

There were forty-odd suburban train stations linked to Chicago.

With forty-odd waiting rooms lined with storage lockers.

The lockers were rented by the month. For cash only, with no records kept, with no-name receipts issued.

Two robbers. Two separate key locks per locker door.

The locks were changed every ninety days-per Illinois TA law.

Thousands of lockers. Unmarked keys. Sixty days until the split-with thirty-three already elapsed.

The lockers were steel-plated. The waiting rooms were guarded 24 hours.

Littell spent two full days thinking it through. It came down to this:

He could tail them. But when they picked up the money, he’d be helpless.

He could only tail them one at a time. It came down to this: pre-existing bad odds doubled against him.

He decided to try anyway. He decided to pad his Red Squad reports and tail the men on alternate days for one week.

Day one: He tails Rocco Malvaso from 8:00 a.m. to midnight. Rocco drives to his numbers dens, his union shops and his girlfriend’s place in Glencoe.

Rocco goes nowhere near a train station.

Day two: He tails Dewey the Duck from 8:00 a.m. to midnight. Dewey drives to numerous prostitution collections.

Dewey goes nowhere near a train station.

Day three: He tails Rocco Malvaso from 8:00 a.m. to midnight. Rocco drives to Milwaukee and pistol-whips recalcitrant pimps.

Rocco goes nowhere near a train station.

Day four: He tails Dewey the Duck from 8:00 a.m. to midnight Dewey entertains at Dewey Junior’s outdoor birthday party, dressed up as Donald Duck.

Dewey goes nowhere near a train station.

Day five: He tails Rocco Malvaso from 8:00 a.m. to midnight. Rocco spends said time with a call girl at the Blackhawk Hotel in Chicago.

Rocco goes nowhere near a train station.

Day six, 8:00 a.m.: He picks up his tail on Dewey the Duck. 9:40 a.m.: Dewey’s car won’t start. Mrs. Duck drives Dewey to the Evanston train station.

Dewey loiters in the waiting room.

Dewey eyes the lockers.

Locker #19 is affixed with a Donald Duck decal.

Littell almost swoons.

Nights six, seven and eight: He stakes out the station. He learns that the watchman leaves for his coffee break at 3:10 a.m.

The man walks down the street to an all-night diner. The waiting room is left unguarded for at least eighteen minutes.

Night nine: He hits the station. He’s armed with a crowbar, tin snips, a mallet and a chisel. He snaps the door off locker 19 and steals the four grocery bags full of money inside.

It totals $81,492.

He now has an informant fund. The bills are old and well circulated.

He gives Mad Sal ten thousand dollars for starters.

He finds the Jack Ruby look-alike wino and gives him five hundred.

The Cook County Morgue supplies him with a name. Icepick Tony Iannone’s lover was one Bruce William Sifakis. He sends the boy’s parents ten thousand dollars anonymously.

He drops five thousand in the poor box at Saint Anatole’s and stays to pray.

He asks forgiveness for his hubris. He tells God that he has gained his selffiood at great cost to other people. He tells God that he loves danger now, and it thrills him much more than it frightens him.