American tabloid

January 1959-January 1961
12

Unidentified Male #1: “Beard, schmeard. All I know is Mo’s real fuckin’ nervous.”

Unidentified Male #2: “The Outfit’s always covered its bets Cuba-wise. Santo T. is Batista’s best fuckin’ friend. I talked to Mo maybe an hour ago. He goes out for the paper and comes back to watch the fuckin’ Rose Bowl on TV. The paper says Happy fuckin’ New Year, Castro has just taken over Cuba and who knows if he’s pro-U.S., pro-Russian or pro-Man-from-Mars.”

Littell tilted his seat back and adjusted his headphones. It was 4:00 p.m. and snowing-but the Celano’s Tailor Shop talkfest talked on.

He was alone at the THP bug post. He was violating Bureau rugs and Mr. Hoover’s direct orders.

Man #1: “Santo and Sam got to be sweating the casinos down there. The gross profit’s supposed to run half a million a day.”

Man #2: “Mo told me Santo called him right before the kickoff. The crazy fuckin’ Cubans down in Miami are pitching a fit. Mo’s got a piece of that cabstand, you know the one?”

Man #1: “Yeah, the Tiger Kabs. I went down there for the Teamster convention last year and rode in one of those cabs, and I was picking orange and black fuzz out of my ass for the next six fuckin’ months.”

Man #2: “Half those Cuban humps are pro-Beard, and half of them are pro-Batista. Santo told Sam it’s nuts at the stand, like niggers when their welfare checks don’t arrive.”

Laughter hit the feed box-static-laced and overamplified. Littell unhooked his headset and stretched.

He had two hours left on his shift. He’d gleaned no salient intelligence so far: Cuban politics didn’t interest him. He’d logged in ten days of covert listening-and accrued no hard evidence.

He cut a deal with SA Court Meade-a surreptitious work trade. Meade’s mistress lived in Rogers Park; some Commie cell leaders lived nearby. They worked out an agreement: I take your job, you take mine.

They spent cosmetic time working their real assignments and flip-flopped all report writing. Meade chased Reds and an insurance-rich widow. He listened to hoodlums colloquialize.

Court was lazy and pension-secure. Court had twenty-seven years with the Bureau.

He was careful. He hoarded insider knowledge of Kemper Boyd’s Kennedy incursion. He filed detailed Red Squad reports and forged Meade’s signature on all THP memoranda.

He always watched the street for approaching agents. He always entered and exited the bug post surreptitiously.

The plan would work-for a while. The lackluster bug talk was vexing-he needed to recruit an informant.

He’d tailed Lenny Sands for ten consecutive nights. Sands did not habituate homosexual meeting spots. His sexual bent might not prove exploitable-Sands might belittle the threat of exposure.

Snow swirled up Michigan Avenue. Littell studied his one wallet photo.

It was a laminated snapshot of Helen. Her hairdo made her burn scars stand out.

The first time he kissed her scars she wept. Kemper called her “the Mack Truck Girl.” He gave her a Mack truck bulldog hood hanger for Christmas.

Claire Boyd told Susan they were lovers. Susan said, “When the shock wears off, I’ll tell Dad what I think.”

She still hadn’t called him.

Littell put on his headset. He heard the tailor shop door slam.

Unknown Man #1: “Sal, Sal D. Sal, do you believe this weather? Don’t you wish you were down in Havana shooting dice with the Beard?”

“Sal D.”: most likely Mario Salvatore D’Onofrio, AKA “Mad Sal.” Key THP stats:

Independent bookmaker/loan shark. One manslaughter conviction in 1951. Labeled “a psychopathically-derived criminal sadist with uncontrollable psycho-sexual urges to inflict pain.”

Unknown Man #2: “Che se dice, Salvatore? Tell us what’s new and unusual.”

Sal D.: “The news is I lost a bundle on the Colts over the Giants, and I had to tap Sam for a fucking loan.”

Unknown Man #1: “You still got the church thing, Sal? Where you take the paisan groups out to Tahoe and Vegas?”

Static hit the line. Littell slapped the feed box and cleared the air flow.

Sal D.: “…and Gardena and L.A. We catch Sinatra and Dino, and the casinos set us up in these private slot rooms and kick back a percentage. It’s what you call a junket-you know, entertainment and gambling and shit. Hey, Lou, you know Lenny the Jew?”

Lou/Man #1: “Yeah, Sands. Lenny Sands.”

Man #2: “Jewboy Lenny. Sam G.’s fuckin’ court jester.”

Squelch noise drowned out the incoming voices. Littell slapped the console and untangled some feeder conis.

Sal D.: “…So I said, ‘Lenny, I need a guy to travel with me. I need a guy to keep my junketeers lubed up and laughing, so they’ll lose more money and juke up my kickbacks.’ He said, ‘Sal, I don’t audition, but catch me at the North Side Elks on January 1st. I’m doing a Teamster smoker, and if you don’t dig-’”

The heat needle started twitching. Littell hit the kill switch and felt the feed box go cool to the touch.

The D’Onofrio/Sands connection was interesting.

He checked Sal D.’s on-post file. The agent’s summary read horrific.

D’Onofrio lives in a South Side Italian enclave surrounded by Negro-inhabited housing projects. The majority of his bettors and loan customers live within that enclave and D’ Onofrio makes his collection rounds on foot, rarely missing a day. D’Onoflio considers himself to be a guiding light within his community, and the Cook County Sheriff’s Gangster Squad believes that he plays the role of “protector”-i.e., protecting Italian-Americans against Negro criminal elements, and that this role and his strongarrn collection and intimidation tactics have helped to insure his long bookmaker/loan shark reign. It should also be noted that D’Onofrio was a suspect in the unsolved 12/19/57 torture-murder of Maurice Theodore Wilkins, a Negro youth suspected of burglarizing a church rectory in his neighborhood.

A mug shot was clipped to the folder. Mad Sal was cyst-scarred and gargoyle ugly.

o o o

Littell drove to the South Side and circled D’Onofrio’s loan turf. He spotted him on 59th and Prairie.

The man was walking. Littell ditched his car and foot-tailed him from thirty yards back.

Mad Sal entered apartment buildings and exited counting money. Mad Sal tabulated transactions in a prayer book. Mad Sal picked his nose compulsively and wore low-top tennis shoes in a blizzard.

Littell stuck close behind him. Wind claps covered his footsteps.

Mad Sal peeped in windows. Mad Sal took a beat cop’s money: $5 on the Moore/Durelle rematch.

The streets were near-deserted. The tail felt like a sustained hallucination.

A deli clerk tried to stiff Mad Sal. Mad Sal plugged in a portable stapler and riveted his hands to the counter.

Mad Sal entered a church rectory. Littell stopped at the pay phone outside and called Helen.

She picked up on the second ring, “Hello?”

“It’s me, Helen.”

“What’s that noise?”

“It’s the wind. I’m calling from a phone booth.”

“You’re outside in this?”

“Yes. Are you studying?”

“I’m studying torts and welcoming this distraction. Susan called, by the way.”

“Oh, shit. And?”

“And she said I’m of age, and you’re free, white and forty-five. She said, ‘I’m going to wait and see if you two last before I tell my mother.’ Ward, are you coming over tonight?”

Mad Sal walked out and slipped on the rectory steps. A priest helped him up and waved goodbye.

Littell took his gloves off and blew on his hands. “I’ll be by late. There’s a lounge act I have to catch.”

“You’re being cryptic. You act like Mr. Hoover’s looking over your shoulder every second. Kemper tells his daughter everything about his work.”

Littell laughed. “I want you to analyze the Freudian slip you just made.”

Helen whooped. “Oh, God, you’re right!”

A Negro boy walked by. Mad Sal bolted after him.

Littell said, “I have to go.”

“Come by later.”

“I will.”

Mad Sal chased the kid. Snowdrifts and low-cut sneakers slowed him down.

o o o

The Elks Hall steps were jammed. Non-Teamster admittance looked dicey: goons were running an ID checkpoint at the door.

Men filed in with bottle bags and six-packs. They had union badges pinned to their topcoats-about the same size as Bureau shields.

A fresh swarm hit the steps. Littell held up his FBI badge and pushed to the middle. The stampede jostled him inside.

A blonde in G-string and pasties ran the coat-check concession. The foyer walls were lined with bootleg slot machines. Every pull hit a jackpot-Teamsters scooped up coins and yelled.

Littell pocketed his badge. The crowd whooshed him into a big rec hail.

Card tables faced a raised bandstand. Every table was set up with whisky bottles, paper cups and ice.

Strippers dispensed cigars. Tips bought unlimited fondling.

Littell grabbed a ringside seat. A redhead dodged hands, naked-cash wads had popped her G-string.

The lights went down. A baby spot hit the bandstand. Littell built a quick scotch-on-the-rocks.

Three other men sat at his table. Total strangers pounded his back.

Lenny Sands walked on stage, twirling a mike cord a la Sinatra. Lenny mimicked Sinatra-straight down to his spitcurl and voice:

“Fly me to the moon in my souped-up Teamster rig! I’ll put skidmarks on management’s ass, ‘cause my union contract’s big! In other words, Teamsters are kings!!”

The audience hooted and yelled. A man grabbed a stripper and forced her into some dirty-dog dance steps.

Lenny Sands bowed. “Thank you thank you thank you! And ring-a-ding, men of the Northern Illinois Council of the International Brotherhood of Teamsters!”

The crowd applauded. A stripper brought ice refills by-Littell caught a breast in the face.

Lenny said, “It sure is hot up here!”

The stripper hopped on stage and dropped ice cubes down his pants. The audience howled; the man beside Littell squealed and spat bourbon.

Lenny made ecstatic faces. Lenny shook his trouser legs until the ice dropped out.

The crowd wolf-whistled and shrieked and thumped their tables-

The stripper ducked behind a curtain. Lenny put on a Boston accent-Bobby Kennedy’s voice pushed into soprano range.

“Now you listen to me, Mr. Hoffa! You quit associating with those nasty gangsters and nasty truck drivers and snitch off all your friends or I’ll tell my daddy on you!”

The room rocked. The room rolled. Foot stomps had the floor shaking.

“Mr. Hoffa, you’re a no-goodnik and a nasty man! You quit trying to unionize my six children or I’ll tell my daddy and my big brother Jack on you! You be nice or I’ll tell my daddy to buy your union and make all your nasty truck drivers servants at our family compound in Hyannis Port!”

The room roared. Littell felt queasy-hot and lightheaded.

Lenny minced. Lenny preened. Lenny DID Robert F. Kennedy, faggot crusader.

“Mr. Hoffa, you stop that nasty forced bargaining this instant!”

“Mr. Hoffa, stop yelling, you’re wilting my hairdo!”

“Mr. Hoffa, be NIIICE!”

Lenny squeezed the room dry. Lenny wrung it out from the basement to the roof.

“Mr. Hoffa, you’re just SOOOOO butch!”

“Mr. Hoffa, quit scratching-you’ll ruin my nylons!”

“Mr. Hoffa, your Teamsters are just TOOOOO sexy! They’ve got the McClellan Committee and me in such a TIZZY!”

Lenny kept it cranking. Littell caught something three drinks in: he never ridiculed John Kennedy. Kemper called it the Bobby! Jack dichotomy: if you liked one man, you disliked the other.

“Mr. Hoffa, stop confusing me with facts!”

“Mr. Hoffa, stop berating me, or I won’t share my hairdressing secrets with your wife!”

The Elks Hall broiled. Open windows laced in freezing air. The drink ice ran out-strippers filled bowls with fresh snow.

Mob men table-hopped. Littell spotted file-photo faces.

Sam “Mo”/”Momo”/”Mooney” Giancana. Icepick Tony Iannone, Chi-Mob underboss. Donkey Dan Versace, Fat Bob Paolucci, Mad Sal D’Onofrio himself.

Lenny wrapped it up. The strippers shimmied on stage and took bows.

“So fly me to the stars, union paycheck fat! Jimmy Hoffa is our tiger now-Bobby’s just a scrawny rat! In other words, Teamsters are kings!!!!”

Table thumps, claps, cheers, yells, whistles, howls-

Littell ran out a back exit and sucked air in. His sweat froze; his legs fluttered; his scotch dinner stayed down.

He checked the door. A conga line snaked through the rec hall-strippers and Teamsters linked up hands-to-hips. Mad Sal joined them-his tennis shoes squished and leaked snow.

Littell caught his breath and slow-walked around to the parking lot. Lenny Sands was cooling off by his car, scooping ice packs from a snow drift.

Mad Sal walked up and hugged him. Lenny made a face and pulled free.

Littell crouched behind a limousine. Their voices carried his way.

“Lenny, what can I say? You were stupendous.”

“Insider crowds are easy, Sal. You just gotta know what switches to flip.”

“Lenny, a crowd’s a crowd. These Teamsters are working Joes, just like my junket guys. You.lay off the politics and pour on the Italian stuff. I fuckin’ guarantee, every time you lay on the paisan stuff you’ll have a roomful of hyenas on your hands.”

“I don’t know, Sal. I might have a Vegas gig coming up.”

“I am fuckin’ begging you, Lenny. And my fuckin’ junketeers are well known as the biggest casino losers in fuckin’ captivity. Va-va-voom, Lenny. The more they lose, the more we make.”

“I don’t know, Sal. I might have a chance to open for Tony Bennett at the Dunes.”

“Lenny, I am begging. On all fours like a fuckin’ dog I am begging.”

Lenny laughed. “Before you start barking, go to fifteen percent.”

“Fifteen? fuck… You Jew me up, you fuckin’ Jew hump.”

“Twenty percent, then. I only associate with Jew haters for a price.”

“Fuck you, Lenny. You said fifteen.”

“Fuck you, Sal. I changed my mind.”

Silence stretched-Littell visualized a long staredown.

“Okay okay okay. Okay for fuckin’ twenty, you fuckin’ Jew bandit.”

“Sal, I like you. Just don’t shake my hand, you’re too greasy to touch.”

Car doors slammed. Littell saw Mad Sal snag his Caddy and slalom out to the street.

Lenny turned on his headlights and idled the engine. Cigarette smoke blew out the driver’s-side window.

Littell walked to his car. Lenny was parked two rows over- he’d spot his departure.

Lenny just sat there. Drunks careened in front of his beams and took pratfalls on ice.

Littell wiped ice off his windshield. The car sat in snow up to its bumpers.

Lenny pulled out. Littell cut him a full minute’s slack and followed his tracks in the slush.

They led straight to Lake Shore Drive northbound. Littell caught up with him just short of the ramp.

Lenny swung on. Littell stayed four car lengths behind him.

It was a crawl tail-tire chains on crusted blacktop-two cars and one deserted expressway.

Lenny passed the Gold Coast off-ramps. Littell dawdled back and fixed on his taillights.

They crawled past Chicago proper. They crawled past Glencoe, Evanston and Wilmette.

Signs marked the Winnetka town limits. Lenny spun right and pulled off the highway at the very last second.

There was no way to follow him-he’d spin out or clip a guardrail.

Littell took the next off-ramp down. Winnetka was 1:00 a.m. quiet and beautiful-all Tudor mansions and freshly plowed streets.

He grid-cruised and hit a business thoroughfare. A stretch of cars were parked outside a cocktail lounge: Perry’s Little Log Cabin.

Lenny’s Packard Caribbean was nosed up to the curb.

Littell parked and walked in. A ceiling banner brushed his face: “Welcome 1959!” in silver spangles.

The place was cold-weather cozy. The decor was rustic: mocktimber walls, hardwood bar, Naugahyde lounging sofas.

The clientele was all male. The bar was standing room only. Two men sat on a lounge sofa, fondling-Littell looked away.

He stared straight ahead. He felt eyes strafe him. He spotted phone booths near the rear exit-enclosed and safe.

He walked back. Nobody approached him. His holster rig had rubbed his shoulders raw-he’d spent the whole night sweating and fidgeting.

He sat down in the first booth. He cracked the door and caught a full view of the bar.

There’s Lenny, drinking Pernod. There’s Lenny and a blond man rubbing legs.

Littell watched them. The blond man slipped Lenny a note and waltzed off. A Platters medley hit the jukebox.

The room thinned out a few couples at a time. The sofa couple stood up, unzipped. The bartender announced last call.

Lenny ordered Cointreau. The front door opened. Icepick Tony Iannone walked in.

“One of Giancana’s most feared underbosses” started Frenchkissing the barman. The Chicago Mob killer suspected of nine mutilation murders was sucking and biting on the barman’s ear.

Littell went dizzy. Littell went dry-mouthed. Littell felt his pulse go crazy.

Tony/Lenny/Lenny/Tony-who knows who’s QUEER?

Tony saw Lenny. Lenny saw Tony. Lenny ran out the rear exit.

Tony chased Lenny. Littell froze. The phone booth went airless and sucked all the breath out of him.

He got the door open. He stumbled outside. Cold air slammed him.

An alley ran behind the bar. He heard noise down and left, by the back of the adjoining building.

Tony had Lenny pinned down on a snowdrift. Lenny was biting and kicking and gouging.

Tony pulled out two switchblades. Littell pulled his gun, fumbled it and dropped it. His warning scream choked out mute.

Lenny kneed Tony. Tony pitched sideways. Lenny bit his nose off.

Littell slid on ice and fell. Soft-packed snow muffled the sound. Fifteen yards between him and them-they couldn’t see him or hear him.

Tony tried to scream. Lenny spat his nose out and jammed snow in his mouth. Tony dropped his knives; Lenny grabbed them.

They couldn’t see him. He slid on his knees and crawled for his gun.

Tony pawed at the snow. Lenny stabbed him two-handed-in his eyes, in his cheeks, in his throat.

Littell crawled for his gun.

Lenny ran.

Tony died coughing up bloody snow.

Music drifted outside: a soft last-call ballad.

The exit door never opened. Jukebox noise covered the whole-

Littell crawled over to Tony. Littell picked the corpse clean: watch, wallet, key ring. Print-sustaining switchblades shoved in hilt-deep-yes, do it.

He pulled them free. He got his legs. He ran down the alley until his lungs gave out.