American tabloid

15

One jiggle snapped the lock. Littell pulled his pick out and closed the door behind him.

Passing headlights strafed the windows. The front room was small and filled with antiques and art deco gewgaws.

His eyes adjusted to the dark. There was good outside light-he didn’t need to risk turning lamps on.

Lenny Sands’ apartment was tidy and midwinter stuffy.

The Icepick Tony killing was five days old and unsolved. The TV and papers omitted one fact: that Iannone died outside a queer tryst spot. Court Meade said Giancana put the fix in: he didn’t want Tony slandered as a homo, and refused to believe it himself. Meade quoted some scary bug-post talk: “Sam’s got scouts out rousting known fruit rollers”; “Mo said Tony’s killer is gonna get castrated.”

Giancana couldn’t believe a self-evident fact Giancana thought Tony walked into Perry’s Little Log Cabin by mistake.

Littell got out his pen flash and Minox. Lenny’s recent schedule included Vendo-King pickups until midnight. It was 9:20 now-he had time to work.

Lenny’s address book was tucked under the living-room phone. Littell skimmed through it and noted auspicious names.

Eclectic Lenny knew Rock Hudson and Carlos Marcello. Hollywood Lenny knew Gail Russell and Johnnie Ray. Gangland Lenny knew Giancana, Butch Montrose and Rocco Malvaso.

One strange thing: His Mob address/numbers didn’t match the on-file THP listings.

Littell flipped pages. Odd names hit him.

Senator John Kennedy, Hyannis Port, Mass.; Spike Knode, 114 Gardenia, Mobile, Alabama; Laura Hughes, 881 5th Ave., New York City; Paul Bogaards, 1489 Fountain, Milwaukee.

He shot through the book alphabetically. He held the pen flash in his teeth and snapped one photograph per page. He notched thirty-two exposures up to the M’s.

His legs ached from squatting down to shoot The flash kept slipping out of his mouth.

He heard key/lock noise. He heard door rattles-NINETY MINUTES AHEAD OF SCHED-

Littell hugged the wall by the door. He replayed every judo move Kemper taught him.

Lenny Sands walked in. Littell grabbed him from behind and cupped his mouth shut Remember-”Jam one thumb to the suspect’s carotid and take him down supine.”

He did it Kemper-pure. Lenny went prone with no resistance. Littell pulled his muzzle hand free and kicked the door shut.

Lenny didn’t scream or yell. His face was jammed into a wad of scrunched-up carpet.

Littell eased off the carotid. Lenny coughed and retched.

Littell knelt beside him. Littell pulled out his revolver and cocked it.

“I’m with the Chicago FBI. I’ve got you for the Tony Iannone killing, and if you don’t work for me I’ll hand you up to Giancana and the Chicago PD. I’m not asking you to inform on your friends. What I’m interested in is the Teamsters’ Pension Fund.”

Lenny heaved for breath. Littell stood up and hit a wall switch-the room went bright with glare.

He saw a liquor tray by the couch. Cut-glass decanters full of scotch, bourbon and brandy.

Lenny pulled his knees up and hugged them. Littell tucked his gun in his waistband and pulled out a glassine bag.

It held two blood-crusted switchblades.

He showed them to Lenny. He said, “I dusted them for prints and got four latents that matched your DMV set.”

It was a bluff. All he got were smears.

“You’ve got no choice in this, Lenny. You know what Sam would do to you.”

Lenny broke a sweat. Littell poured him a scotch-the smell made him salivate.

Lenny sipped his drink two-handed. His tough-guy voice didn’t quite work.

“I know bubkes about the Fund. What I know is that connected guys and certain businessman types apply for these large-interest loans and get pushed up some kind of loan ladder.”

“To Sam Giancana?”

“That’s one theory.”

“Then elaborate on it.”

“The theory is that Giancana consults with Jimmy Hoffa on all the big-money loan applications. Then they get accepted or refused.”

“Are there alternative Pension Fund books? What I’m thinking of is coded books hiding secret assets.”

“I don’t know.”

Kemper Boyd always said COW YOUR INFORMANTS.

Lenny hauled himself into a chair. Schizophrenic Lenny knew that tough Jewboys don’t cringe on the floor.

Littell poured himself a double scotch. Lounge-Act Lenny said, “Make yourself at home.”

Littell tucked the switchblades in his pocket. “I checked your address book, and I noticed that your addresses don’t match the addresses that the Top Hoodlum Program has on file.”

“What addresses?”

“The addresses of members of the Chicago Crime Cartel.”

“Oh, those addresses.”

“Why don’t they match?”

Lenny said, “Because they’re fuck pads. They’re pads where guys go to cheat on their wives. I’ve got keys to some of the pads, because I drop off jukebox receipts to them. In fact, I was bagging receipts at that fucking queer bar when that fucking faggot Iannone came on to me.”

Littell downed his drink. “I saw you kill Iannone. I know why you were at Perry’s Little Log Cabin, and why you frequent Hernando’s Hideaway. I know you’ve got two lives and two voices and two sets of God knows what else. I know that Iannone went after you because he didn’t want you knowing that he did, too.”

Lenny SQUEEEZED his glass, two-handed. Thick-cut crystal snapped and shattered-

Whisky sprayed out. Blood mixed with it. Lenny did not yelp or flinch or move.

Littell tossed his glass on the couch. “I know you made a deal with Sal D’Onofrio.”

No response.

“I know you’re going to travel with his gambling junkets.”

No response.

“Sal’s a loan shark. Could he refer prospects up the Pension Fund ladder?”

No response.

Littell said, “Come on, talk to me. I’m not going to leave until I have what I came for.”

Lenny wiped blood off his hands. “I don’t know. Maybe, maybe not. As sharks go, Sal’s small fry.”

“What about Jack Ruby? He sharks part-time down in Dallas.”

“Jack’s a clown. He knows people, but he’s a clown.”

Littell lowered his voice. “Do the Chicago boys know you’re a homosexual?”

Lenny choked sobs back. Littell said, “Answer the question and admit what you are.”

Lenny shut his eyes and nodded, no no no.

“Then answer this question. Will you be my informant?”

Lenny shut his eyes and nodded, yes yes yes.

“The papers said Iannone was married.”

No response.

“Lenny…”

“Yes. He was married.”

“Did he have a fuck pad?”

“He must have.”

Littell buttoned up his overcoat. “I might do you a solid, Lenny.”

No response.

“I’ll be in touch. You know what I’m interested in, so get on it.”

Lenny ignored him. Lenny started picking glass out of his hands.

o o o

He took a key ring off Iannone’s body. It contained four keys on a fob marked “Di Giorgio’s Locksmith’s, 947 Hudnut Drive, Evanston.”

Two car keys and one assumed house key. The remaining key might be for a fuck-pad door.

Littell drove up to Evanston. He hit on some dumb late-night luck: the locksmith lived in back of his shop.

The unexpected FBI roust scared the man. He identified the keys as his work. He said he installed all of Iannone’s door locks-at two addresses.

2409 Kenilworth in Oak Park 84 Wolverton in Evanston.

Iannone lived in Oak Park-that fact made the papers. The Evanston address was a strong fuck-pad possibility.

The locksmith supplied easy-to-follow directions. Littell found the address in just a few minutes.

It was a garage apartment behind a Northwestern U frat house. The neighborhood was dark and dead quiet.

The key fit the door. Littell let himself in, gun first The place was uninhabited and musty.

He turned on the lights in both rooms. He tossed every cupboard, drawer, shelf, cubbyhole and crawl space. He found dildoes, whips, spiked dog collars, amyl nitrite ampules, twelve jars of K-Y Jelly, a bag of marijuana, a brass-studded motorcycle jacket, a sawed-off shotgun, nine rolls of Benzedrine, a Nazi armband, oil paintings depicting all-male sodomy and soixante-neuf and a snapshot of Icepick Tony Iannone and a college boy nude cheek-to-cheek.

Kemper Boyd always said PROTECT YOUR INFORMANTS.

Littell called Celano’s Tailor Shop. A man answered- “Yeah?”- unmistakably Butch Montrose.

Littell disguised his voice. “Don’t worry about Tony Iannone. He was a fucking faggot. Go-to 84 Wolverton in Evanston and see for yourself.”

“Hey, what are you say-?”

Littell hung up. He nailed the snapshot to the wall for the whole world to see.