American tabloid

29

He rented a suite at the Adoiphus Hotel. His bedroom faced the south side of Commerce Street and Jack Ruby’s Carousel Club.

Kemper Boyd always said DON’T SCRIMP ON SURVEILLANCE LODGING.

Littell watched the door with binoculars. It was 4:00 p.m. now, with no Live Striptease Girls until 6:00.

He’d checked Chicago-to-Dallas flight reservations. Sid Kabikoff flew in to Big D yesterday. His itinerary included a rent-a-car pickup.

His final destination was McAllen, Texas-smack on the Mexican border.

He flew down to make a smut film. He told Mad Sal that he was shooting it with Jack Ruby strippers.

Littell called in some sick time. He coughed when he talked to SAC Leahy. He purchased his airplane ticket under a pseudonym-Kemper Boyd always said COVER YOUR TRACKS.

Kabikoff told Mad Sal that “real” Fund books existed. Kabikoff told Mad Sal that Jules Schiffrin kept them. Kabikoff told Mad Sal that Jules Schiffrin knew Joe Kennedy.

It had to be a benign business acquaintance. Joe Kennedy cut a wide business swath.

Littell watched the door. An eyestrain headache slammed him. A crowd formed outside the Carousel Club.

Three muscular young men and three cheap-looking women. Sid Kabikoff himself-fat and sweaty.

They said hellos and lit cigarettes. Kabikoff waved his hands, effusive.

Jack Ruby opened the door. A dachshund ran out and took a shit on the sidewalk. Ruby kicked turds into the gutter.

The crowd moved inside. Littell visualized a rear-entry reconnaissance.

The back door was hook-and-eye latched, with slack at the door-doorjamb juncture. A dressing room connected to the club proper.

He walked across the street and hooked around to the parking lot He saw one car only: a ‘56 Ford convertible with the top down.

The registration was strapped to the steering column. The owner was one Jefferson Davis Tippit.

Dogs yapped. Ruby should rename his dive the Carousel Kennel Club. Littell walked up to the door and popped the latch with his penknife.

It was dark. A crack of light cut through the dressing room.

He tiptoed up to the source. He smelled perfume and dog effluvia. The crack was a connecting door left ajar.

He heard overlapping voices. He made out Ruby, Kabikoff and a man with a deep Texas twang.

He squinted into the light. He saw Ruby, Kabikoff and a uniformed Dallas cop-standing by a striptease runway.

Littell craned his neck. His view expanded.

The runway was packed. He saw four girls and four boys, all buck naked.

Ruby said, “J.D., are they not gorgeous?”

The cop said, “I’m partial to women exclusively, but all in all I got to agree.”

The boys stroked erections. The girls oohed and aahed. Three dachshunds cavorted on the runway.

Kabikoff giggled. “Jack, you’re a better talent scout than Major Bowes and Ted Mack combined. 100%, Jack. I’m talking no rejections for these lovelies.”

J.D. said, “When do we meet?”

Kabikoff said, “Tomorrow afternoon, say 2:00. We’ll meet at the coffee shop at the Sagebrush Motel in McAllen, and drive across to the shoot from there. What an audition! All auditions should go so smooth!”

One boy had a tattooed penis. Two girls were knife-scarred and bruised. A dogfight erupted-Ruby yelled, “No, children, no!”

o o o

Littell ordered a room-service dinner: steak, Caesar salad and Glenlivet. It was a robbery-stash splurge-and more Kemper’s style than his.

Three drinks honed his instincts. A fourth made him certain. A nightcap made him call Mad Sal in L.A.

Sal pitched a tantrum: I need money, money, money.

Littell said, I’ll try to get you some.

Sal said, Try hard.

Littell said, It’s on. I want you to refer Kabikoff for a Fund loan. Call Giancana and set up a meeting. Call Sid in thirty-six hours and confirm it.

Sal gulped. Sal oozed fear. Littell said, I’ll try to get you some money.

Sal agreed to do it Littell hung up before he started begging again.

He didn’t tell Sal that his robbery stash was down to eight hundred dollars.

Littell left a 2:00 a.m. wake-up call. His prayers ran long- Bobby Kennedy had a large family.

o o o

The drive took eleven hours. He hit McAllen with sixteen minutes to spare.

South Texas was pure hot and humid. Littell pulled off the highway and inventoried his backseat.

He had one blank-paged scrapbook, twelve rolls of Scotch tape and a Polaroid Land Camera with a long-range Rolliflex zoom lens. He had forty rolls of color film, a ski mask and a contraband FBI flashing roof light

It was a complete mobile evidence kit.

Littell eased back into traffic. He spotted the Sagebrush Motel: a horseshoe-shaped bungalow court right on the main drag.

He pulled in and parked in front of the coffee shop. He put the car in neutral and idled with the air conditioner on.

J.D. Tippit pulled in at 2:06. His convertible was overloaded: six smut kids up front and camera gear bulging out of the trunk.

They entered the coffee shop. Littell snapped a zoom-lens shot to capture the moment

The camera whirred. A picture popped out and developed in his hand in less than a minute.

Amazing-

Kabikoff pulled up and beeped his horn. Littell snapped a shot of his rear license plate.

Tippit and the kids walked out with soft drinks. They divided up between the cars and headed out southbound.

Littell counted to twenty and followed them. Traffic was light-they drove surface streets for five minutes and hit the border crossing one-two-three.

A guard waved them through. Littell popped a location-setting snapshot: two cars en route to Federal violations.

Mexico was a dusty extension of Texas. They drove through a long string of tin-shack villages.

A car squeezed in behind Tippit. Littell used it for protective cover.

They drove up into scrub hills. Littell fixed on J.D.’s foxtailtipped antenna. The road was half dirt and half blacktop-gravel chunks snapped under his tires.

Kabikoff turned right at a sign: Domicilio de Estado Policfa. “State Police Barracks”-an easy translation.

Tippit followed Kabikoff. The road was all dirt-the cars sent dust clouds swirling. They fishtailed up a little rock-clustered mountain.

Littell stayed on the main road and kept going. He saw some tree cover fifty yards up the mountainside-a thick clump of scrub pines to shoot from.

He pulled over and parked off the road. He packed his gear into a duffel bag and covered his car with scrub branches and tumbleweeds.

Echoes bounced his way. The “shoot” was just over the top of the hill.

He followed the sounds. He lugged his gear up a 90-degree grade.

The crest looked down on a dirt-packed clearing. His vantage point was goddamn superb.

The “barracks” was a tin-roofed shack. State Police cars were parked beside it-Chevys and old Hudson Hornets.

Tippit was lugging film cans. Fat Sid was bribing Mexican cops. The smut kids were checking out some handcuffed women.

Littell crouched behind a bush and laid out his gear. His zoom lens brought him into close-up range.

He saw wide-open barracks windows and mattresses set up inside. He saw black shirts and annbands on the cops.

The cop cars had leopard-skin seat covers. The women wore prison ID bracelets.

The crowd dispersed. The blackshirts uncuffed the women. Kabikoff hauled equipment inside the barracks.

Littell went to work. The heat had him weaving on his knees. His zoom lens got him in very close.

He snapped pictures and watched them develop. He placed them in neat rows inside his duffel bag.

He snapped smut girls entwined on a mattress. He snapped Sid Kabikoff coercing lesbian action.

He snapped obscene insertions. He snapped dildo gang bangs. He snapped smut boys whipping Mexican women bloody.

The Polaroid cranked out instant closeups. Fat Sid was colorglossy indicted:

For Suborning Lewd Conduct. For Felony Assault. For Filming Pornography for Interstate Sales, in violation of nine Federal statutes.

Littell shot his way through forty rolls of film. Sweat soaked the ground all around him.

Sid Kabikoff was evidence-snapped:

White slaving. Violating the Mann Act. Serving as an accessory to kidnapping and sexual battery.

Snap!-a snack break-cops baking tortillas on a prowl-car roof.

Snap!-a prisoner tries to escape. Snap!/snap!/snap!-two cops catch her and rape her.

Littell walked back to his car. He started sobbing just over the border.

o o o

He taped the pictures into his scrapbook and calmed down with prayers and a half-pint He found a good spot to perch: the accessroad curb, a half-mile north of the border.

The road ran one way. It was the only route to the Interstate. It was nicely lit-you could almost read license plate numbers. Littell waited. Air-conditioner blasts kept him from dozing. Midnight came and went.

Cars drove by law-abidingly slow-the Border Patrol gave tickets all the way to McAllen.

Headlights swept by. Littell kept scanning rear plates. The airconditioner freeze was making him sick.

Kabikoff’s Cadillac passed-

Littell slid out behind him. He slapped the cherry light to his roof and pulled on his ski mask.

The light swirled bright red. Littell hit his high beams and tapped the horn.

Kabikoff pulled over. Littell boxed him in and walked up to his door.

Kabikoff screamed-the mask was bright red with white devil’s horns.

Littell remembered making threats.

Littell remembered his final pitch: YOU’RE GOING TO TALK TO GIANCANA WIRED UP.

He remembered a sire iron.

He remembered blood on the dashboard.

He remembered begging God PLEASE DON’T LET ME KILL HIM.