by James Ellroy
“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.
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 & 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 Kenilworth 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.”
“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: preexisting 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 selfhood at great cost to other people. He tells God that he loves danger now, and it thrills him much more than it frightens him.
24
(Havana, 5/28/59)
The plane taxied in. Pete got out his passport and a fat roll of ten-spots.
The passport was Canadian, and CIA-forged.
Militiamen hit the runway. The Cuban fuzz tapped all the Key West flights for handouts.
Boyd called him two days ago. He said John Stanton and Guy Banister dug that old Big Pete panache. Boyd had just signed on with the Agency. He said he had a tailor-made Big Pete job, which might prove to be a CIA audition run.
He said, “You fly from Key West to Havana under a Canadian passport. You speak French-accented English. You find out
where Santo Trafficante is and take delivery of a note from him. The note should be addressed to Carlos Marcello, Johnny Rosselli and Sam Giancana, et al. It should state that Trafficante advises no Mob retaliation against Çastro for nationalizing the casinos. You’re also to locate a very frightened United Fruit executive named Thomas Gordean and bring him back with you for debriefing. This has to be accomplished very soon—Castro and Ike are set to permanently cancel all commercial flights running from the U.S. to Cuba.”
Pete said, “Why me?”
Boyd said, “Because you can handle yourself. Because the cabstand gave you a crash course in Cubans. Because you’re not a known Mob man that Castro’s secret police might have a file on.”
Pete said, “What’s the pay?”
Boyd said, “Five thousand dollars. And if you’re detained, the same diplomatic courier who’s trying to get Trafficante and some other Americans out will arrange for your release. It’s just a matter of time before Castro releases all foreign nationals.”
Pete wavered. Boyd said, “You’ll also receive my personal promise that Ward Littell—a very disturbed and dangerous man—will never touch you. In fact, I set you up with Lenny Sands to buffer the two of you.”
Pete laughed.
Boyd said, “If the Cuban cops roust you, tell the truth.”
The doors opened. Pete stuck a ten-dollar bill inside his passport. Militiamen climbed into the plane.
They wore mismatched gun belts and carried odd pistols. Their shirt-front regalia was straight out of some Kellogg’s Corn Flakes box.
Pete squeezed up toward the cockpit. Arc lights strafed the doorways and windows. He walked down the ramp ducking blinding goddamn glare.
A guard snatched his passport. The ten-spot disappeared. The guard bowed and handed him a beer.
The other passengers filed out. Militia geeks checked their passports for tips and came up empty.
The boss guard shook his head. His minions confiscated purses and wallets. A man protested and tried to hold on to his billfold.
The spics laid him out prone on the runway. They cut his trousers off with razor blades and picked his pockets clean.
The other passengers quit squawking. The boss guard rifled through their stuff.
Pete sipped beer. Some guards walked up with their hands out.
He greased them, one ten-spot per hand. He goofed on their uniforms: lots of frayed khaki and epaulets like the ushers at Grauman’s Chinese.
A little spic waved a camera. “You play futbol, hombre? Hey, big man, you play futbol?”
Somebody lobbed a football. Pete caught it one-handed. A flashbulb popped right upside his face.
Get the picture? They want you to pose.
He crouched low and waved the ball like Johnny Unitas. He went deep for a pass, blocked an invisible lineman and bounced the ball off his head like a nigger soccer ace he saw on TV once.
The spics clapped. The spics cheered. Flashbulbs pop-pop-popped.
Somebody yelled, “Hey, eees Robert Mitchum!” Peasant types ran out on the runway, waving autograph books. Pete ran for a taxi stand by the gate.
Little kids urged him on. Cab doors opened, presto chango. Pete dodged an oxcart and piled into an old Chevy. The driver said, “Joo are not Robert Mitchum.”
They cruised Havana. Animals and street riffraff clogged traffic. They never got above ten miles an hour.
It was 92 degrees at 10:00 p.m. Half the geeks out on the stroll wore fatigues and full Jesus Christ beards.
Dig those whitewashed Spanish-style buildings. Dig the posters on every facade: Fidel Castro smiling, Fidel Castro shouting, Fidel Castro waving a cigar.
Pete flashed the snapshot Boyd gave him. “Do you know this man?”
The driver said, “Sí. It is Mr. Santo Junior. He is in custody at the Nacional Hotel.”
“Why don’t you take me there.”
Pancho hung a U-turn. Pete saw hotel row up ahead—a line of harassed skyscrapers facing the beach.
Lights sparkled down on the water. A big stretch of glow lit the waves up turquoise blue.
The cab pulled up to the Nacional. Bellboys swooped down—clowns in threadbare tuxedos. Pete whipped a ten-spot on the driver—the fuck almost wept.
The bellboys stuck their hands out. Pete lubed them at the rate of ten scoots per. A cordon pushed him into the casino.
The joint was packed. Commies dug capitalisto-style gambling.
The croupiers wore shoulder holsters. Militia geeks ran the blackjack table. The clientele was 100% beaner.
Goats roamed free. Dogs splashed in a crap table filled with water. Dig the floorshow back by the slot machines: an Airedale and a Chihuahua fucking.
Pete grabbed a bellboy and yelled in his ear. “Santo Trafficante. You know him?”
Three hands appeared. Three tens went out. Somebody pushed him into an elevator.
Fidel Castro’s Cuba should be renamed Nigger Heaven.
The elevator zoomed up. A militiaman opened the door gun first.
Dollar bills dripped out of his pockets. Pete added a ten-spot. The gun disappeared, rápidamente.
“Did you wish to enter custody, señor? The fee is fifty dollars a day.”
“What does that include?”
“It includes a room with a television, gourmet food, gambling and women. You see, American passport holders are being temporarily detained here in Cuba, and Havana itself is momentarily unsafe. Why not enjoy your detention in luxury?”
Pete flashed his passport. “I’m Canadian.”
“Yes. And of French distraction, I can tell.”
Steam trays lined the hallway. Bellboys pushed cocktail carts by. A goat was taking a shit on the carpet two doors down.
Pete laughed. “Your guy Castro’s some innkeeper.”
“Yes. Even Mr. Santo Trafficante Jr. concedes that there are no four-star jails in America.”
“I’d like to see Mr. Trafficante.”
“Please follow me, then.”
Pete fell in step. Boozed-out gringo fat cats careened down the hallway. The guard pointed out custody high spots.
Suite 2314 featured stag films screened on a bedsheet. Suite 2319 featured roulette, craps and baccarat. Suite 2329 featured naked hookers on call. Suite 2333 featured a live lesbian peep show. Suite 2341 featured suckling pigs broiled on a spit. Suites 2350 through 2390 comprised a full-size golf driving range.
A spic caddy squeezed by them schlepping clubs. The guard clicked his heels outside 2394.
“Mr. Santo, you have a visitor!”
Santo Trafficante Jr. opened the door.
He was fortyish and pudgy. He wore nubby-silk Bermuda shorts and glasses.
The guard scooted off. Trafficante said, “The two things I hate most are Communists and chaos.”
“Mr. Trafficante, I’m—”
“I’ve got eyes. Four, in fact. You’re Pete Bondurant, who clips guys for Jimmy. Some six-foot-six gorilla knocks on my door and acts servile, I put two and two together.”
Pete walked into the room. Trafficante smiled.
“Did you come to bring me back?”
“No.”
“Jimmy sent you, right?”
“No.”
“Mo? Carlos? I’m so fucking bored I’m playing guessing games with a six-foot-six gorilla. Hey, what’s the difference between a gorilla and a nigger?”
Pete said, “Nothing?”
Trafficante sighed. “You heard it already, you hump. My father killed a guy once who spoiled one of his punch lines. Maybe you’ve heard of my father?”
“Santo Trafficante Senior?”
“Salud, Frenchman. Jesus, I’m so fucking bored I’m playing one-up with a gorilla.”
Pig grease spattered out a cooling vent. The pad was furnished modern-ugly—lots of fucked-up color combos.
Trafficante scratched his balls. “So who sent you?”
“A CIA man named Boyd.”
“The only CIA guy I know is a redneck
named Chuck Rogers.”
“I know Rogers.”
Trafficante shut the door. “I know you know him. I know the whole story of you and the cabstand, and you and Fulo and Rogers, and I know stories about you that I bet you wished I didn’t know. You know how I know? I know because everybody in this life of ours likes to talk. And the only fucking saving grace is that none of us talks to people outside the life.”
Pete looked out the window. The ocean glowed turquoise blue way past the buoy line.
“Boyd wants you to write a note to Carlos Marcello, Sam Giancana and Johnny Rosselli. The note’s supposed to say that you recommend no reprisals against Castro for nationalizing the casinos. I think the Agency’s afraid the Outfit will go off half-cocked and screw up their own Cuban plans.”
Trafficante grabbed a scratch pad and pen off the TV. He wrote fast and enunciated clearly.
“Dear Premier Castro, you Commie dog turd. Your revolution is a crock of Commie shit. We paid you good money to let us keep our casinos running if you took over, but you took our money and fucked us up the brown trail until we bled. You are a bigger piece of shit than that faggot Bobby Kennedy and his faggot McClellan Committee. May you personally get syphillis of the brain and the dick, you Commie cocksucker, for fucking up our beautiful Nacional Hotel.”
Golf balls ricocheted down the hallway. Trafficante flinched and held the note up.
Pete read it. Santo Junior delivered—nice, neat, grammatical.
Pete tucked the note in his pocket. “Thanks, Mr. Trafficante.”
“You’re fucking welcome, and I can tell you’re surprised that I can write and say two different things at the same time. Now, you tell your Mr. Boyd that that promise is good for one year and no more. Tell him we’re all swimming in the same stream as far as Cuba goes, so it’s in our best interest not to piss in his face.”
“He’ll appreciate it.”
“Appreciate, shit. If you appreciated, you’d take me back with you.”
Pete checked his watch. “I’ve only got two Canadian passports, and I’m supposed to bring back a United Fruit man.”
Trafficante picked up a golf club. “Then I can’t complain. Money’s money, and United Fruit’s tapped more out of Cuba than the Outfit ever did.”