American Tabloid

by James Ellroy

  He pulled up behind Freddy’s van. Freddy was down on his knees in the street—cuffed to the front-bumper housing.

  Pete ran over. Freddy yanked at his shackle chain and tried to stand up.

  He’d scraped his wrist bloody. He’d ripped his knees raw crawling on the pavement.

  Pete knelt down in front of him. “What happened? Quit grabbing at that and look at me.”

  Freddy did some wrist contortions. Pete slapped him. Freddy snapped to and focused in half-alert.

  He said, “The listening-post guy sent his transcripts to some Fed in Chicago and told him he was hinked on my van. Pete, this thing plays wrong to me. There’s just one FBI guy working single-o, like he went off half-cocked or some—”

  Pete ran across the lawn and bolted the porch. Darleen Shoftel ducked out of his way, snapped a high heel and fell on her ass.

  The Big and Ugly Final Picture:

  Spackle-coated mikes on the floor. Two tap-gutted phones belly-up on an end table.

  And SA Ward J. Littell, standing there in an off-the-rack blue suit.

  It was a stalemate. You don’t whack FBI men impromptu.

  Pete walked up to him. He said, “This is a bullshit roust, or you wouldn’t be here alone.”

  Littell just stood there. His glasses slipped down his nose.

  “You keep flying out here to bother me. Next time’s the last time.”

  Littell said, “I’ve put it together.” The words came out all quivery.

  “I’m listening.”

  “Kemper Boyd told me he had an errand at the Beverly Hills Hotel. He talked to you there, and you got suspicious and tailed him. You saw us black-bag this place and got your friend to put in auxiliary wires. Senator Kennedy told Miss Shoftel about Roland Kirpaski testifying, and you heard it and talked Jimmy Hoffa into giving you the contract.”

  Booze guts. This skinny stringbean cop with 8:00 a.m. liquor breath.

  “You’ve got no proof, and Mr. Hoover doesn’t care.”

  “You’re right. I can’t arrest you and Turentine.”

  Pete smiled. “I’ll bet Mr. Hoover liked the tapes. I’ll bet he won’t be too pleased that you blew this operation.”

  Littell slapped his face. Littell said, “That’s for the blood on John Kennedy’s hands.”

  The slap was weak. Most women slapped harder.

  He knew she’d leave a note. He found it on their bed, next to her house keys.

  I know you figured out I soft-soaped the article. When the editor didn’t question it I realized it wasn’t enough and called Bob Kennedy. He said he would probably be able to pull strings and get the issue pulled. Jack is sort of callous in some ways, but he doesn’t deserve what you planned. I don’t want to be with you any more. Please don’t try to find me.

  She left the clothes he bought her. Pete dumped them out in the street and watched cars drive over them.

  11

  (Washington, D.C., 12/18/58)

  “To say that I am furious belittles the concept of fury. To say that consider your actions outrageous demeans the notion of outrage.”

  Mr. Hoover paused. The pillow on his chair made him tower over two tail men.

  Kemper looked at Littell. They sat flush in front of Hoover’s desk.

  Littell said, “I understand your position, Sir.”

  Hoover patted his lips with a handkerchief. “I do not believe you. And I do not rate the value of objective awareness nearly as high as I rate the virtue of loyalty.”

  Littell said, “I acted impetuously, Sir. I apologize for that.”

  “ ‘Impetuous’ describes your attempt to contact Mr. Boyd and foist your preposterous Bondurant suspicions on him and Robert Kennedy. ‘Duplicitous’ and ‘treacherous’ describe your unauthorized flight to Los Angeles to uproot an official Bureau operation.”

  “I considered Bondurant a murder suspect, Sir. I thought that he had implemented a piggyback on the surveillance equipment that Mr. Boyd and I had installed, and I was correct.”

  Hoover said nothing. Kemper knew he’d let the silence build.

  The operation blew from two flanks. Bondurant’s girlfriend tipped Bobby to a smear piece; Ward logicked out the Kirpaski hit himself. That logic held a certain validity: Pete was in Miami concurrent with Roland.

  Hoover fondled a paperweight. “Is murder a Federal offense, Mr. Littell?”

  “No, Sir.”

  “Are Robert Kennedy and the McClellan Committee direct rivals of the Bureau?”

  “I don’t consider them that, Sir.”

  “Then you are a confused and naive man, which your recent actions more than confirm.”

  Littell sat perfectly still. Kemper saw his pulse hammer his shirt front.

  Hoover folded his hands. “January 16, 1961, marks the twentieth anniversary of your Bureau appointment. You are to retire on that day. You are to work at the Chicago office until then. You are to remain on the CPUSA Surveillance Squad until the day you retire.”

  Littell said, “Yes, Sir.”

  Hoover stood up. Kemper stood a beat later, per protocol. Littell stood up too fast—his chair teetered.

  “You owe your continued career and pension to Mr. Boyd, who was most persuasive in convincing me to be lenient. I expect you to repay my generosity by promising to maintain absolute silence regarding Mr. Boyd’s McClellan Committee and Kennedy family incursion. Do you promise that, Mr. Littell?”

  “Yes, Sir. I do.”

  Hoover walked out.

  Kemper put his drawl on. “You can breathe now, son.”

  The Mayflower bar featured wraparound banquettes. Kemper sat Littell down and thawed him out with a double scotch-on-the-rocks.

  They bucked sleet walking over—there was no chance to talk. Ward took the thrashing better than he expected.

  Kemper said, “Any regrets?”

  “Not really. I was going to retire at twenty years, and the THP is a half-measure at best.”

  “Are you rationalizing?”

  “I don’t think so. I’ve had a …”

  “Finish the thought. Don’t let me explicate for you.”

  “Well … I’ve had a … taste of something very dangerous and good.”

  “And you like it.”

  “Yes. It’s almost as if I’ve touched a new world.”

  Kemper stirred his martini. “Do you know why Mr. Hoover allowed you to remain with the Bureau?”

  “Not exactly.”

  “I convinced him that you were volatile, irrational and addicted to taking heedless risks. The element of truth in that convinced him that you were better off inside the barn pissing out than outside the barn pissing in. He wanted me there to buttress the intimidation, and if he had signaled me I would have laced into you myself.”

  Littell smiled. “Kemper, you’re leading me. You’re like an attorney drawing out a witness.”

  “Yes, and you’re a provocative witness. Now, let me ask you a question. What do you think Pete Bondurant has planned for you?”

  “My death?”

  “Your postretirement death, more likely. He murdered his own brother, Ward. And his parents killed themselves when they found out. It’s a Bondurant rumor that I’ve chosen to believe.”

  Littell said, “Jesus Christ.”

  He was awed. It was a perfectly lucid response.

  Kemper speared the olive in his glass. “Are you going to continue the work you started without Bureau sanction?”

  “Yes. I’ve got a good informant prospect now, and—”

  “I don’t want to know specifics just yet. I just want you to convince me that you understand the risks from both within and outside the Bureau, and that you won’t behave foolishly.”

  Littell smiled—and almost looked bold. “Hoover would crucify me. If the Chicago Mob knew I was investigating them without sanction, they’d torture and kill me. Kemper, I’ve got a wild notion about where you’re leading me.”

  “Tell me.”

  “You’re thi
nking of working for Robert Kennedy for real. He’s gotten to you, and you respect the work he’s doing. You’re going to turn things over a notch and start feeding Hoover a minimum of information and selected misinformation.”

  Lyndon Johnson waltzed a redhead by the back booths. He’d seen her before—Jack said he could arrange an introduction.

  “You’re right, but it’s the senator I want to work for. Bobby’s more your type. He’s as Catholic as you are, and the Mob is just as much his raison d’être.”

  “And you’ll feed Hoover as much information as you deem fit.”

  “Yes.”

  “The inherent duplicities won’t bother you?”

  “Don’t judge me, Ward.”

  Littell laughed. “You enjoy my judgments. You enjoy it that someone besides Mr. Hoover has your number. So I’ll warn you. Be careful with the Kennedys.”

  Kemper raised his glass. “I will be. And you should know that Jack might damn well be elected President two years from now. If he is, Bobby will have carte blanche to fight organized crime. A Kennedy administration might mean considerable opportunities for both of us.”

  Littell raised his glass. “An opportunist like you would know.”

  “Salud. Can I tell Bobby that you’ll share your intelligence with the Committee? Anonymously?”

  “Yes. And it just hit me that I retire four days before the next presidential inauguration. Should your profligate friend Jack be the one taking office, you might mention a worthy lawyer-cop who needs a job.”

  Kemper pulled out an envelope. “You were always a quick study. And you forget that Claire has both our numbers.”

  “You’re smirking, Kemper. Read me what you’ve got there.”

  Kemper unrolled a sheet of notebook paper. “Quote, ‘And Dad, you wouldn’t believe this one a.m. phone call I got from Helen. Are you sitting down? She had a hot date with Uncle Ward (date of birth March 8, 1913, to Helen’s October 29, 1937) and necked with him in her room. Wait until Susan finds out! Helen’s always sideswiped older men, but this is like Snow White attacking Walt Disney! And I always thought you were the one she had eyes for,’ unquote.”

  Littell stood up, blushing. “She’s meeting me later, at my hotel. I told her men liked women who traveled for them. And she’s been the pursuer so far.”

  “Helen Agee is a college girl in the guise of a Mack truck. Remember that if things get complicated.”

  Littell laughed, and walked off primping. His posture was good, but those dented glasses had to go.

  Idealists disdained appearances. Ward had no flair for nice things.

  Kemper ordered a second martini and watched the back booths. Echoes drifted his way—congressmen were talking up Cuba.

  John Stanton called Cuba a potential Agency hotspot. He said, I might have work for you.

  Jack Kennedy walked in. Lyndon Johnson’s redhead passed him a napkin note.

  Jack saw Kemper and winked.

  Part II

  COLLUSION

  January 1959–January 1961

  12

  (Chicago, 1/1/59)

  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 regs 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 cords.

  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’Onofrio 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 strongarm collection and intimidation tactics have helped to insure his long bookmaker/loanshark 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.

  • • •

  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?”