by James Ellroy
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.
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 uninhab
ited 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.
16
(Los Angeles, 1/11/59)
Hush-Hush was cramming toward deadline. The office staff was buzzing on Benzedrine-spiked coffee.
“Artists” were pasting up a cover: “Paul Robeson—Royal Red Recidivist.” A “correspondent” was typing copy: “Wife Beater Spade Cooley—Will the Country Stomper Stomp Too Far?” A “researcher” was browsing pamphlets, trying to link nigger hygiene to cancer.
Pete watched.
Pete was bored.
MIAMI bopped through his head. Hush-Hush felt like a giant cactus shoved up his ass.
Sol Maltzman was dead. Gail Hendee was long gone. The new Hush-Hush staff was 100% geek. Howard Hughes was frantic to find a dirt digger.
His prospects all said NO. Everybody knew the L.A. fuzz seized the Kennedy smear issue. Hush-Hush was the leper colony of scandal-sheet journalism.
Hughes CRAVED dirt. Hughes CRAVED slander skank to share with Mr. Hoover. What Hughes CRAVED, Hughes BOUGHT.
Pete bought an issue’s worth of dirt. His cop contacts supplied him with a one-week load of lackluster skank.
“Spade Cooley, Boozefried Misogynist!” “Marijuana Shack Raid Nets Sal Mineo!” “Beatnik Arrests Shock Hermosa Beach!”
It was pure bullshit. It was very un-Miami.
Miami was goood. Miami was this drug he got withdrawals from. He left Miami with a mild concussion—not bad for the pounding he took.
Jimmy Hoffa called him in to restore order. He got out of jail and did it.
The cabstand demanded order—political rifts had business fucked six ways from Sunday. The riots sputtered out, but Tiger Kab still simmered with factional jive. He had pro-Batista and pro-Castro guys to deal with—left- and right-wing ideologue thugs who needed to be toilet-trained and broken in to the White Man’s Rule of Order.
He laid down laws.
No drinking and placard waving on the job. No guns or knives—check your weapons with the dispatcher. No political fraternizing—rival factions must remain segregated.
One Batistaite challenged the rules. Pete beat him half-dead.
He laid down more laws.
No pimping on duty—leave your whores at home. No B&Es or stick-ups on duty.
He made Chuck Rogers the new day dispatcher. He considered it a political appointment.
Rogers was a CIA contract goon. Co-dispatcher Fulo Machado was CIA-linked.
John Stanton was a mid-level CIA agent—and a new cabstand habitué. He got Fulo’s murder-one beef squelched with a snap of his fingers.
Stanton’s pal Guy Banister hated Ward Littell. Banister and Stanton were hipped on Kemper Boyd.
Jimmy Hoffa owned Tiger Kab. Jimmy Hoffa had points in two Havana casinos.
Littell and Boyd made him for two killings. Stanton and Banister probably didn’t know that. Stanton fed him that little teaser: “I may ask a favor of you one day.”
Things were dovetailing tight and cozy. His feelers started perk-perk-perking.
Pete buzzed the receptionist. “Donna, get me long distance person-to-person. I want to talk to a man named Kemper Boyd at the McClellan Committee office in Washington, D.C. Tell the operator to try the Senate Office Building, and if you get through, say I’m the caller.”
“Yes, sir.”
Pete hung up and waited. The call was a longshot—Boyd was probably out somewhere, conniving.
His intercom light flashed. Pete picked up the phone.
“Boyd?”
“Speaking. And surprised.”
“Well, I owe you one, so I thought I’d deliver.”
“Keep going.”
“I was in Miami last week. I ran into two men named John Stanton and Guy Banister, and they seemed real interested in you.”
“Mr. Stanton and I have already spoken. But thanks. It’s nice to know they’re still interested.”
“I gave you a good reference.”
“You’re a sport. Is there anything I can do for you?”
“You can find me a new dirt digger for Hush-Hush.”
Boyd hung up, laughing.
17
(Miami, 1/13/59)
The Committee booked him into a Howard Johnson’s. Kemper upgraded to a two-room suite at the Fontainebleau.
He made up the difference out of his own pocket. He was closing in on three salaries—it wasn’t that big an extravagance.
Bobby sent him back to Miami. He instigated the trip himself—and promised to return with some key Sun Valley depositions. He didn’t tell Bobby that the CIA was thinking about recruiting him.
The trip was a little vacation. If Stanton was good, they’d connect.
Kemper carried a chair out to the balcony. Ward Littell had mailed him a report—he needed to edit it before sending it on to Bobby.
The report was twelve typed pages. Ward included a longhand preface.
K.B.,
Since we’re partners in this gentle subterfuge, I’m giving you a verbatim account of my activities. Of course, you’ll want to omit mention of my more flagrant illegalities, given Mr. Kennedy’s proviso. As you’ll note, I have made substantial progress. And believe me, given the extreme circumstances, I have been very careful.
Kemper read the report. “Extreme circumstances” didn’t quite cover it.
Littell witnessed a homosexual murder. The victim was a Chicago Mob underboss. The killer was a Mob fringe dweller named Lenny Sands.
Sands was now Littell’s snitch. Sands had recently partnered up with a bookie/loanshark named “Mad Sal” D’Onofrio. D’Onofrio shepherded gambling junkets to Las Vegas and Lake Tahoe—Sands was to accompany the groups as their “traveling lounge act.” Sands had keys to mobster “fuck pads.” Littell coerced him into making duplicates and surreptitiously entered three fuck pads to look for evidence. Littell observed and left untouched: weapons, narcotics, and $14,000 in cash—hidden in a golf bag at the fuck pad of one Butch Montrose.
Littell located Tony Iannone’s fuck pad: a garage apartment littered with homosexual paraphernalia. Littell was determined to protect his informant from potential reprisals. Littell disclosed the fuck pad’s location to Chicago Mob members and staked it out to see if they followed up on his anonymous tip. They did: Sam Giancana and two other men broke down the fuck pad door an hour later. They undoubtedly saw Iannone’s homosexual contraband.
Amazing. Fully emblematic of the Ward Littell Trinity: luck, instinct, naive courage.
Littell concluded:
My ultimate goal is to facilitate a loan seeker “up the ladder” to the Teamsters’ Central States Pension Fund. This loan seeker will be, ideally, my own legally compromised informant. Lenny Sands (and potentially “Mad Sal” D’Onofrio) may prove to be valuable allies in recruiting such an informant. My ideal loan seeker would be a crooked businessman with Organized Crime connections, a man susceptible to physical intimidation and threats of Federal prosecution. Such an informant could help us determine the existence of alternative Pension Fund books containing hidden, thus illegal, assets. This avenue of approach presents Robert Kennedy with unlimited opportunities at prosecution. If such books
do exist, the administrators of the hidden assets will be indictable on numerous counts of Grand Larceny and Federal Tax Fraud. I agree with Mr. Kennedy: this may prove to be the way to link Jimmy Hoffa and the Teamsters to the Chicago Mob and break their collective power. If monetary collusion on such a rich and pervasive scale can be proven, heads will roll.
The plan was ambitious and stratospherically risky. Kemper snapped to a possible glitch straight off.
Littell exposed Icepick Tony’s sexual bent. Did he consider all the potential ramifications?
Kemper called the Miami airport and altered his D.C. flight for a Chicago stopover. The move felt sound: if his hunch proved right, he’d need to give Ward a good thrashing.
Dusk came on. Room service brought his standing order up—punctual to the minute.
He sipped Beefeater’s and picked at smoked salmon. Collins Avenue glowed; twinkling lights bracketed the beachfront.
Kemper got a mild glow on. He reprised his moments with the mink woman and thought of a dozen lines he could have used.
Chimes rang. Kemper ran a comb through his hair and opened the door.
John Stanton said, “Hello, Mr. Boyd.”
Kemper ushered him in. Stanton walked around and admired the suite.
“Robert Kennedy treats you well.”
“You’re being disingenuous, Mr. Stanton.”
“I’ll be blunt, then. You grew up wealthy and lost your family. Now you’ve adopted the Kennedys. You’re in the practice of reclaiming your wealth in small increments, and this really is quite a handsome room.”
Kemper smiled. “Would you like a martini?”
“Martinis taste like lighter fluid. I’ve always judged hotels by their wine list.”
“I can send down for whatever you like.”
“I won’t be here long enough.”
“What’s on your mind?”
Stanton pointed to the balcony. “Cuba’s out there.”
“I know that.”
“We think Castro will go Communist. He’s set to come to America in April and offer his friendship, but we think he’ll behave badly and force an official rejection. He’s going to deport some ‘politically undesirable’ Cubans soon, and they’ll be granted asylum here in Florida. We need men to train them and form them into an anti-Castro resistance. The pay is two thousand dollars a month, in cash, plus the chance to purchase discount-priced stock in Agency-backed front companies. This is a firm offer, and you have my personal assurance that we won’t let your Agency work interfere with your other affiliations.”
