by James Ellroy
Lenny Sands continues to wear almost as many hats as you. He’s the Hush-Hush stringer (God, what ugly work that must be!), Sal’s junket partner and a general Chicago Mob drone. He says he’s actively engaged in attempting to accrue information on the workings of the Pension Fund and says that he believes the rumor that Sam Giancana pays bonuses for Fund loan referrals is true. He also believes that “alternative,” perhaps coded, Pension Fund books detailing hidden assets do exist. In conclusion, I’ve yet to glean hard information from either Sands or D’Onofrio.
On another front, Mr. Hoover seems to be dodging a potential opportunity to impede Chicago Mob members. Court Meade picked up an (elliptically worded) mention of a robbery on the tailor shop bug. Chicago Mob soldiers Rocco Malvaso and Dewey Di Pasquale apparently clouted $80,000 from a (non-Chicago Mob) high-stakes crap game in Kenilworth. THP agents airteled this information to Mr. Hoover, who told them not to forward it to the applicable agencies for follow-up investigation. My God, that man’s twisted priorities!
I’ll close now. By way of farewell: you continue to amaze me, Kemper. God, you as a CIA man! And with the McClellan Committee disbanded, what will you be doing for the Kennedys?
Godspeed,
WJL
DOCUMENT INSERT: 4/26/59. Personal note: Kemper Boyd to J. Edgar Hoover. Marked: EXTREMELY CONFIDENTIAL.
Sir:
I thought I would drop you a line and update you on the Ward Littell front. Littell and I continue to speak regularly on the telephone, and I remain convinced that he is not undertaking overt or covert anti-Mob actions on his own authority.
You mentioned that Littell was spotted near Celano’s Tailor Shop and the Top Hoodlum Program listening post. I subtly queried Littell on this and am satisfied with his answer: that he was meeting SA Court Meade for lunch.
Littell’s personal life seems to revolve around his affair with Helen Agee. This affair has put a strain on his relationship with his daughter, Susan, who disapproves of the liaison. Normally, Helen is in close contact with my daughter Claire, but now that they attend different colleges the frequency of that contact has been curtailed. The Littell-Agee romance seems to be comprised of three or four nights a week of domestic get-togethers. Both retain separate residences, and I think they will continue to do so. I’ll continue to keep an eye on Littell.
Respectfully,
Kemper Boyd
DOCUMENT INSERT: 4/30/59. Personal note: Kemper Boyd to Ward J. Littell.
Ward:
I strongly urge that you stay away from Celano’s Tailor Shop and the listening post area, and avoid being seen with Court Meade. I think I’ve eased some mild suspicions Mr. Hoover might have had, but you cannot be too careful. I strongly advise you to stop your assignment trade with Meade. Destroy this letter immediately.
KB
DOCUMENT INSERT: 5/4/59. Summary report: Kemper Boyd to John Stanton. Marked: CONFIDENTIAL/HAND POUCH DELIVER.
John:
Here’s the update you requested in your last pouch. I apologize for the delay, but as you’ve pointed out, I’m “multiply-employed.”
1.—Yes, the McClellan Committee’s labor racketeering mandate has terminated. No, the Kennedys haven’t offered me a permanent job yet. I think they will soon. There are numerous possibilities, since I’m both an attorney and a cop. Yes, I have discussed Cuba with Jack. He has no opinion on its viability as a 1960 campaign issue yet. He is strongly anti-Communist, despite his reputation as a liberal. I’m optimistic.
2.—I’ve concluded my “auditions” at the Boynton Beach Motel. Today marks the end of the 90-day sequestering period prescribed by Deputy Director Bissell, and tomorrow the bulk of our men will be sent to Louisiana. Guy Banister has a network of legally emigrated Cubans ready to receive them. They will be providing housing, employment and references aimed at procuring them visas. Guy will funnel the men into his own indoctrination/ training program.
I have selected four men to form the nucleus of our Blessington Cadre. I consider them to be the best of the fifty-three men on the 2/4/59 “Banana Boat.” Since I am “multiply-employed,” I was not present for much of the sequestering, but capable case officers followed the indoctrination and psychological testing guidelines I set down.
Those guidelines were exceedingly rigorous. I personally supervised polygraph tests to determine the presence of Castro-planted informants. All fifty-three men passed (I think the man they killed on the boat was the ringer). Backup Sodium Pentothal tests were administered. Again, all the men passed.
Interrogations followed. As I suspected, all fifty-three men possessed extensive criminal records inside Cuba. Their offenses included armed robbery, burglary, arson, rape, heroin smuggling, murder and various “political crimes.” One man was revealed to be a deviate who had molested and decapitated six small children in Havana. Another man was a homosexual procurer despised by the other exiles. I deemed both men to be dangerously unstable and terminated them under the indoctrination guidelines set down by the Deputy Director.
All the men were subjected to hard interrogation verging on torture. Most resisted with great courage. All the men were physically drilled and verbally abused in the manner of Marine Corps boot camp. Most responded with the perfect mixture of anger and subservience. The four men I selected are intelligent, violent in a controlled manner, physically skilled, garrulous (they’ll be good Miami recruiters), acquiescent to authority and resoundingly pro-American, anti-Communist and anti-Castro. The men are:
A)—TEOFHIO PAEZ himself. DOB 8/6/21. Former Security Chief for United Fruit. Skilled in weaponry and interrogation techniques. Former Cuban Navy frogman. Adept at political recruitment.
B)—TOMAS OBREGON. DOB 1/17/30. Former Castro guerrilla. Former Havana dope courier and bank robber. Skilled in Juyitsu and the manufacture of explosives.
C)—WILFREDO OLMOS DELSOL. DOB 4/9/27. OBREGON’s cousin. Former leftist firebrand turned rightist zealot when his bank accounts were “Nationalized.” Former Cuban Army drill instructor. Small arms weaponry expert.
D)—RAMON GUTIERREZ. DOB 10/24/19. Pilot. Skilled propaganda pamphleteer. Former torturer for Batista’s Secret Police. Expert in counterinsurgency techniques.
3.—I’ve toured the area surrounding the land the Agency purchased for the Blessington campsite. It is impoverished and inhabited by poor white trash, a fair number of them Ku Klux Klan members. I think we need an impressive white man to run the campsite, a man capable of instilling fear in any local rednecks who become perturbed at the notion of Cuban emigres squatting in their bailiwick. I recommend Pete Bondurant. I checked his World War n Marine Corps record and was impressed: he survived fourteen hand-to-hand combat charges on Saipan, won the Navy Cross and rose from buck private to captain via field commission. I strongly urge you to hire Bondurant on an Agency contract basis.
That’s all for now. I’ll be at the St. Regis in New York if you need me.
Yours,
KB
PS: You were right about Castro’s U.S. trip. He refused to register in a hotel that didn’t admit Negroes, then went up to Harlem and began issuing anti-U.S. statements. His behavior at the U.N. was deplorable. I salute your prescience: the man was “forcing a rejection.”
DOCUMENT INSERT: 5/12/59. Memo: John Stanton to Kemper Boyd.
Kemper,
The Deputy Director has approved the hiring of Pete Bondurant. I have minor qualms, and I want you to send him on a trial run of some sort before we approach him. Use your own discretion.
JS
23
(Chicago, 5/18/59)
Helen buttered a slice of toast. “Susan’s slow burn is getting to me. I don’t think we’ve spoken more than three or four times since she heard about us.”
Mad Sal was due to call. Littell pushed his breakfast aside—he had absolutely no appetite.
“I’ve spoken to her exactly twice. Sometimes I think it’s a pure tradeoff—I gained a girlfriend and lost a daughter.”
“
You don’t seem too bothered by the loss.”
“Susan feeds on resentment. She’s like her mother that way.”
“Claire told me Kemper’s having an affair with some rich New York City woman, but she won’t divulge details.”
Laura Hughes was one-half Kennedy. Kemper’s Kennedy incursion was now a two-front campaign.
“Ward, you’re very remote this morning.”
“It’s work. It preoccupies me.”
“I’m not so sure.”
It was almost 9:00—7:00 a.m. Gardena time. Sal was an inveterate early-bird gambler.
Helen waved her napkin at him. “Yoo-hoo, Ward! Are you listening to—?”
“What are you saying? What do you mean, ‘I’m not so sure’?”
“I mean your Red Squad work bores and vexes you. You always describe it with contempt, but for months you’ve been engrossed in it.”
“And?”
“And you’ve been having nightmares and mumbling in Latin in your sleep.”
“And?”
“And you’re starting to hide out from me when we’re in the same room. You’re starting to act like you’re forty-six and I’m twenty-one, and there’s things you can’t tell me, because I just wouldn’t understand.”
Littell took her hands. Helen pulled them away and knocked a napkin holder off the table.
“Kemper tells Claire everything. I would think that you’d try to emulate him that way.”
“Kemper is Claire’s father. I’m not yours.”
Helen stood up and grabbed her purse. “I’ll think about that on my way home.”
“What happened to your 9:30 class?”
“It’s Saturday, Ward. You’re so ‘preoccupied’ that you don’t know what day it is.”
Sal called at 9:35. He sounded agitated.
Littell made nice to calm him down. Sal enjoyed sweet talk.
“How’s the tour going?”
“A junket’s a junket. Gardena’s good ’cause it’s close to L.A., but fuckin’ Jewboy Lenny keeps taking off to dig up shit for Hush-Hush and keeps showing up late for his gigs. You think I should slice him like I did that guy who—”
“Don’t confess over the phone, Sal.”
“Forgive me, Father, for I have sinned.”
“Stop it. You know what I’m interested in, so if you have anything, tell me.”
“Okay, okay. I was in Vegas and heard Heshie Ryskind talking. Hesh said the boys are worried on the Cuban front. He said the Outfit paid the Beard a shitload of money in exchange for his word the fuckin’ casinos could keep operating if he took over the fuckin’ country. But now he’s gone Commie and fuckin’ nationalized the casinos. Hesh said the Beard’s got Santo T. in jail in Havana. The boys don’t like the Beard so much these days. Hesh said the Beard’s like the low man in a Mongolian cluster fuck. You know, sooner or later he’ll get really fucked.”
Littell said, “And?”
“And before I left Chicago I talked on the phone to Jack Ruby. Jack had a case of the shorts, so I lent him a wad to unload this one strip club and buy himself another one, the Carousel or something. Jack’s always good on the payback, ’cause he sharks on the side himself down in Dallas, and—”
“Sal, you’re building up to something. Tell me what it is.”
“Whoa whoa whoa—I thought cops liked that corroboration stuff.”
“Sal—”
“Whoa, listen now. Jack corroborated what Heshie said. He said he’d talked to Carlos Marcello and Johnny Rosselli, and they both said the Beard is costing the Outfit seventy-five thousand a day in bank interest on top of their daily fucking casino profit nut. Think about it, Padre. Think of what the Church could do with seventy-five grand a day.”
Littell sighed. “Cuba doesn’t interest me. Did Ruby give you anything on the Pension Fund?”
Mad Sal said, “Weeeeel …”
“Sal, goddamnit—”
“Naughty, naughty, Padre. Now say ten Hail Marys and check this. Jack told me he forwarded this Texas oil guy straight to Sam G. for a Pension Fund loan, like maybe a year ago. Now this is a class-A tip, and I deserve a reward for it, and I need some fuckin’ money to cover bets with, because bookies and shylocks with no bankroll get hurt and can’t snitch to candy-ass Fed cocksuckers like you.”
Ruby’s THP designation: bagman/small-time loan shark.
“Padre Padre Padre. Forgive me because I have bet. Forgive me because—”
“I’ll try to get you some money, Sal. If I can find a borrower for you to introduce to Giancana. I’m talking about a direct referral, from you to Sam.”
“Padre … Jesus.”
“Sal …”
“Padre, you’re fucking me so hard it hurts.”
“I saved your life, Sal. And this is the only way you’ll ever get another dime out of me.”
“Okay okay okay. Forgive me, Father, for I have taken it up the dirt road from this ex-seminarian Fed who—”
Littell hung up.
The squadroom was weekend quiet. The agent manning the phone lines ignored him.
Littell cadged the teletype machine and queried the Dallas office.
The reply would take at least ten minutes. He called Midway for flight information—and hit lucky.
A Pan-Am connector departed for Dallas at noon. A return flight would have him home shortly after midnight.
The kickback rolled off the wire: Jacob Rubenstein/AKA Jack Ruby, DOB 3/25/11.
The man had three extortion arrests and no convictions: in ’47, ’49 and ’53.
The man was a suspected pimp and Dallas PD informant.
The man was the subject of a 1956 ASPCA investigation. The man was strongly suspected of sexually molesting dogs. The man was known to occasionally shylock to businessmen and desperate oil wildcatters.
Littell ripped up the teletype. Jack Ruby was worth the trip.
Airplane hum and three scotches lulled him to sleep. Mad Sal’s confessions merged like a Hit Parade medley.
Sal makes the Negro boy beg. Sal feeds the bet welcher Drano. Sal decapitates two kids who wolf-whistle at a nun.
He’d verified those deaths. All four stood “Unsolved.” All four victims were rectal-raped postmortem.
Littell woke up sweaty. The stewardess handed him a drink unsolicited.
The Carousel Club was a striptease-row dive. The sign out front featured zaftig girls in bikinis.
Another sign said, Open 6:00 P.M.
Littell parked behind the building and waited. His rental car reeked of recent sex and hair pomade.
A few cops cruised by. One man waved. Littell caught on: They think you’re a brother cop with your hand in Jack’s pocket.
Ruby drove up at 5:15, alone.
He was a dog fucker and a pimp. This would have to be ugly.
Ruby got out and unlocked the back door. Littell ran up and intercepted him.
He said, “FBI. Let’s see your hands.” He said it in the classic Kemper Boyd style.
Ruby looked skeptical. He was wearing a ridiculous porkpie hat.
Littell said, “Empty your pockets.” Ruby obeyed him. A cash roll, dog biscuits, and a .38 snub-nose hit the ground.
Ruby spat on them. “I know out-of-town shakedowns on an intimate level. I know how to deal with cops in cheap blue suits with liquor breath. Now take what you want and leave me the fuck alone.”
Littell picked up a dog biscuit. “Eat it, Jack.”
Ruby got up on his toes—some kind of lighter-weight boxer’s stance. Littell flashed his gun and handcuffs.
“I want you to eat that dog biscuit.”
“Now look …”
“ ‘Now look, sir.’ ”
“Now look, sir, who the fuck do you—?”
Littell jammed the biscuit in his mouth. Ruby chewed on it to keep from gagging.
“I’m going to make demands of you, Jack. If you don’t comply, the IRS will audit you, Federal agents will pat-search your customers every night and the Dall
as Morning News will expose your sexual bent for dogs.”
Ruby chewed. Ruby sprayed crumbs. Littell kicked his legs out from under him.
Ruby went down on his knees. Littell kicked the door open and kicked him inside.
Ruby tried to stand up. Littell kicked him back down. The room was ten-by-ten and littered with piles of striptease gowns.
Littell kicked a pile in Ruby’s face. Littell dropped a fresh dog biscuit in his lap.
Ruby put it in his mouth. Ruby made horrible choking sounds.
Littell said, “Answer this question. Have you ever referred borrowers to higher-end loan sharks than yourself?”
Ruby nodded—yes yes yes yes yes.
“Sal D’Onofrio lent you the money to buy this place. Nod if that’s true.”
Ruby nodded. His feet were snagged up in soiled brassieres.
“Sal kills people routinely. Did you know that?”
Ruby nodded. Dogs started barking one room over.
“He tortures people, Jack. He enjoys inflicting pain.”
Ruby thrashed his head. His cheeks bulged like that dead boy on the morgue slab.
“Sal burned a man to death with a blowtorch. The man’s wife came home unexpectedly. Sal shoved a gasoline-soaked rag in her mouth and ignited it. He said she died shooting flames like a dragon.”
Ruby pissed in his pants. Littell saw the lap stain spread.
“Sal wants you to know a few things. One, your debt to him is erased. Two, if you don’t cooperate with me or you rat me to the Outfit or any of your cop friends, he’ll come to Dallas and rape you and kill you. Do you understand?”
Ruby nodded—yes yes yes. Biscuit crumbs shot out of his nostrils.
Kemper Boyd always said DON’T FALTER.
“You’re not to contact Sal. You’re not to know my name. You’re not to tell anyone about this. You’re to contact me every Tuesday at 11:00 a.m. at a pay phone in Chicago. I’ll call you and give you the number. Do you understand?”
Ruby nodded—yes yes yes yes yes yes. The dogs keened and clawed at a door just a few feet in front of him.
