by James Ellroy
Cheers,
Lenny
DOCUMENT INSERT: 8/12/59. Personal memorandum: Kemper Boyd to John Stanton. Marked: CONFIDENTIAL/HAND POUCH DELIVER.
John:
Some further thoughts on Pete Bondurant, the Tiger Kab stand and our elite Cadre.
The more I think about it, the more I see Tiger Kab as the potential hub for our Miami activities. I broached this thought to Fulo Machado (a former Castroite now bristlingly anti-Castro), the cabstand co-dispatcher and a close friend of contract agent Chuck Rogers. Machado shared my enthusiasm. He agreed to let Rogers take over as permanent cabstand dispatcher-boss. Fulo got approval from Jimmy Hoffa, who frankly prefers white men in supervisory positions. Fulo is now recruiting for us, on the cabstand payroll. Hoffa knows that cooperating with the Agency is smart business. He sees Cuba as our common cause, far-sighted for such a brutal and single-minded man.
I would like to propose Fulo Machado as the fifth member of our cadre. I would also like you to allow Rogers to hire Tomas Obregon, Wilfredo Olmos Delsol, Teofilio Paez and Ramon Gutierrez as full-time drivers. Although construction of the Blessington campsite is almost complete, we do not have exile recruits to train there. Until more deportees arrive, I think our men can be best utilized recruiting in Miami’s Cuban community.
Per Bondurant. Yes, he (and I) screwed up on the Thomas Gordean matter. But, Bondurant is already employed as Jimmy Hoffa’s ad hoc cabstand enforcer. He also secured a note from Santo Trafficante personally requesting that no Mafia reprisals be launched against Castro for nationalizing the Havana casinos. Bondurant forwarded this note to S. Giancana, C. Marcello and J. Rosselli. All three agree with Trafficante’s reasoning. Again, brutal, short-sighted men are cooperating with the Agency out of a sense of common cause.
Bondurant is also the de-facto editor of a scandal magazine we can use as a counterintelligence organ. And, finally, I think he’s the best man alive to run the campsite. They don’t come any tougher, as I think any local rednecks who toy with him will discover.
What do you think of my proposals?
Kemper Boyd
DOCUMENT INSERT: 8/19/59. Personal memo: John Stanton to Kemper Boyd.
Kemper,
You batted 1000%. Yes, Machado can join the Cadre. Yes, Rogers can hire Delsol, Obregon, Paez and Gutierrez as drivers. Yes, have them recruit in Miami. Yes, hire Pete Bondurant to run Blessington, but have him retain his job with Howard Hughes as well. Hughes Is a potentially valuable ally, and we don’t want him estranged from the Agency.
Good work, Kemper.
John
DOCUMENT INSERT: 8/21/59. Teletype report: Intelligence Division, Los Angeles Police Department, to SA Ward J. Littell, Chicago FBI. Sent “Private Mail Closure” to SA Littell’s home address.
Mr. Littell,
Per your: telephone query on Salvatore D’Onofrio’s recent Los Angeles activities. Be advised that:
The subject was spot-surveilled as a known underworld figure.
He was seen borrowing money from independent shylocks. Subsequent questioning of said shylocks revealed that the subject told them he would give them “big kickbacks” for referring “high-ticket” loan-seekers to him. The subject was also seen betting heavily at Santa Anita Racetrack. Surveilling officers heard the subject tell a just-met acquaintance: “I’ve blown half the wad my sugar daddy-o gave me already.”
The subject was observed behaving in an erratic fashion during his gambling junket engagement at the Lucky Nugget Casino in Gardena. His junket companion, Leonard Joseph Seidelwitz (AKA Lenny Sands), also a known underworld figure, was seen entering various homosexual cocktail lounges. It should be noted that Seidelwitz’s junket skits have become increasingly obscene and violently anti-homosexual.
Should you require further information, please let me know.
James E. Hamilton
Captain, Intelligence Division, Los Angeles Police Department
26
(Chicago, 8/23/59)
The amp made small talk boom. Littell picked up mobster amenities.
He wire-linked Mad Sal’s parlor to his back bedroom closet. He overmiked the walls and got excessive voice vibrato.
The closet was hot and cramped. Littell sweated up his headset.
Talking: Mad Sal and “movie producer” Sid Kabikoff.
Sal went on a gambling binge. Littell confronted him with an LAPD teletype describing his actions. Sal said he blew the fifty-odd grand Littell gave him.
The train-locker heist stood unsolved—Sal didn’t know where the cash came from. The tailor-shop bug blasted scuttlebutt on the topic—but Malvaso and the Duck remained clueless.
Then Jack Ruby called him.
And said, “I finally got a guy for Sal D. to goose up to the Pension Fund.”
His informants were in sync—except for Lenny Sands.
Littell wiped off his headset. Kabikoff spoke, overamp loud: “… and Heshie says his blow-job tally’s closing in on twenty thousand.”
Mad Sal: “Sid, Sid the Yid. You didn’t fly up from bumfuck Texas to schmooze the grapevine with me.”
Kabikoff: “You’re right, Sal. I was passing through Dallas and had a schmooze with Jack Ruby. Jack said, ‘See Sal D. In Chicago. Sal’s the man to see for a big vigorish loan from the Pension Fund.’ Jack said, ‘Sal’s the middleman. He can fix you up with Momo and above. Sal’s the man with access to the money.’ ”
Mad Sal: “You say ‘Momo’ like you think you’re some kind of made guy.”
Kabikoff: “It’s like you talking Yiddish. Everybody wants to think they’re connected. Everybody wants to be in the loop.”
Mad Sal: “The Loop’s downtown, you fat bagel bender.”
Kabikoff: “Sal, Sal.”
Mad Sal: “Sal, my big fat braciola, you lox jockey. Now you tell me the scheme, ’cause there’s gotta be a scheme, ’cause you ain’t tapping the Fund for your little bagel biter’s bar mitzvah.”
Kabikoff: “The scheme is smut movies, Sal. I’ve been shooting smut down in Mexico for a year now. T.J., Juarez, you can get talent cheap down there.”
Mad Sal: “Get to it. Cut the fucking travelogue.”
Kabikoff: “Hey, I’m setting a mood.”
Mad Sal: “I’ll mood you, you mameluke.”
Kabikoff: “Sal, Sal. I’ve been shooting smut. I’m good at it. In fact, I’m shooting a picture down in Mexico in a couple of days. I’m using some strippers from Jack’s club. It’s going to be great—Jack’s got some gorgeous gash working for him. Sal, Sal, don’t look at me that way. What I want to do is this. I want to make legit horror and action pictures with smut-movie casts. I want to book the legit pictures into the bottom half of double features and film the pornographic shit to help defer costs. Sal, Sal, don’t frown like that. It’s a moneymaker. I’ll cut Sam and the Pension Fund in for 50% of my profits plus my payback and vigorish. Sal, listen to me. This deal has got ‘Moneymaker’ scrawled across the fucking stars in fucking neon.”
Silence—twenty-six seconds worth.
Kabikoff: “Sal, quit giving me the evil eye and listen. This deal is a moneymaker, and I want to keep it in the loop. You know, in a way, the Fund and me go way back. See, I heard Jules Schiffrin’s the bookkeeper for the Fund. You know, for the real books that people outside the loop don’t know about. See, I knew Jules way back when. Like feature back in the ’20s even, when he was selling dope and using the profits to finance movies with RKO back when Joe Kennedy owned it. Tell Sam to remember me to Jules, okay? Just to remind him that I’m a trustworthy guy and I’m still in the loop.”
Littell clamped down on his headphones. Jesus Fucking—
“Jules Schiffrin”/“Fund bookkeeper”/“real books.”
Sweat seeped into the phones—voices fizzed out incoherent. Littell wrote the quotes down verbatim on the closet wall.
Kabikoff: “… so I’m flying back to Texas in a few days. Take my card, Sal. No, take two and give one to Momo. Business cards al
ways make a good impression.”
Littell heard goodbyes and a door slamming. He took off his headset and stared at the words on the wall.
Mad Sal walked up. Fat jiggled under his T-shirt.
“How’d I do? I had to give him some shit or he wouldn’t’ve believed it was the real me.”
“You were good. Now just watch your money. You won’t get another dime from me until I’ve tapped into the Fund.”
“What do I do about Kabikoff?”
“I’ll call you inside a week and tell you whether or not to refer him to Giancana.”
Sal belched. “Call me in L.A. I’m taking another junket out to Gardena.”
Littell stared at the wall. He memorized each and every word and copied them over into his notebook.
27
(Gardena, 8/25/59)
Lenny preened and smacked kisses. The junketeers ate it up—go Lenny, go, go, go.
Lenny hated fags. Lenny ate fags like Godzilla ate Tokyo. Lenny ate up the Lucky Nugget lounge.
Pete watched. Lenny spritzed shtick—fag Castro gropes fag Ike at the All-Fag Summit!!!!
“Fidel! Get your beard out of my crotch this instant! Fidel! What a biiiig Havana cigar you have!”
The junketeers loved it. The junketeers thought it was high-tone political satire.
Pete was bored. Stale shtick and stale beer—the Lucky Nugget was an armpit.
Dick Steisel sent him down. Dick had a grievance: Lenny’s recent shit was too coarse to print. Hughes and Hoover loved it—but random homo slurs could deep-six Hush-Hush.
“Fidel! Pass me the K-Y, and we’ll renew diplomatic relations! Fidel! My hemorrhoids are burning up like a United Fruit cane field!”
Kemper Boyd thought Lenny had talent. Kemper had a brainstorm: Let’s dispense anti-Castro rage through Hush-Hush!
Lenny could write the stuff up. Lenny used to run bag to Batfeta—he knew the turf and the style, and Cuban Commies couldn’t sue.
Lenny cranked shtick. Pete screened 10:00 p.m. daydreams. THAT MOMENT flashed by in Technicolor.
There’s Tom Gordean, dead. There’s Boyd, smiling. There’s the suitcase full of UF stock.
They cut their deal right there beside the body. They rented a motel room, popped a shot off and rigged Gordean in a suicide pose. The stupid Key West cops bought the charade.
Boyd sold the stock. They made $131,000 apiece.
They met in D.C. for the split. Boyd said, “I can get you in on the Cuban thing, but it will probably take months. I’ll have to explain the Gordean mission as a fuck-up.”
Pete said, “Tell me more.”
Boyd said, “Go back to L.A., do your Hush-Hush work and baby-sit Howard Hughes. I think Cuba and our combined connections can make us both rich.”
He flew back and did it. He told Hughes he might have to go on leave soon.
Hughes was pissed. He unpissed him with a shitload of codeine.
The Cuban Cause had him drooling. He wanted in wicked bad. Santo Trafficante got booted out of Cuba last month, and spread the word that Castro should get butt-fucked for his Crimes Against Casino Profiteering.
Boyd called the cabstand a “potential launching pad.” Boyd had this big throbbing wet dream: Jimmy Hoffa sells Tiger Kab to the Agency.
Chuck Rogers called him once a week. He said the cabstand was running trouble-free. Jimmy Hoffa sent him his monthly 5%—and he wasn’t doing jackshit to earn it.
Boyd had Rogers hire his pet Cubans: Obregón, Delsol, Paez and Gutiérrez. Chuck fired the six pro-Castro geeks on the payroll—the fucks drove off hurling death threats.
Tiger Kab was now 100% anti-Castro.
Lenny ended his routine—with a riff on Adlay Stevenson, King of the Turd Burglars. Pete ducked out behind a standing ovation.
The junketeers loved their Lenny. Lenny brushed through them like a prima diva slumming.
Perk-perk-perk—his feelers kicked in strong. He got this feeler-verified idea: Let’s tail the little hump.
They drove north, with three cars between them. Lenny’s Packard had a big whip antenna—Pete used it as a tracking device.
They took Western Avenue up to L.A. proper. Lenny swung west on Wilshire and north on Doheny. Traffic had thinned out—Pete hung back and cut the boy some slack.
Lenny turned east on Santa Monica. Pete grooved on the string of fruit bars—the 4-Star, the Klondike, some new ones. It was Memory Lane turf—he extorted every joint on the row back in his Sheriff’s days.
Lenny hugged the curb, slooow cruising. He passed the Tropics, the Orchid and Larry’s Lasso Room.
Lenny, don’t wear your hate so fucking outré and naked.
Pete dawdled two car lengths back. Lenny pulled into the parking lot behind Nat’s Nest.
Big Pete’s got X-ray eyes. Big Pete’s like Superman and the Green Hornet.
Pete circled the block and cruised through the lot. Lenny’s car was parked by the back door.
Pete wrote out a note.
If you get lucky, send him home. Meet me at Stan’s Drive-in at Sunset & Highland. I’ll stay there until after bar closing time.
Pete B.
He stuck the note to Lenny’s windshield. A fruit swished by and checked him out head-to-toe.
Pete ate in his car. He had two chili burgers, French fries and coffee.
Carhops skated by. They wore leotards, push-up bras and tights.
Gail Hendee used to call him a voyeur. It always jazzed him when women nailed his shit.
The carhops looked good. Hauling trays on skates kept them trim. The blonde lugging hot fudge sundaes looked like good shakedown bait.
Pete ordered peach pie a la mode. The blonde brought it to him. He saw Lenny walking up to the car.
He opened the passenger door and slid in.
He looked stoic. The prima diva was one tough little fruitfly.
Pete lit a cigarette. “You told me you were too smart to fuck with me. Does that still hold?”
“Yes.”
“Is this what Kemper Boyd and Ward Littell have on you?”
“This’? Yeah, ‘this’ is.”
“I don’t buy it, Lenny, and I don’t think Sam Giancana would care in the long run. I think I could call Sam right now and say, ‘Lenny Sands fucks boys,’ and he’d be shocked for a couple of minutes, then sit on the information. If Boyd and Littell tried to bluff you with that, I think you’d have the brains and the stones to call them on it.”
Lenny shrugged. “Littell said he’d spill to Sam and the cops.”
Pete dropped his cigarette in his water glass. “I’m not buying. Now, you see that brunette on skates over there?”
“I see her.”
“I want you to tell me what Boyd and Littell squeezed you with by the time she gets over to that blue Chevy.”
“Suppose I can’t remember?”
“Then figure everything you’ve heard about me is true, and take it from there.”
Lenny smiled, prima-diva-style. “I killed Tony Iannone, and Littell made me for it.”
Pete whistled. “I’m impressed. Tony was a rough boy.”
“Don’t string me along, Pete. Just tell me what you’re going to do about it.”
“The answer’s nothing. All this secret shit of yours goes no further.”
“I’ll try to believe it.”
“You can believe that Littell and I go back awhile, and I don’t like him. Boyd and me are friendly, but Littell’s something else. I can’t lean on him without pissing off Boyd, but if he ever gets too rowdy with you, let me know.”
Lenny bristled and clenched up. “I don’t need a protector. I’m not that kind of …”
Carhops zigzagged by. Pete rolled down his back window for some air.
“You’ve got credentials, Lenny. What you do in your spare time is your business.”
“You’re an enlightened guy.”
“Thanks. Now, do you feel like telling me who or what you’re snitching for Littell?”
; “No.”
“Just plain ‘No’?”
“I want to keep working for you. Let me out of here with something, all right?”
Pete popped the passenger door latch. “No more fag stuff for Hush-Hush. From now on you write anti-Castro, anti-Commie stuff exclusively. I want you to write the pieces directly for the magazine. I’ll get you some information, and you can make the rest of the shit up. You’ve been to Cuba, and you know Mr. Hughes’ politics. Take it from there.”
“Is that all?”
“Unless you want pie and coffee.”
• • •
Lenny Sands fucks boys. Howard Hughes lends Dick Nixon’s brother money.
Secret shit.
Big Pete wants a woman. Extortion experience preferred, but not mandatory.
The phone rang too fucking early.
Pete picked up. “Yeah?”
“It’s Kemper.”
