Lenny pushed his plate aside. “I’ve got this new routine where Castro comes to the States and gets a job as a beatnik poet. He’s smoking maryjane and talking like a shvartze.”
“You’re big-room talent, Lenny. I’ve always said so.”
“Keep saying it, Jack. If you keep saying it, somebody might hear you.”
Ruby stood up. “Hey, you never know.”
“That’s right, you never do. Shalom, Jack. It’s always a pleasure watching you eat.”
Ruby walked out with his suitcase. Jewboy Lenny lit a cigarette and rolled his eyes up to God.
Lounge acts. Blow jobs. Rye and beer for lunch.
Littell walked back to his car lightheaded.
o o o
Lenny left twenty minutes later. Littell tailed him to Lake Shore Drive northbound.
Whitecap spray lit the windshield-booming wind had the lake churning. Littell cranked up his heater-too hot replaced too cold.
The liquor left him cotton-mouthed and just a tad woozy. The road kept dipping-just a little.
Lenny signaled to exit. Littell leaped lanes and eased up behind him. They swung down into the Gold Coast-too upscale to be Vendo-King turf.
Lenny turned west on Rush Street. Littell saw high-toned cocktail spots up ahead: brownstone fronts and low-key neon signs.
Lenny parked and walked into Hernando’s Hideaway. Littell cruised by extra-slow.
The door swung back. He saw two men kissing-a little half-second teaser blip.
Littell double-parked and switched jackets: lumberjack to blue blazer. The chinos and boots had to stay.
He walked in bucking wind. The place was dark and midafternoon quiet. The decor was discreet: all polished wood and forest-green leather.
A banquette section was roped off. Two duos sat at opposite ends of the bar: older men, Lenny and a college boy.
Littell took a seat between them. The bartender ignored him.
Lenny was talking. His inflections were polished now-devoid of growl and Yiddish patter.
“Larry, you should have seen this wretched man eat.”
The bartender came over. Littell said, “Rye and beer.” Heads turned his way.
The barman poured a shot. Littell downed it and coughed. The barman said, “My, aren’t we thirsty!”
Littell reached for his wallet. His ID holder popped out and landed on the bar badge-up.
He grabbed it and threw some change down. The barman said, “Don’t we want our beer?”
o o o
Littell drove to the office and typed up a tail report. He chewed a roll of Clorets to kill his liquor breath.
He omitted mention of his beverage intake and his blunder at Hernando’s Hideaway. He stressed the basic gist: that Lenny Sands might have a secret homosexual life. This might prove to be a recruitment wedge: he was obviously hiding that life from his Mob associates.
Lenny never noticed him. So far, his tail stood uncompromised.
Court Meade rapped on his cubicle screen. “You’ve got a longdistance call, Ward. A man named Boyd in Miami on line 2.”
Littell picked up. “Kemper, hi. What are you doing back in Florida?”
“Working at cross-purposes for Bobby and Mr. Hoover, but don’t tell anyone.”
“Are you getting results?”
“Well, people keep approaching me, and Bobby’s witnesses keep disappearing, so I’d have to call it a toss-up. Ward…”
“You need a favor.”
“Actually, two.”
Littell leaned his chair back. “I’m listening.”
Boyd said, “Helen’s flying into Chicago tonight. United flight 84, New Orleans to Midway. She gets in at 5:10. Will you pick her up and take her to her hotel?”
“Of course. And I’ll take her to dinner, too. Jesus, that’s lastminute but great.”
Boyd laughed. “That’s our Helen, an impetuous traveler. Ward, do you remember that man Roland Kirpaski?”
“Kemper, I saw him three days ago.”
“Yes, you did. In any event, he’s allegedly down in Florida, but I can’t seem to find him. He was supposed to call Bobby and report on Hoffa’s Sun Valley scheme, but he hasn’t called, and he left his hotel last night and hasn’t returned.”
“Do you want me to go by his house and talk to his wife?”
“Yes, if you wouldn’t mind. If you get anything pertinent, leave a coded message with Communications in D.C. I haven’t found a hotel here yet, but I’ll check in with them to see if you’ve called.”
“What’s the address?”
“It’s 818 South Wabash. Roland’s probably off on a toot with some bimbo, but it can’t hurt to see if he’s called home. And Ward?”
“I know. I’ll remember who you’re working for and play it close to the vest.”
“Thanks.”
“You’re welcome. And by the way, I saw a man today who’s as good a role player as you are.”
Boyd said, “That’s impossible.”
o o o
Mary Kirpaski rushed him inside. The house was overfurnished and way overheated.
Littell took off his overcoat. The woman almost pushed him into the kitchen.
“Roland always calls home every night. He said if he didn’t call on this trip, I should cooperate with the authorities and show them his notebook.”
Littell smelled cabbage and boiled meat. “I’m not with the McClellan Committee, Mrs. Kirpaski. I haven’t really worked with your husband.”
“But you know Mr. Boyd and Mr. Kennedy.”
“I know Mr. Boyd. He’s the one who asked me to check on you.”
She’d chewed her nails bloody. Her lipstick was applied way off-center.
“Roland didn’t call last night. He kept this notebook on Mr. Hoffa’s doings, and he didn’t take it to Washington because he wanted to talk to Mr. Kennedy before he agreed to testify.”
“What notebook?”
“It’s a list of Mr. Hoffa’s Chicago phone calls, with dates and everything like that. Roland said he stole the phone bills of some of Mr. Hoffa’s friends because Mr. Hoffa was afraid to call long distance from his hotel, because he thought his phone might be tapped.”
“Mrs. Kirpaski…”
She grabbed a binder off the breakfast table. “Roland would be so mad if I didn’t show it to the authorities.”
Littell opened the binder. Page 1 listed names and phone numbers, neatly arranged in columns.
Mary Kirpaski crowded up to him. “Roland called up the phone companies in all the different cities and found out who the numbers belonged to. I think he impersonated policemen or something like that.”
Littell flipped pages front to back. Roland Kirpaski printed legibly and neatly.
Several “calls received” names were familiar: Sam Giancana, Carlos Marcello, Anthony Iannone, Santo Trafficante Jr. One name was familiar and scary: Peter Bondurant, 949 Mapleton Drive, Los Angeles.
Hoffa called Big Pete three times recently: 11/25/58, 12/1/58, 12/2/58.
Bondurant snapped manacles bare-handed. He allegedly killed people for ten thousand dollars and plane fare.
Mary Kirpaski was fondling rosary beads. She smelled like Vicks VapoRub and cigarettes.
“Ma’am, could I use the phone?”
She pointed to a wall extension. Littell pulled the cord to the far end of the kitchen.
She left him alone. Littell heard a radio snap on one room over.
He dialed the long-distance operator. She put him through to the security desk at L.A. International Airport.
A man answered. “Sergeant Donaldson, may I help you?”
“This is Special Agent Littell, Chicago FBI. I need an expedite on some reservation information.”
“Yes, sir. Tell me what you need.”
“I need you to query the airlines that fly Los Angeles to Miami round-thp. I’m looking for reservations going out on either December the eighth, ninth or tenth, and returning any time after that. I’m looking for a reservation under the name Peter Bondurant, spelled B-O-N-D-U-R-A-N-T, or reservations charged to the Hughes Tool Company or Hughes Aircraft. If you turn up positive on any of that, and the reservation is in a man’s name, I need a physical description of the man either picking up his ticket or boarding the airplane.”