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?”

“It’s me, Helen.”

“What’s that noise?”

“It’s the wind. I’m calling from a phone booth.”

“You’re outside in this?”

“Yes. Are you studying?”

“I’m studying torts and welcoming this distraction. Susan called, by the way.”

“Oh, shit. And?”

“And she said I’m of age, and you’re free, white and forty-five. She said, ‘I’m going to wait and see if you two last before I tell my mother.’ Ward, are you coming over tonight?”

Mad Sal walked out and slipped on the rectory steps. A priest helped him up and waved goodbye.

Littell took his gloves off and blew on his hands. “I’ll be by late. There’s a lounge act I have to catch.”

“You’re being cryptic. You act like Mr. Hoover’s looking over your shoulder every second. Kemper tells his daughter everything about his work.”

Littell laughed. “I want you to analyze the Freudian slip you just made.”

Helen whooped. “Oh, God, you’re right!”

A Negro boy walked by. Mad Sal bolted after him.

Littell said, “I have to go.”

“Come by later.”

“I will.”

Mad Sal chased the kid. Snowdrifts and low-cut sneakers slowed him down.

o o o

The Elks Hall steps were jammed. Non-Teamster admittance looked dicey: goons were running an ID checkpoint at the door.

Men filed in with bottle bags and six-packs. They had union badges pinned to their topcoats-about the same size as Bureau shields.

A fresh swarm hit the steps. Littell held up his FBI badge and pushed to the middle. The stampede jostled him inside.

A blonde in G-string and pasties ran the coat-check concession. The foyer walls were lined with bootleg slot machines. Every pull hit a jackpot-Teamsters scooped up coins and yelled.

Littell pocketed his badge. The crowd whooshed him into a big rec hail.

Card tables faced a raised bandstand. Every table was set up with whisky bottles, paper cups and ice.

Strippers dispensed cigars. Tips bought unlimited fondling.

Littell grabbed a ringside seat. A redhead dodged hands, naked-cash wads had popped her G-string.

The lights went down. A baby spot hit the bandstand. Littell built a quick scotch-on-the-rocks.

Three other men sat at his table. Total strangers pounded his back.

Lenny Sands walked on stage, twirling a mike cord a la Sinatra. Lenny mimicked Sinatra-straight down to his spitcurl and voice:

“Fly me to the moon in my souped-up Teamster rig! I’ll put skidmarks on management’s ass, ‘cause my union contract’s big! In other words, Teamsters are kings!!”

The audience hooted and yelled. A man grabbed a stripper and forced her into some dirty-dog dance steps.

Lenny Sands bowed. “Thank you thank you thank you! And ring-a-ding, men of the Northern Illinois Council of the International Brotherhood of Teamsters!”

The crowd applauded. A stripper brought ice refills by-Littell caught a breast in the face.

Lenny said, “It sure is hot up here!”

The stripper hopped on stage and dropped ice cubes down his pants. The audience howled; the man beside Littell squealed and spat bourbon.

Lenny made ecstatic faces. Lenny shook his trouser legs until the ice dropped out.

The crowd wolf-whistled and shrieked and thumped their tables-

The stripper ducked behind a curtain. Lenny put on a Boston accent-Bobby Kennedy’s voice pushed into soprano range.

“Now you listen to me, Mr. Hoffa! You quit associating with those nasty gangsters and nasty truck drivers and snitch off all your friends or I’ll tell my daddy on you!”

The room rocked. The room rolled. Foot stomps had the floor shaking.

“Mr. Hoffa, you’re a no-goodnik and a nasty man! You quit trying to unionize my six children or I’ll tell my daddy and my big brother Jack on you! You be nice or I’ll tell my daddy to buy your union and make all your nasty truck drivers servants at our family compound in Hyannis Port!”

The room roared. Littell felt queasy-hot and lightheaded.

Lenny minced. Lenny preened. Lenny DID Robert F. Kennedy, faggot crusader.

“Mr. Hoffa, you stop that nasty forced bargaining this instant!”

“Mr. Hoffa, stop yelling, you’re wilting my hairdo!”

“Mr. Hoffa, be NIIICE!”

Lenny squeezed the room dry. Lenny wrung it out from the basement to the roof.

“Mr. Hoffa, you’re just SOOOOO butch!”

“Mr. Hoffa, quit scratching-you’ll ruin my nylons!”

“Mr. Hoffa, your Teamsters are just TOOOOO sexy! They’ve got the McClellan Committee and me in such a TIZZY!”

Lenny kept it cranking. Littell caught something three drinks in: he never ridiculed John Kennedy. Kemper called it the Bobby! Jack dichotomy: if you liked one man, you disliked the other.

“Mr. Hoffa, stop confusing me with facts!”

“Mr. Hoffa, stop berating me, or I won’t share my hairdressing secrets with your wife!”

The Elks Hall broiled. Open windows laced in freezing air. The drink ice ran out-strippers filled bowls with fresh snow.

Mob men table-hopped. Littell spotted file-photo faces.

Sam “Mo”/”Momo”/”Mooney” Giancana. Icepick Tony Iannone, Chi-Mob underboss. Donkey Dan Versace, Fat Bob Paolucci, Mad Sal D’Onofrio himself.

Lenny wrapped it up. The strippers shimmied on stage and took bows.

“So fly me to the stars, union paycheck fat! Jimmy Hoffa is our tiger now-Bobby’s just a scrawny rat! In other words, Teamsters are kings!!!!”

Table thumps, claps, cheers, yells, whistles, howls-

Littell ran out a back exit and sucked air in. His sweat froze; his legs fluttered; his scotch dinner stayed down.

He checked the door. A conga line snaked through the rec hall-strippers and Teamsters linked up hands-to-hips. Mad Sal joined them-his tennis shoes squished and leaked snow.

Littell caught his breath and slow-walked around to the parking lot. Lenny Sands was cooling off by his car, scooping ice packs from a snow drift.

Mad Sal walked up and hugged him. Lenny made a face and pulled free.

Littell crouched behind a limousine. Their voices carried his way.

“Lenny, what can I say? You were stupendous.”

“Insider crowds are easy, Sal. You just gotta know what switches to flip.”

“Lenny, a crowd’s a crowd. These Teamsters are working Joes, just like my junket guys. You.lay off the politics and pour on the Italian stuff. I fuckin’ guarantee, every time you lay on the paisan stuff you’ll have a roomful of hyenas on your hands.”

“I don’t know, Sal. I might have a Vegas gig coming up.”

“I am fuckin’ begging you, Lenny. And my fuckin’ junketeers are well known as the biggest casino losers in fuckin’ captivity. Va-va-voom, Lenny. The more they lose, the more we make.”

“I don’t know, Sal. I might have a chance to open for Tony Bennett at the Dunes.”

“Lenny, I am begging. On all fours like a fuckin’ dog I am begging.”

Lenny laughed. “Before you start barking, go to fifteen percent.”

“Fifteen? fuck… You Jew me up, you fuckin’ Jew hump.”

“Twenty percent, then. I only associate with Jew haters for a price.”

“Fuck you, Lenny. You said fifteen.”

“Fuck you, Sal. I changed my mind.”

Silence stretched-Littell visualized a long staredown.

“Okay okay okay. Okay for fuckin’ twenty, you fuckin’ Jew bandit.”

“Sal, I like you. Just don’t shake my hand, you’re too greasy to touch.”

Car doors slammed. Littell saw Mad Sal snag his Caddy and slalom out to the street.

Lenny turned on his headlights and idled the engine. Cigarette smoke blew out the driver’s-side window.

Littell walked to his car. Lenny was parked two rows over- he’d spot his departure.