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 Dallas 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 sthptease 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.
“I want you to find a high-end borrower for Sal. Somebody Sal can send up to Giancana and the Pension Fund. Nod if you agree to do it, and nod twice if you understand the whole situation.”
Ruby nodded three times.
Littell walked out.
The dog noise went cacophonous.
o o o
His return flight landed at midnight. He drove home, keyed up and exhausted.
Helen’s car was parked out front. She’d be up; she’d be earnest; she’d be eager to reconcile.
Littell drove to a liquor store and bought a half-pint A wino panhandled him. He gave him a dollar-the poor shit looked sort of like Jack Ruby.
It was 1:00 a.m. Sunday morning. Court Meade might be working the listening post.
He called. No one answered. Some THP man was ditching his shift.
Kemper urged him to avoid the post Kemper might not consider one last visit too risky.
Littell drove over and let himself in. The bug transmitter was unplugged, the room was freshly cleaned and tidied up. A note taped to the main console box explained why.
Memo:
Celano’s Tailor Shop is undergoing fumigation 5/17-5/20/59. All on-premises shifts will be suspended during that time.
Littell cracked his bottle. A few drinks revitalized him and sent his thoughts scattergunning out in a million directions.
Some brain wires crackled and crossed.
Sal needed money. Court Meade was talking up a dice-game heist Mr. Hoover said to let the matter rest.
Littell checked the bug transcript logs. He found a colloquy on the job, filed by SA Russ Davis last month.
4/18/59. 2200 hrs. Alone at tailor shop: Rocco Malvaso amp; Dewey “The Duck” Di Pasquale. What sounded like drinking toasts was obscured by jackhammer and general construction noise outside on Michigan Ave. Two minutes passed while both men apparently used the bathroom. Then this conversation occurred.
Malvaso: Te salud, Duck.
Di Pasquale: Quack, quack. The nice thing is, you know, they can’t report it.
Malvaso: The Kenilworth cops would shit. That is the squarejohn town to end all squarejohn towns. The last time two handsome big dick guys like us took down eighty grand in a crap game there was the twelfth of fucking never.
Di Pasquale: Quack, quack. I say they’re independent guys who had it coming. I say if you’re not mobbed-up with Momo you’re duck shit. Hey, we wore masks and disguised our voices. To boot, those Indy cocksuckers don’t know we’re connected. I felt like Super Duck. I’m thinking I should get a Super Duck costume and wear it the next time I take my kids to Disneyland.
Malvaso: Quack, fucking quack, you web-footed cocksucker. You had to shoot your gun off, though. Like no fucking getaway is fucking complete without some duck-billed cocksucker shooting off his gun.
(Note: the Kemlworth Police report unexplained shots fired on the 2600 block of Westmoreland Ave., 2340 hrs., 4/16/59).
Di Pasquale: Hey, quack, quack. It worked. We’ve got it stashed nice and safe and
Malvaso: And too fucking public for my taste.
Di Pasquale: Quack, quack. Sixty days ain’t too long to wait for the split Donald’s been waiting fucking twenty years to bang Daisy, ‘cause Walt Disney won’t let him. Hey, remember last year? Jewboy Lenny did my birthday party? He did that routine where Daisy’s sucking Donald off with her beak, what a fucking roar.
Malvaso: Quack, quack, you cocksucker.
(Note: construction noise obscured the rest of this conversation. Door slam sounds at 2310 hrs.)
Littell checked the THP ID file. Malvaso and Di Pasquale lived in Evanston.
He played the 4/18/59 tape and compared it to the typed transcript. Russ Davis forgot to include departing shtick.
The Duck hummed “Chattanooga Choo Choo.”
Malvaso sang, “I got the key to your heart.”
o o o
“Too public,” “key” and “choo choo.” Two suburban-situated robbers waiting sixty days for their split.
There were forty-odd suburban train stations linked to Chicago.
With forty-odd waiting rooms lined with storage lockers.
The lockers were rented by the month. For cash only, with no records kept, with no-name receipts issued.
Two robbers. Two separate key locks per locker door.
The locks were changed every ninety days-per Illinois TA law.
Thousands of lockers. Unmarked keys. Sixty days until the split-with thirty-three already elapsed.