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 ahd 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 always 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

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 Batista-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: Obregуn, Delsol, Paez and Gutierrez. 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 feelerverified idea: Let’s tail the little hump.

o o o

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 outrй 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 amp; 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.