Pete cracked his thumbs. “Jack’s got a nice head of hair, but I don’t see him as President of the United States.”
“Qualifications don’t count All Ike did was invade Europe and look like your uncle.”
Pete stretched. His shirttail slid up over two revolvers.
“Whatever happens, I’m in. This is too fucking big to pass up.”
o o o
His rent-a-car came with a discreet dashboard Jesus. Kemper slipped the ring over its head.
The air conditioner died outside Miami. A radio concert kept his mind off the heat.
A virtuoso played Chopin. Kemper replayed the scene at Pavillon.
Jack played peacemaker and smoothed things out. Old Joe’s freeze thawed out nicely. They stayed for one awkward drink.
Bobby sulked. Ava Gardner was plain flummoxed. She had no idea what the scene meant.
Joe sent him a note the next day. It closed with, “Laura deserves a man with balls.”
Laura said “I love you” that night. He made up his mind to propose to her at Christmas.
He could afford Laura now. He had three paychecks and two full-time hotel suites. He had a low six-figure bank-account balance.
And if Trafficante says yes…
o o o
Trafficante understood abstract concepts.
“Self-budgeted,” “autonomous” and “compartmentalized” amused him.
“Agency-aligned pharmacological sources” made him laugh outright.
He wore a nubby-weave silk suit. His office was turned out in blond-wood Danish modern.
He loved Kemper’s plan. He grasped its political thrust immediately.
The meeting extended. A yes-man served anisette and pastry.
Their conversation veered in odd directions. Trafficante critiqued the Big Pete Bondurant myth. The paper bag by Kemper’s feet went unmentioned.
The yes-man served espresso and Courvoisier VSOP. Kemper marked the moment with a bow.
“Raul Castro sent this in, Mr. Trafficante. Pete and I want you to have it, as a symbol of our good faith.”
Trafficante picked up the bag. He smiled at the weight and gave it a few little squeezes.
Kemper swirled his brandy. “If Castro is eliminated as a direct or indirect result of our efforts, Pete and I will insure that your contribution is recognized. More importantly, we’ll try to convince the new Cuban ruler to allow you, Mr. Giancana, Mr. Marcello and Mr. Rosselli to regain control of your casinos and build new ones.”
“And if he refuses?”
“We’ll kill him.”
“And what do you and Pete want for all your hard work?”
“If Cuba is liberated, we want to split 5% of the profits from the Capri and Nacional Hotel casinos in perpetuity.”
“Suppose Cuba stays Communist?”
“Then we get nothing.”
Trafficante bowed. “I’ll talk to the other boys, and of course, my vote is ‘Yes.’”
32
Littell picked up static interference. House-to-car bug feeds always ran rough.
The signal fed in from fifty yards out. Sid Kabikoff wore the microphone taped to his chest.
Mad Sal had arranged the meet. Sam G. insisted on his apartment-take it or leave it. Butch Montrose met Sid on the stoop and walked him up to the left-rear unit.
The car was broiling. Littell kept his windows up as a sound filter.
Kabikoff: “You’ve got a nice place, Sam. Really, what a choice pad-a-terre.”
Littell heard scratching noise-flush on the mike. He visualized the at-the-source cause.
Sid’s stretching the tape. He’s rubbing those bruises I inflicted down in Texas.
Giancana’s voice came in garbled. Littell thought he heard Mad Sal mentioned.
He tried to find Sal this morning. He cruised his collection turf and couldn’t locate him.
Montrose: “We know you knew Jules Schiffrin back in the old days. We know you know some of the boys, so it’s like you’re recommended from the gate.”
Kabikoff: “It’s like a loop. If you’re in the loop you’re in the loop.”
Cars boomed by. Windowpanes rattled close to the feed-in.
Kabikoff: “Everybody in the loop knows I’m the best smut man in the West. Everybody knows Sid the Yid’s got the bestlooking cunt and the boys with the putzes down to their knees.”
Giancana: “Did Sal tell you to ask for a Pension Fund loan specific?”
Kabikoff: “Yeah, he did.”
Montrose: “Is Sal in some kind of money trouble, Sid?”
Traffic noise covered the signal. Littell timed it at six seconds even.
Montrose: “I know Sal’s in the loop, and I know the loop’s the loop, but I’m also saying my own little love shack got burglarized in January, and I got rammed for fourteen Gs out of my fucking golf bag.”
Giancana: “And in April some friends of ours got clouted for eighty grand they had stashed in a locker. You see, right after these hits Sal started spending new money. Butch and me just put it together, sort of circumstantially.”
Littell went lightheaded. His pulse went haywire.
Kabikoff: “No. Sal wouldn’t do something like that. No… he wouldn’t…”
Montrose: “The loop’s the loop and the Fund’s the Fund, but the two ain’t necessarily the same thing. Jules Schiffrin’s with the Fund, but that don’t mean he’d roll over for a loan for you, just because you shared spit way back when.”
Giancana: “We sort of think somebody’s trying to get at Jimmy Hoffa and the Fund through a goddanm fake loan referral. We talked to Sal about it, but he didn’t have nothing to say.”
Littell hyperventilated. Spots blipped in front of his eyes.
Montrose: “So, did somebody approach you? Like the Feds or the Cook County Sheriff’s?”
Thumps hit the mike. It had to be Sid’s pulse racing. Fizzing noise overlapped the thumps-Sid’s sweat was clogging up the feeder ducts.
The feed sputtered and died. Littell hit his volume switch and got nothing but a static-fuzzed void.
He rolled down the windows and counted off forty-six seconds. Fresh air cleared his head.
He can’t rat me. I wore that ski mask both times that we talked.
Kabikoff stumbled out to the sidewalk. Wires dangled from the back of his shirt. He got his car and punched it straight through a red light.
Littell hit the ignition. The car wouldn’t start-his bug feed ran down the battery.
o o o
He knew what he’d find at Sal’s house. Four rye-and-beers prepared him to break in and see it.
They tortured Sal in his basement They stripped him and tied him to a ceiling pipe. They hosed him and scorched him with jumper cables.
Sal didn’t talk. Giancana didn’t know the name Littell. Fat Sid didn’t know his name or what he looked like.
They might let Sid go back to Texas. They might or might not kill him somewhere down the line.
They left a cable clamped to Sal’s tongue. Voltage burned his face shiny black.
Littell called Fat Sid’s hotel. The desk clerk said Mr. Kabikoff was in-he had two visitors just an hour ago.
Littell said, “Don’t ring his room.” He stopped for two more rye-and-beers and drove over to see for himself.
They left the door unlocked. They left Sid in an overflowing bathtub. They tossed a plugged-in TV set on top of him.
The water was still bubbling. Electric shock had burned Kabikoff bald.
Littell tried to weep. The rye-and-beers left him too anesthetized.
Kemper Boyd always said DON’T LOOK BACK.