Littell moved toward him. “Lenny…”
“Don’t you fucking come any closer or try to touch me or try to assuage your pathetic guilt or in any way mess with my gorgeous Percodan high or I won’t spill my lead on the Teamster Pension Fund books that I’ve had all along, you sad excuse for a policeman.”
Littell stiff-armed a chair. His fingers ripped through the fabric. He started weaving on his feet just like Lenny.
The bookcase shimmied. Lenny was weaving on his heels- doped up and punch-drunk.
“Jules Schiffrin keeps the books someplace in Lake Geneva. He’s got an estate there, and he’s got the books in safes or in safedeposit boxes at some banks around there. I know because I played a gig there and I heard Jules and Johnny Rosselli talking. Don’t ask for details because I don’t have any and concentrating makes my head hurt.”
His arm slid. The chair slid behind it. Littell stumbled up against the TV console.
“Why are you telling me this?”
“Because you’re a tiny smidgen better than Mr. Beast and Mr. Boyd and in my opinion Mr. Boyd only wants the information for its profit potential, and besides I took a beating for doing some work for Mr. Sam-”
“Lenny-”
“-and Mr. Sam said he’d make a powerful man crawl for it, but I said please don’t do that-”
“Lenny-”
“-and Jules Schiffrin was with him, and they were talking about somebody called ‘Irish Joe’ back in the ‘20s, and how they made these movie extra girls crawl-”
“Lenny, come on-”
“-and it all felt so ugly that I popped a few more Percs, and here I am, and if I’m lucky I won’t remember all this in the morning.”
Littell stepped closer. Lenny slapped and scratched and flailed and kicked him away.
The bookcase fell. Lenny tripped and weaved out the door.
Law texts hit the floor. A framed photograph of Helen Agee shattered.
o o o
Littell drove to Lake Geneva. He arrived at midnight and checked in at a motel off the Interstate. He paid cash in advance and registered under a fake name.
The phone book in his room listed Jules Schiffrin. His address was marked “Rural Free Delivery.” Littell checked a local map and pegged it: a woodland estate near the lake.
He drove out and parked off the road. Binoculars got him in close.
He saw a stonework mansion on a minimum of ten acres. Trees enclosed the property. There were no walls or fences.
No floodlamps. Two hundred yards from the door to the roadway. Alarm tape bracketing the front windows.
No guard hut and no gate. The Wisconsin State Police probably kept watch on an informal basis.
Lenny said “safes or safe-deposit boxes.” Lenny said “Mr. Boyd”/”information”/”profit potential.”
Lenny was drugged up but lucid. His Mr. Boyd line was easy to decode.
Kemper was chasing Fund leads independently.
Littell drove back to his motel. He checked the Yellow Pages and found listings for nine local banks.
Discreet behavior would cloak his lack of sanction. Kemper Boyd always stressed boldness and discretion.
Kemper shook down Lenny on his own. The revelation didn’t shock him at all.
o o o
He slept until 10:00. He checked a map and saw that the banks were all within walking distance.
The first four managers cooperated. Their replies were direct: Mr. Schiffrin does not rent with us. The next two managers shook their heads. Their replies were direct: Our facilities do not include safe-deposit boxes.
Manager number seven asked to see a bank writ. It was no great loss: the name Schiffrin sailed past him, unrecognized.
Banks number eight and nine: no safe-deposit boxes on the premises.
There were several major cities nearby. There were two dozen small towns spread out in a hundred-mile radius. Safe-deposit box access was a pipe dream.
“Safes” meant on-site placement. Safe-alarm companies retained placement diagrams-and did not release them without suit for legal cause.
Lenny played an on-site engagement. He might have seen the safe or safes firsthand.
Lenny was too combustible to approach now.
But-
Jack Ruby was a probable Schiffrin acquaintance. Jack Ruby was bribable and acquiescent.
Littell found a pay phone. A long-distance operator patched him through to Dallas.
Ruby picked up on the third ring. “This is the Carousel Club, where your entertainment dollar goes-”
“It’s me, Jack. Your friend from Chicago.”
“Fuck… this is grief I don’t…”
He sounded flummoxed, flabbergasted and dyspeptically peeved.
“How well do you know Jules Schiffrin, Jack?”
“Casual. I know Jules casual at best. Why? Why? Why?”
“I want you to fly up to Wisconsin and drop by his place in Lake Geneva on some pretext. I need to know the interior layout of his house, and I’ll give you my life savings if you do it.”
“Fuck. You are grief I don’t-”
“Four thousand dollars, Jack.”
“Fuck. You are grief I don’t-”
Dog yaps cut Ruby off.
45
Jimmy Hoffa said, “I know how Jesus must have felt. The fucking pharaohs rose to power on his coattails like the fucking Kennedy brothers are rising on mine.”
Heshie Ryskind said, “Get your history straight. It was Julius Caesar that did Jesus in.”
Santo Junior said, “Joe Kennedy is a man you can reason with. It’s strictly Bobby that’s the bad seed. Joe will explain certain facts of life to Jack if he makes it.”
Johnny Rosselli said, “J. Edgar Hoover hates Bobby. And he knows you can’t fight the Outfit and win. If the kid is elected, cooler heads than that little cocksucker Bobby’s will prevail.”
The Boys were sprawled in deck chairs out on the speedboat dock. Pete kept their drinks fresh and let them run off at the mouth.
Hoffa said, “Fucking Jesus turned fish into bread, and that’s about the only thing I haven’t tried. I’ve spent six hundred grand on the primaries and bought every fucking cop and alderman and councilman and mayor and fucking grand juror and senator and judge and DA and fucking prosecutorial investigator who’d let me. I’m like Jesus trying to part the Red Fucking Sea and not getting no further than some motel on the beach.”
Ryskind said, “Jimmy, calm down. Go get yourself a nice blow job and relax. I’ve got some reliable local numbers. These are girls who know their trade and would love to satisfy a famous guy like you.”
Rosselli said, “If Jack is elected, Bobby will fade into the woodwork. My bet is he’ll run for governor of Massachusetts, and Raymond Patriarca and the Boston boys will have to worry about him.”
Santo Junior said, “That will never happen. Old Joe and Raymond go too far back. And when push comes to shove, it’s Joe who hands down the law-not Jack or Bobby.”
Hoffa said, “It’s the handing down of grand jury indictments that bothers me. My lawyer said the Sun Valley thing is unlikely to go my way, which means indictments by the end of the year. So don’t make Joe Kennedy sound like Jesus handing God the Ten Commandments on Mount Fucking Vesuvius.”
Ryskind said, “Santo was just making a point.”
Rosselli said, “It’s Mount Ararat, Jimmy. Mount Vesuvius is in fucking Yellowstone Park.”
Hoffa said, “You guys don’t know Jack Kennedy. Fucking Kemper Boyd’s got you convinced he’s a gung-ho anti-Castro guy when he’s really a pinko, Commie-appeasing, nigger-loving fucking homo masquerading as a cunt man.”
Wave spray hit the dock. Cadence counts sounded off fifty yards over-Lockhart was running troops through close-order drill. -
Ryskind said, “I could go for a blow job.”
Rosselli said, “What’s the count at, Hesh?”