James Ellroy - American tabloid

Littell said, “Call Turentine. Have him fly out to L.A. and tap Lenny’s phone as an added precaution. Barb’s out there, too. She’s appearing at a place in Hollywood called the Rabbit’s Foot Club. Have Freddy check on her and see how she’s holding up.”

Pete said, “This sounds good to me. Besides, there’s other things I don’t want Sam to make Lenny do.”

“What are you talking about?”

“Cuban stuff. You wouldn’t be interested.”

Littell checked his calendar. He saw writ-submission dates running straight into June.

“Call Freddy, Pete. Let’s not sit on this.”

“Maybe I’ll meet him in L.A. I could use a change of scenery.”

“Do it. And let me know when the tap’s in.”

“I will. See you, Ward.”

Littell hung up. The scrambler blinked and broke off his line of thought.

Hoover accepted him now. Their courtly moments were over. Hoover reverted to his standard curt behavior.

Hoover expected him to beg.

Please reinstate Helen Agee in law school. Please let my leftist friend out of prison.

He’d never beg.

Pete was nervous. He had a hunch that Kemper Boyd forced Pete into things he couldn’t control.

Boyd collected acolytes. Boyd felt at one with Cuban killers and poor Negroes. Kemper’s gloss seduced Pete. The Cuban mess pushed them far beyond their ken.

Carlos said they cut a deal with Santo Trafficante. Their potential profit made Carlos laugh. He said Santo would never pay them that much money.

Carlos embraced the Cuban mess. Carlos said Sam and Santo wanted to cut their losses.

Net loss. Net gain. Profit potential.

He had the Fund books. He needed to clear a stretch of time and develop a strategy to exploit them.

Littell turned his chair around and looked out the window. Cherry blossoms brushed the glass-close enough to touch.

The phone rang. Littell tapped the speaker switch. “Yes?”

A man said, “This is Howard Hughes.”

Littell almost giggled. Pete told these hilarious Dracula tales-

“This is Ward Littell, Mr. Hughes. And I’m very pleased to talk to you.”

Hughes said, “You should be pleased. Mr. Hoover has shared your impeccable credentials with me, and I intend to offer you $200,000 a year for the privilege of entering my employ. I will not require you to move to Los Angeles, and we will communicate solely by letter and telephone. Your specific duties will be to handle the writ work in my painfully protracted TWA divestment suit, and to help me purchase Las Vegas hotel-casinos with the profits I expect to accrue when I finally divest TWA. Your Italian connections will prove invaluable in this regard, and I will expect you to ingratiate yourself with the Nevada State Legislature and help me devise a policy to insure that my hotels remain Negroand germ-free-”

Littell listened.

Hughes continued.

Littell didn’t even try to respond.

Pete held the flashlight. Freddy replaced the dial housing. The work went down bite-your-nails nervous and slow.

Freddy fucked with some loose wires. “I hate Pacific Bell phones. I hate night jobs and working in the dark. I hate bedroom extensions, because the goddamn cords get tangled up behind the goddamn bed.”

“Don’t complain, just do it.”

“My screwdriver keeps jamming. And are you sure Littell wants us to tap both extensions?”

Pete said, “ Just do it . Two extensions and a pickup box outside. We’ll stash it in those shrubs by the driveway. If you quit complaining, we can be out of here in twenty minutes.”

Freddy gouged his thumb. “Fuck. I hate Pacific Bell phones. And Lenny don’t have to use his home phones to rat us. He can rat us in person or rat us from a pay phone.”

Pete gripped down on the flashlight. The beam wiggled and jumped.

“You fucking stop complaining, or I’ll shove this fucking thing up your ass.”

Freddy flinched and bumped a shelf. A Hush-Hush clipping file went flying.

“All right, all right. You been jumpy since you got off the airplane, so I’ll only say it once. Pacific Bell phones are the shits . When you tap their lines, half the time the incoming callers can hear clicks. It’s fucking unavoidable. And who’s going to monitor the pickup box?”

Pete rubbed his eyes. He was nursing an on-and-off migraine since the night he killed Wilfredo Delsol.

“Littell can get some Feds to watch the box. We only need to check it every few days.”

Freddy bent a lamp over the phone. “Go watch the door. I can’t work with you standing over me.”

Pete walked into the living room. His headache popped him right between the eyes.

He popped two aspirin. He washed them down with Lenny’s cognac, straight from the bottle.

The stuff went down smooth. Pete knocked back a short refill.

His headache de-torqued. The veins above his eyes stopped pulsing.

Santo bought the charade so far. Santo never said how Delsol fucked him.

Santo said Sam G. got fucked, too. He didn’t mention hijacked dope or fifteen dead men. He didn’t say some big Outfit guys cozied up to Fidel Castro.

He said he had to cut the Cadre loose.

“Just for now, Pete. I’ve heard there’s Federal pressure coming down. I want to extricate out of narcotics for a while.”

The man just imported two hundred pounds of Big “H.” The man was talking up extrication with a straight face.

Santo showed him a police report. The Miami fuzz bought the charade. They considered it one grisly dope killing-with assumed Cuban exile perpetrators.

Boyd and Nйstor went back to Mississippi. The dope was stashed in forty safe-deposit boxes.

They resumed their Whack Castro training. They didn’t care that the Outfit dug Fidel now. They didn’t seem to know that there were men who could make them stop.

Their fear wasn’t screwed on tight.

His was.

They didn’t know you don’t fuck with the Outfit.

He did.

He always sucked up to men with REAL power. He never broke the rules they set. He had to do what he did-but he didn’t know WHY.

Santo swore vengeance. Santo said he’d find the dope thieves-whatever it cost, whatever it took.

Boyd thought they could sell the dope. Boyd was wrong. Boyd said he’d snitch the Mob-Agency links. Boyd said he could level out Bobby’s rage.

He wouldn’t do it. He couldn’t do it. He’d never risk losing stature with the Kennedys.

Pete took another drink. His three shots killed a third of the bottle.

Freddy lugged his tools out. “Let’s go. I’ll drive you back to your hotel.”

“You go. I want to take a walk.”

“Where to?”

“I don’t know.”

o o o

The Rabbit’s Foot Club was a hotbox-four walls trapping smoke and stale air. Underaged Twisters ruled the dance floor-a big liquor-law infraction.

Joey and the boys played half on-the-nod. Barb was singing some dippy wah-wah tune. A single sad-ass hooker sat at the bar.

Barb spotted him. She smiled and fumbled some lyrics.

The only half-private booth in the room was occupied. Two Marines and two high-school girls-ripe for eviction.

Pete told them to shove off. They caught his size and did it The girls left their fruity rum drinks on the table.

Pete sat down and sipped at them. His headache leveled off a bit more. Barb closed with a weak “Twilight Time” cover.

A few Twisters clapped. The combo dispersed backstage. Barb walked straight over and joined him.

Pete slid close to her. Barb said, “I’m surprised. Ward said you were in Miami.”

“I thought I’d come out and see how things were going.”