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
(Blessington, 5/12/60)
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.”