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?”
Ryskind said, “Somewhere in the vicinity of seventeen thousand.”
Santo Junior said, “Don’t shit a shitter. I’d say eight thousand tops. Anything more than that and you’d be too fucking occupied to make money.”
The dock phone rang. Pete tilted his chair back and grabbed the receiver.
“This is Bondurant.”
“I’m glad it’s you, but don’t you soldier types say hello?”
Jack Ruby–un-fucking-mistakable.
Pete cupped the mouthpiece. “What is it? I told you not to call unless it’s important.”
“What it is is the crazy Fed. He called me yesterday, and I’ve been stalling him.”
“What did he want?”
“He offered me four Gs to fly up to Lake Geneva Goddamn Wisconsin and case the layout of Jules Schiffrin’s house up there. It seems to me this is part of that farkakte Pension Fund–”
“Tell him you’ll do it. Set up a meet someplace quiet fortyeight hours from now and call me back.”
Ruby gulped and stammered. Pete hung up and popped his knuckles ten across.
The goddamn phone rang again–
Pete snagged it. “Jack, what are you doing?”
A man said, “This ain’t Jack. This is a certain Mr. Giancana looking for a certain Mr. Hoffa, who a little birdie told me is there with you.”
Pete waved the phone. “It’s for you, Jimmy. It’s Mo.”
Hoffa belched. “Hit that loudspeaker doohickey on that post there. Sam and me got nothing to hide from you guys.”
Pete tapped the switch. Hoffa yelled straight at the mike stand: “Yeah, Sam.”
The speaker kicked in loud:
“Your West Virginia guys fucked up my boy Lenny Sands, Jimmy. Don’t let anything like that happen again or I’d be inclined to make you apologize in front of an audience. My advice to you is to leave politics the fuck alone and concentrate on staying out of jail.”
Giancana slammed his phone down. The sound made the whole dock shimmy. Heshie, Johnny and Santo shared this green-atthe-gills look.
Hoffa blew verbal. Birds shot up out of trees and covered the sky.
46
(Lake Geneva, 5/14/60)
The road bisected two fenced-off pastures. Clouds covered the moon–visibility was close to nil.
Littell pulled over and stuffed his money in a grocery bag. It was 10:06–Ruby was late.
Littell turned off his headlights. Clouds skittered by. The moon lit up a huge shape walking toward the car.
The windshield exploded. The dashboard fell on his lap. A steel bar cracked the steering wheel and ripped the gearshift out.
Hands jerked him across the hood. Glass ripped through his cheeks and lodged in his mouth.
Hands dumped him in a ditch.
Hands picked him up and pinioned him against a barbed-wire fence.
He was dangling. Steel barbs pierced his clothes and held him upright.
The monster ripped his holster off. The monster hit him and hit him and hit him.
The fence shook. Twisty metal gouged his backside down to the bone. He coughed up blood and chunks of glass and a big piece of a Chevy hood ornament.
He smelled gasoline. His car exploded. A heat blast singed his hair.
The fence collapsed. He looked up and saw clouds ignite.
DOCUMENT INSERT: 5/19/60. FBI Memorandum: Milwaukee Special Agent-in-Charge John Campion to Director J. Edgar Hoover.
Sir:
Our investigation into the near-fatal assault on SA Ward Littell is proceeding but making scant headway, primarily due to SA Littell’s poor attitude and lack of cooperation.
Agents from both the Milwaukee and Chicago Offices canvassed Lake Geneva for eyewitnesses to the assault and for witnesses to Littell’s general presence In the area and were unable to locate any. Chicago SAC Leahy informed me that Littell was under loose su.rvefflance for matters pertaining to internal Bureau security and that on two recent occasions (May 10th and May 14th) the agents mobile-tailing Littell lost him on roadways leading north to the Wisconsin border. The nature of Littell’s business in the Lake Geneva area is thus far unknown.