Pete picked up casual slow. “Hi, Boss.”
Santo said the words. Santo came through right on cue.
“Wilfredo Delsol fucked me. He’s hiding out, and I want you to find him.”
“What did he do?”
“Don’t ask questions. Just find him and do it right now.”
o o o
Néstor let him in. He’d turned the living room into an instant junkie pigsty.
Dig the syringe in plain view. Dig the candy bars mashed into the carpet. Dig that white powder residue on every flat cutting surface.
Dig Wilfredo Olmos Delsol: dope-swacked on a plush-velour couch.
Pete shot him in the head. Néstor chopped off three of his fingers and dropped them in an ashtray.
It was 5:20. Santo wouldn’t buy a one-hour search-and-find. They had time to reinforce the lie.
Néstor split–Boyd had work for him back in Mississippi. Pete tamped down his nerves with deep breaths and a dozen cigarettes.
He visualized it. He got the details straight in his head. He put his gloves on and did it.
He dumped the icebox.
He slashed the couch down to the springs.
He ripped the living-room walls out in a mock dope-search frenzy.
He burned cooking spoons.
He formed heroin into snort lines on a glass-topped coffee table.
He found a discarded lipstick and smeared it on some filter-tip butts.
He slashed Delsol with a kitchen knife. He scorched his balls with a wood-burning tool he found in the bedroom.
He dipped his hands in Delsol’s blood and wrote “Traitor” on the living-room wall.
It was 8:40 p.m.
Pete ran down to a pay phone. Real live fear juked his performance.
Delsol’s dead–tortured–I got a tip on his hideout–he was strung-out—dope everywhere–somebody trashed the place–I think he was on a toot with some whores–Santo, tell me, what the fuck is this all about?
80
(Washington, D.C., 5/7/62)
Littell made business calls. Mr. Hoover gave him a tap scrambler to insure that his calls stayed private.
He called Jimmy Hoffa at a pay phone. Jimmy was profoundly tap-phobic.
They discussed the Test Fleet taxi fraud case. Jimmy said, Let’s bribe some jurors.
Littell said he’d send him a jury list. He told Hoffa to have front men make the bribe offers.
Jimmy said, What’s shaking with the shakedown?
Littell reported, ALL SYSTEMS GO. Baby Jimmy said, Let’s squeeze Jack now!!!
Littell said, Be patient. We’ll squeeze him at the optimum time.
Jimmy threw a goodbye fit. Littell called Carlos Marcello in New Orleans.
They discussed his deportation case. Littell stressed the need for tactical delays.
“You beat the Federal government by frustrating them. You exhaust them and make them rotate attorneys on and off your case. You try their patience and resources, and stall the hell out of them.”
Carlos got the point. Carlos asked a truly silly goodbye question.
“Can I get a tax deduction on my Cuban bag donations?”
Littell said, “Regretfully, no.”
Carlos signed off. Littell called Pete in Miami.
He picked up on the first ring. “This is Bondurant.”
“It’s me, Pete.”
“Yeah, Ward. I’m listening.”
“Is something wrong? You sound agitated.”
“Nothing’s wrong. Is something wrong with our deal?”
“Nothing’s wrong. I’ve been thinking of Lenny, though, and I keep thinking he’s too close to Sam for my liking.”
“You think he’d spill to Sam?”
“Not exactly. What I’m thinking is–”
Pete cut him off. “Don’t tell me what you’re thinking. You’re running this show, so just tell me what you want.”
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.