AMERICAN TABLOID by James Ellroy

Bobby thinks I’m chasing leads on Anton Gretzler. I’m really protecting Howard Hughes’ pet thug.

Q: You seem bent on crashing the Kennedy inner circle.

A: I can spot corners a mile off. Cozying up to Democrats doesn’t make me a Communist. Old Joe Kennedy’s as far right as Mr. Hoover.

Q: You “cozied up” to Jack rather fast.

A: If circumstances had been different, I could have been Jack.

Kemper checked his notebook.

He had to go by Tiger Kab. He had to go to Sun Valley and show mug shots to the witness who saw the “big man” avert his face off the Interstate.

He’d show him old mug shots–bad current Bondurant likenesses. He’d discourage a confirmation: you didn’t really see this man, did you?

A tiger-striped taxi swerved in front of him. He saw a tigerstriped hut down the block.

Kemper pulled up and parked across the street. Some curbside loungers smelled COP and dispersed.

He walked into the hut. He laughed–the wallpaper was freshflocked tiger-striped velveteen.

Four tiger-shirted Cubans stood up and circled him. They wore their shirttails out to cover waistband bulges.

Kemper pulled his mug shots out. The tiger men circled in tighter. A man pulled out a stiletto and scratched his neck with the blade.

The other tiger men laughed. Kemper braced the closest one. “Have you seen him?”

The man passed the mug strip around. Every man flashed recognition and said “No.”

Kemper grabbed the strip. He saw a white man on the sidewalk checking his car out.

The knife man sidled up close. The other tiger men giggled. The knife man twirled his blade right upside the gringo’s eyes.

Kemper judo-chopped him. Kemper snapped his knees with a sidekick. The man hit the floor prone and dropped his shiv.

Kemper picked it up. The tiger men backed off en masse. Kernper stepped on the knife man’s knife hand and slammed the blade through it.

The knife man screamed. The other tiger men gasped and tittered. Kemper exited with a tight little bow.

o o o

He drove out I-95 to Sun Valley. A gray sedan stuck close behind him. He changed lanes, dawdled and accelerated–the car followed from a classic tail distance.

Kemper eased down an off-ramp. A hicktown main street ran perpendicular to it–just four gas stations and a church. He pulled into a Texaco and parked.

He walked to the men’s room. He saw the tail car idle up to the pumps. The white man dawdling by Tiger Kab got out and looked around.

Kemper shut the door and pulled his piece. The room was smelly and filthy.

He counted seconds off his watch. He heard foot scuffs at fiftyone.

The man nudged the door open. Kemper yanked him in and pinned him to the walL

He was fortyish, sandy-haired, and slender. Kemper patsearched him from the ankles up.

No badge, no gun, no leatherette ID holder.

The man didn’t blink. The man ignored the revolver in his face.

The man said, “My name is John Stanton. I’m a representative of a U.S. Government agency, and I want to talk to you.”

“About what?”

Stanton said, “Cuba.”

9

(Chicago, 12/11/58)

Snitch candidate at work: “Jewboy Lenny” Sands collecting jukebox cash.

Littell tailed him. They hit six Hyde Park taverns in an hour– Lenny worked fast.

Lenny kibitzed. Lenny cracked jokes. Lenny passed out Johnnie Walker Red Label miniatures. Lenny told the story of Come-San-Chin, the Chinese cocksucker–and bagged his coin receipts inside seven minutes.

Lenny was a deficient tail-spotter. Lenny had unique THP stats: lounge entertainer/Cuban bagman/Mob mascot.

Lenny pulled up to the Tillerman’s Lounge. Littell parked and walked in thirty seconds behind him.

The place was overheated. A bar mirror tossed his reflection back: lumberjack coat, chinos, work boots.

He still looked like a college professor.

Teamster regalia lined the walls. A framed glossy stood out: Jimmy Hoffa and Frank Sinatra holding up trophy fish.

Workingmen walked through a hot buffet line. Lenny sat at a back table, with a stocky man wolfmg corned beef.

Littell ID’d him: Jacob Rubenstein/AKA Jack Ruby.

Lenny brought his coin sacks. Ruby brought a suitcase. It was a probable vending cash transfer.

There were no empty tables adjoining them.

Pages: 1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 10 11 12 13 14 15 16 17 18 19 20 21 22 23 24 25 26 27 28 29 30 31 32 33 34 35 36 37 38 39 40 41 42 43 44 45 46 47 48 49 50 51 52 53 54 55 56 57 58 59 60 61 62 63 64 65 66 67 68 69 70 71 72 73 74 75 76 77 78 79 80 81 82 83 84 85 86 87 88 89 90 91 92 93 94 95 96 97 98 99 100 101 102 103 104 105 106 107 108 109 110 111 112 113 114 115 116 117 118 119 120 121 122 123 124 125 126 127 128 129 130 131 132 133 134 135 136 137 138 139 140 141 142 143 144 145 146 147 148 149 150 151 152 153 154 155 156 157 158 159 160 161 162 163 164 165 166 167 168 169 170 171 172 173 174 175 176 177 178 179 180 181 182 183 184 185 186 187 188 189 190 191 192 193 194 195 196 197 198 199 200 201 202 203 204 205 206 207 208 209 210 211 212 213 214 215 216 217 218

Leave a Reply 0

Your email address will not be published. Required fields are marked *