Men stood at the bar drinking lunch: rye shots and beer chasers. Littell signaled for the same–nobody laughed or snickered.
The barman served him and took his money. He downed his lunch quick–just like his Teamster brothers.
The rye made him sweat; the beer gave him goose bumps. The combination tamped down his nerves.
He’d had one THP Squad meeting. The men seemed to resent him–Mr. Hoover slotted him in personally. An agent named Court Meade came on friendly; the others welcomed him with nods and perfunctory handshakes.
He had three days in as a THP agent. Including three shifts at the bug post, studying Chi-mob voices.
The barman cruised by. Littell raised two fingers–the same way his Teamster brothers called for refills.
Sands and Ruby kept talking. There was no table space near them–he couldn’t get close enough to listen.
He drank and paid up. The rye went straight to his head.
Drinking on duty was a Bureau infraction. Not strictly illegal– like wiring fuck pads to entrap politicians.
The agent working the Shoftel post was probably swamped–he hadn’t sent a single tape out yet. Mr. Hoover’s Kennedy hate seemed insanely misguided.
Robert Kennedy seemed heroic. Bobby’s kindness to Roland Kirpaski seemed pure and genuine.
A table opened up. Littell walked through the lunch line and grabbed it. Lenny and Rubenstein/Ruby were less than three feet away.
Ruby was talking. Food dribbled down his bib.
“Heshie always thinks he’s got cancer or some farkakte disease. With Hesh a pimple’s always a malignant tumor.”
Lenny picked at a sandwich. “Heshie’s a class guy. When I played the Stardust Lounge in ‘54 he came every night. Heshie always preferred lounge acts to the main-room guys. Jesus Christ and the Apostles could be playing the big room at the Dunes, and Heshie’d be over at some slot palace checking out some guinea crooner ‘cause his cousin’s a made guy.”
Ruby said, “Heshie loves blow jobs. He gets blow jobs exclusively, ‘cause he says it’s good for his prostate. He told me he hasn’t dipped the schnitzel since he was with the Purples back in the ‘30s and some shiksa tried to schlam him with a paternity suit. Heshie told me he’s had over ten thousand blow jobs. He likes to watch ‘The Lawrence Welk Show’ while he gets blown. He’s got nine doctors for all these diseases he thinks he’s got, and all the nurses blow him. That’s how he knows it’s good for his prostate.”
“Heshie” was most likely Herschel Meyer Ryskind: “active in the Gulf Coast heroin trade.”
Lenny said, “Jack, I hate to stiff you with all these coins, but I didn’t have time to go to the bank. Sam was very specific. He said you were making rounds and only had limited time. I’m glad we had time to nosh, though, ‘cause I always enjoy watching you eat.”
Ruby wiped his bib. “I’m worse when the food’s better. There’s a deli in Big D that’s to die for. Here, my shirt’s just spritzed. At that deli it’s spray-painted.”
“Who’s the money for?”
“Batista and the Beard. Santo and Sam are hedging their bets political-wise. I’m flying down next week.”
Lenny pushed his plate aside. “I’ve got this new routine where Castro comes to the States and gets a job as a beatnik poet. He’s smoking maryjane and talking like a shvartze.”
“You’re big-room talent, Lenny. I’ve always said so.”
“Keep saying it, Jack. If you keep saying it, somebody might hear you.”
Ruby stood up. “Hey, you never know.”
“That’s right, you never do. Shalom, Jack. It’s always a pleasure watching you eat.”
Ruby walked out with his suitcase. Jewboy Lenny lit a cigarette and rolled his eyes up to God.
Lounge acts. Blow jobs. Rye and beer for lunch.
Littell walked back to his car lightheaded.
o o o
Lenny left twenty minutes later. Littell tailed him to Lake Shore Drive northbound.
Whitecap spray lit the windshield–booming wind had the lake churning. Littell cranked up his heater–too hot replaced too cold.
The liquor left him cotton-mouthed and just a tad woozy. The road kept dipping–just a little.
Lenny signaled to exit. Littell leaped lanes and eased up behind him. They swung down into the Gold Coast–too upscale to be Vendo-King turf.