Man #2: “Mo told me Santo called him right before the kickoff. The crazy fuckin’ Cubans down in Miami are pitching a fit. Mo’s got a piece of that cabstand, you know the one?”
Man #1: “Yeah, the Tiger Kabs. I went down there for the Teamster convention last year and rode in one of those cabs, and I was picking orange and black fuzz out of my ass for the next six fuckin’ months.”
Man #2: “Half those Cuban humps are pro-Beard, and half of them are pro-Batista. Santo told Sam it’s nuts at the stand, like niggers when their welfare checks don’t arrive.”
Laughter hit the feed box–static-laced and overamplified. Littell unhooked his headset and stretched.
He had two hours left on his shift. He’d gleaned no salient intelligence so far: Cuban politics didn’t interest him. He’d logged in ten days of covert listening–and accrued no hard evidence.
He cut a deal with SA Court Meade–a surreptitious work trade. Meade’s mistress lived in Rogers Park; some Commie cell leaders lived nearby. They worked out an agreement: I take your job, you take mine.
They spent cosmetic time working their real assignments and flip-flopped all report writing. Meade chased Reds and an insurance-rich widow. He listened to hoodlums colloquialize.
Court was lazy and pension-secure. Court had twenty-seven years with the Bureau.
He was careful. He hoarded insider knowledge of Kemper Boyd’s Kennedy incursion. He filed detailed Red Squad reports and forged Meade’s signature on all THP memoranda.
He always watched the street for approaching agents. He always entered and exited the bug post surreptitiously.
The plan would work–for a while. The lackluster bug talk was vexing–he needed to recruit an informant.
He’d tailed Lenny Sands for ten consecutive nights. Sands did not habituate homosexual meeting spots. His sexual bent might not prove exploitable–Sands might belittle the threat of exposure.
Snow swirled up Michigan Avenue. Littell studied his one wallet photo.
It was a laminated snapshot of Helen. Her hairdo made her burn scars stand out.
The first time he kissed her scars she wept. Kemper called her “the Mack Truck Girl.” He gave her a Mack truck bulldog hood hanger for Christmas.
Claire Boyd told Susan they were lovers. Susan said, “When the shock wears off, I’ll tell Dad what I think.”
She still hadn’t called him.
Littell put on his headset. He heard the tailor shop door slam.
Unknown Man #1: “Sal, Sal D. Sal, do you believe this weather? Don’t you wish you were down in Havana shooting dice with the Beard?”
“Sal D.”: most likely Mario Salvatore D’Onofrio, AKA “Mad Sal.” Key THP stats:
Independent bookmaker/loan shark. One manslaughter conviction in 1951. Labeled “a psychopathically-derived criminal sadist with uncontrollable psycho-sexual urges to inflict pain.”
Unknown Man #2: “Che se dice, Salvatore? Tell us what’s new and unusual.”
Sal D.: “The news is I lost a bundle on the Colts over the Giants, and I had to tap Sam for a fucking loan.”
Unknown Man #1: “You still got the church thing, Sal? Where you take the paisan groups out to Tahoe and Vegas?”
Static hit the line. Littell slapped the feed box and cleared the air flow.
Sal D.: “…and Gardena and L.A. We catch Sinatra and Dino, and the casinos set us up in these private slot rooms and kick back a percentage. It’s what you call a junket–you know, entertainment and gambling and shit. Hey, Lou, you know Lenny the Jew?”
Lou/Man #1: “Yeah, Sands. Lenny Sands.”
Man #2: “Jewboy Lenny. Sam G.’s fuckin’ court jester.”
Squelch noise drowned out the incoming voices. Littell slapped the console and untangled some feeder conis.
Sal D.: “…So I said, ‘Lenny, I need a guy to travel with me. I need a guy to keep my junketeers lubed up and laughing, so they’ll lose more money and juke up my kickbacks.’ He said, ‘Sal, I don’t audition, but catch me at the North Side Elks on January 1st. I’m doing a Teamster smoker, and if you don’t dig–’”
The heat needle started twitching. Littell hit the kill switch and felt the feed box go cool to the touch.
The D’Onofrio/Sands connection was interesting.
He checked Sal D.’s on-post file. The agent’s summary read horrific.