“Fuck you, Lenny. You said fifteen.”
“Fuck you, Sal. I changed my mind.”
Silence stretched–Littell visualized a long staredown.
“Okay okay okay. Okay for fuckin’ twenty, you fuckin’ Jew bandit.”
“Sal, I like you. Just don’t shake my hand, you’re too greasy to touch.”
Car doors slammed. Littell saw Mad Sal snag his Caddy and slalom out to the street.
Lenny turned on his headlights and idled the engine. Cigarette smoke blew out the driver’s-side window.
Littell walked to his car. Lenny was parked two rows over– he’d spot his departure.
Lenny just sat there. Drunks careened in front of his beams and took pratfalls on ice.
Littell wiped ice off his windshield. The car sat in snow up to its bumpers.
Lenny pulled out. Littell cut him a full minute’s slack and followed his tracks in the slush.
They led straight to Lake Shore Drive northbound. Littell caught up with him just short of the ramp.
Lenny swung on. Littell stayed four car lengths behind him.
It was a crawl tail–tire chains on crusted blacktop–two cars and one deserted expressway.
Lenny passed the Gold Coast off-ramps. Littell dawdled back and fixed on his taillights.
They crawled past Chicago proper. They crawled past Glencoe, Evanston and Wilmette.
Signs marked the Winnetka town limits. Lenny spun right and pulled off the highway at the very last second.
There was no way to follow him–he’d spin out or clip a guardrail.
Littell took the next off-ramp down. Winnetka was 1:00 a.m. quiet and beautiful–all Tudor mansions and freshly plowed streets.
He grid-cruised and hit a business thoroughfare. A stretch of cars were parked outside a cocktail lounge: Perry’s Little Log Cabin.
Lenny’s Packard Caribbean was nosed up to the curb.
Littell parked and walked in. A ceiling banner brushed his face: “Welcome 1959!” in silver spangles.
The place was cold-weather cozy. The decor was rustic: mocktimber walls, hardwood bar, Naugahyde lounging sofas.
The clientele was all male. The bar was standing room only. Two men sat on a lounge sofa, fondling–Littell looked away.
He stared straight ahead. He felt eyes strafe him. He spotted phone booths near the rear exit–enclosed and safe.
He walked back. Nobody approached him. His holster rig had rubbed his shoulders raw–he’d spent the whole night sweating and fidgeting.
He sat down in the first booth. He cracked the door and caught a full view of the bar.
There’s Lenny, drinking Pernod. There’s Lenny and a blond man rubbing legs.
Littell watched them. The blond man slipped Lenny a note and waltzed off. A Platters medley hit the jukebox.
The room thinned out a few couples at a time. The sofa couple stood up, unzipped. The bartender announced last call.
Lenny ordered Cointreau. The front door opened. Icepick Tony Iannone walked in.
“One of Giancana’s most feared underbosses” started Frenchkissing the barman. The Chicago Mob killer suspected of nine mutilation murders was sucking and biting on the barman’s ear.
Littell went dizzy. Littell went dry-mouthed. Littell felt his pulse go crazy.
Tony/Lenny/Lenny/Tony–who knows who’s QUEER?
Tony saw Lenny. Lenny saw Tony. Lenny ran out the rear exit.
Tony chased Lenny. Littell froze. The phone booth went airless and sucked all the breath out of him.
He got the door open. He stumbled outside. Cold air slammed him.
An alley ran behind the bar. He heard noise down and left, by the back of the adjoining building.
Tony had Lenny pinned down on a snowdrift. Lenny was biting and kicking and gouging.
Tony pulled out two switchblades. Littell pulled his gun, fumbled it and dropped it. His warning scream choked out mute.
Lenny kneed Tony. Tony pitched sideways. Lenny bit his nose off.
Littell slid on ice and fell. Soft-packed snow muffled the sound. Fifteen yards between him and them–they couldn’t see him or hear him.
Tony tried to scream. Lenny spat his nose out and jammed snow in his mouth. Tony dropped his knives; Lenny grabbed them.
They couldn’t see him. He slid on his knees and crawled for his gun.
Tony pawed at the snow. Lenny stabbed him two-handed–in his eyes, in his cheeks, in his throat.
Littell crawled for his gun.
Lenny ran.
Tony died coughing up bloody snow.