He saw a liquor tray by the couch. Cut-glass decanters full of scotch, bourbon and brandy.
Lenny pulled his knees up and hugged them. Littell tucked his gun in his waistband and pulled out a glassine bag.
It held two blood-crusted switchblades.
He showed them to Lenny. He said, “I dusted them for prints and got four latents that matched your DMV set.”
It was a bluff. All he got were smears.
“You’ve got no choice in this, Lenny. You know what Sam would do to you.”
Lenny broke a sweat. Littell poured him a scotch–the smell made him salivate.
Lenny sipped his drink two-handed. His tough-guy voice didn’t quite work.
“I know bubkes about the Fund. What I know is that connected guys and certain businessman types apply for these large-interest loans and get pushed up some kind of loan ladder.”
“To Sam Giancana?”
“That’s one theory.”
“Then elaborate on it.”
“The theory is that Giancana consults with Jimmy Hoffa on all the big-money loan applications. Then they get accepted or refused.”
“Are there alternative Pension Fund books? What I’m thinking of is coded books hiding secret assets.”
“I don’t know.”
Kemper Boyd always said COW YOUR INFORMANTS.
Lenny hauled himself into a chair. Schizophrenic Lenny knew that tough Jewboys don’t cringe on the floor.
Littell poured himself a double scotch. Lounge-Act Lenny said, “Make yourself at home.”
Littell tucked the switchblades in his pocket. “I checked your address book, and I noticed that your addresses don’t match the addresses that the Top Hoodlum Program has on file.”
“What addresses?”
“The addresses of members of the Chicago Crime Cartel.”
“Oh, those addresses.”
“Why don’t they match?”
Lenny said, “Because they’re fuck pads. They’re pads where guys go to cheat on their wives. I’ve got keys to some of the pads, because I drop off jukebox receipts to them. In fact, I was bagging receipts at that fucking queer bar when that fucking faggot Iannone came on to me.”
Littell downed his drink. “I saw you kill Iannone. I know why you were at Perry’s Little Log Cabin, and why you frequent Hernando’s Hideaway. I know you’ve got two lives and two voices and two sets of God knows what else. I know that Iannone went after you because he didn’t want you knowing that he did, too.”
Lenny SQUEEEZED his glass, two-handed. Thick-cut crystal snapped and shattered–
Whisky sprayed out. Blood mixed with it. Lenny did not yelp or flinch or move.
Littell tossed his glass on the couch. “I know you made a deal with Sal D’Onofrio.”
No response.
“I know you’re going to travel with his gambling junkets.”
No response.
“Sal’s a loan shark. Could he refer prospects up the Pension Fund ladder?”
No response.
Littell said, “Come on, talk to me. I’m not going to leave until I have what I came for.”
Lenny wiped blood off his hands. “I don’t know. Maybe, maybe not. As sharks go, Sal’s small fry.”
“What about Jack Ruby? He sharks part-time down in Dallas.”
“Jack’s a clown. He knows people, but he’s a clown.”
Littell lowered his voice. “Do the Chicago boys know you’re a homosexual?”
Lenny choked sobs back. Littell said, “Answer the question and admit what you are.”
Lenny shut his eyes and nodded, no no no.
“Then answer this question. Will you be my informant?”
Lenny shut his eyes and nodded, yes yes yes.
“The papers said Iannone was married.”
No response.
“Lenny…”
“Yes. He was married.”
“Did he have a fuck pad?”
“He must have.”
Littell buttoned up his overcoat. “I might do you a solid, Lenny.”
No response.
“I’ll be in touch. You know what I’m interested in, so get on it.”
Lenny ignored him. Lenny started picking glass out of his hands.
o o o
He took a key ring off Iannone’s body. It contained four keys on a fob marked “Di Giorgio’s Locksmith’s, 947 Hudnut Drive, Evanston.”
Two car keys and one assumed house key. The remaining key might be for a fuck-pad door.
Littell drove up to Evanston. He hit on some dumb late-night luck: the locksmith lived in back of his shop.
The unexpected FBI roust scared the man. He identified the keys as his work. He said he installed all of Iannone’s door locks–at two addresses.