He tailed Commies and wrote out a surveillance log. His hands shook; his printing was near-illegible.
Helen didn’t help.
He called her just to hear her voice. Her law school chitchat brought him close to screaming.
Court Meade didn’t help.
They met for coffee and exchanged reports. Court told him he looked lousy. Court said his report looked threadbare–like he wasn’t spending much time at the listening post.
He couldn’t say, I’m slacking off because I found a snitch. He couldn’t say, I fucked up and got a boy killed.
Church helped a little.
He lit a candle for the dead boy. He prayed for competence and courage. He cleaned up in the bathroom and remembered something Lenny said: Sal D. was recruiting junketeers at Saint Vibiana’s this evening.
A tavern stop helped.
Soup and crackers settled his stomach. Three rye-and-beers cleared his head.
o o o
Sal and Lenny had the Saint Vib’s rec hall all to themselves. A dozen K of C men took in their pitch.
The group sat at a clump of bingo tables near the stage. The Knights looked like dnmks and wife beaters.
Littell loitered outside a fire exit. He cracked the door to watch and listen.
Sal said, “We leave in two days. Lots of my regulars couldn’t get away from their jobs, so I’m lowering my price to nine-fifty, airfare included. First we go to Lake Tahoe, then Vegas and Gardena, outside L.A. Sinatra’s playing the Cal-Neva Lodge in Tahoe, and you’ll be front row center to catch his show. Now, Lenny Sands, formerly Lenny Sanducci, and a Vegas star in his own right, will give you a Sinatra that out-Sinatras Sinatra. Go, Lenny! Go, paisan!”
Lenny blew smoke rings Sinatra-style. The K of C men clapped. Lenny flicked his cigarette above their heads and glared at them.
“Don’t applaud until I finish! What kind of Rat Pack Auxiliary are you! Dino, go get me a couple of blondes! Sammy, go get me a case of gin and ten cartons of cigarettes or I’ll put your other eye out! Hop to it, Sammy! When the Chicago Knights of Columbus Chapter 384 snaps its fingers, Frank Sinatra jumps!”
The Knights haw-haw-hawed. A nun pushed a broom by the group and never looked up. Lenny sang, “Fly me to the Coast with Big Sal’s junket tour! He’s the swingin’ gambling junket king, so dig his sweet allure! In other words, Vegas beware!”
The Knights applauded. Sal dumped a paper bag out on a table in front of them.
They sifted through the clutter and grabbed knickknacks. Littell saw poker chips, French ticlders, and Playboy rabbit key chains.
Lenny held up a novelty pen shaped like a penis. “Which one of you big-dick gavones wants to be the first one to sign up?”
A line formed. Littell felt his stomach turn over.
He walked to the curb and vomited. The rye and beer burned his throat. He hunched over and puked himself dry.
Some junket men walked past him twirling key chains. A few laughed at him.
Littell braced himself against a lamppost. He saw Sal and Lenny in the rec hall doorway.
Sal backed Lenny into the wall and jabbed at his chest. Lenny mimed a single word: “Okay.”
o o o
The door stood ajar. Littell pushed it all the way open.
Kemper was going through Lenny’s address book. He’d turned on all the living-room lights.
“Easy, son.”
Littell shut the door. “Who let you in?”
“I taught you how to B&E, remember?”
Littell shook his head. “I want him to trust me. Another man showing up like this might frighten him.”
Kemper said, “You need to frighten him. Don’t underestimate him just because he’s queer.”
“I saw what he did to Iannone.”
“He panicked, Ward. If he panics again, we could get hurt. I want to establish a certain tone tonight.”
Littell heard footsteps outside the door. There was no time to kill the lights for surprise.
Lenny walked in. He did a broad stage actor’s double-take.
“Who’s he?”
“This is Mr. Boyd. He’s a friend of mine.”
“And you were in the neighborhood, so you thought you’d break in and ask me a few questions.”