“Don’t confess over the phone, Sal.”
“Forgive me, Father, for I have sinned.”
“Stop it. You know what I’m interested in, so if you have anything, tell me.”
“Okay, okay. I was in Vegas and heard Heshie Ryskind talking. Hesh said the boys are worried on the Cuban front. He said the Outfit paid the Beard a shitload of money in exchange for his word the fuckin’ casinos could keep operating if he took over the fuckin’ country. But now he’s gone Commie and fuckin’ nationalized the casinos. Hesh said the Beard’s got Santo T. in jail in Havana. The boys don’t like the Beard so much these days. Hesh said the Beard’s like the low man in a Mongolian cluster fuck. You know, sooner or later he’ll get really fucked.”
Littell said, “And?”
“And before I left Chicago I talked on the phone to Jack Ruby. Jack had a case of the shorts, so I lent him a wad to unload this one strip club and buy himself another one, the Carousel or something. Jack’s always good on the payback, ‘cause he sharks on the side himself down in Dallas, and–”
“Sal, you’re building up to something. Tell me what it is.”
“Whoa whoa whoa–I thought cops liked that corroboration stuff.”
“Sal–”
“Whoa, listen now. Jack corroborated what Heshie said. He said he’d talked to Carlos Marcello and Johnny Rosselli, and they both said the Beard is costing the Outfit seventy-five thousand a day in bank interest on top of their daily fucking casino profit nut. Think about it, Padre. Think of what the Church could do with seventy-five grand a day.”
Littell sighed. “Cuba doesn’t interest me. Did Ruby give you anything on the Pension Fund?”
Mad Sal said, “Weeeeel…”
“Sal, goddamnit–”
“Naughty, naughty, Padre. Now say ten Hail Marys and check this. Jack told me he forwarded this Texas oil guy straight to Sam G. for a Pension Fund loan, like maybe a year ago. Now this is a class-A tip, and I deserve a reward for it, and I need some fuckin’ money to cover bets with, because bookies and shylocks with no bankroll get hurt and can’t snitch to candy-ass Fed cocksuckers like you.”
Ruby’s THP designation: bagman/small-time loan shark.
“Padre Padre Padre. Forgive me because I have bet. Forgive me because–”
“I’ll try to get you some money, Sal. if I can find a borrower for you to introduce to Giancana. I’m talking about a direct referral, from you to Sam.”
“Padre… Jesus.”
“Sal…”
“Padre, you’re fucking me so hard it hurts.”
“I saved your life, Sal. And this is the only way you’ll ever get another dime out of me.”
“Okay okay okay. Forgive me, Father, for I have taken it up the dirt road from this ex-seminarian Fed who-”
Littell hung up.
o o o
The squadroom was weekend quiet. The agent manning the phone lines ignored him.
Littell cadged the teletype machine and queried the Dallas office.
The reply would take at least ten minutes. He called Midway for flight information–and hit lucky.
A Pan-Am connector departed for Dallas at noon. A return flight would have him home shortly after midnight.
The kickback rolled off the wire: Jacob Rubenstein/AKA Jack Ruby, DOB 3/25/11.
The man had three extortion arrests and no convictions: in ‘47, ‘49 and ‘53.
The man was a suspected pimp and Dallas PD informant.
The man was the subject of a 1956 ASPCA investigation. The man was strongly suspected of sexually molesting dogs. The man was known to occasionally shylock to businessmen and desperate oil wildcatters.
Littell ripped up the teletype. Jack Ruby was worth the trip.
o o o
Airplane hum and three scotches lulled him to sleep. Mad Sal’s confessions merged like a Hit Parade medley.
Sal makes the Negro boy beg. Sal feeds the bet welcher Drano. Sal decapitates two kids who wolf-whistle at a nun.
He’d verified those deaths. All four stood “Unsolved.” All four victims were rectal-raped postmortem.
Littell woke up sweaty. The stewardess handed him a drink unsolicited.
o o o
The Carousel Club was a striptease-row dive. The sign out front featured zaftig girls in bikinis.
Another sign said, Open 6:00 P.M.