Littell parked behind the building and waited. His rental car reeked of recent sex and hair pomade.
A few cops cruised by. One man waved. Litteli caught on: They think you’re a brother cop with your hand in Jack’s pocket.
Ruby drove up at 5:15, alone.
He was a dog fucker and a pimp. This would have to be ugly.
Ruby got out and unlocked the back door. Littell ran up and intercepted him.
He said, “FBI. Let’s see your hands.” He said it in the classic Kemper Boyd style.
Ruby looked skeptical. He was wearing a ridiculous porkpie hat.
Littell said, “Empty your pockets.” Ruby obeyed him. A cash roll, dog biscuits, and a .38 snub-nose hit the ground.
Ruby spat on them. “I know out-of-town shakedowns on an intimate level. I know how to deal with cops in cheap blue suits with liquor breath. Now take what you want and leave me the fuck alone.”
Littell picked up a dog biscuit. “Eat it, Jack.”
Ruby got up on his toes–some kind of lighter-weight boxer’s stance. Littell flashed his gun and handcuffs.
“I want you to eat that dog biscuit.”
“Now look…”
“‘Now look, sir.’”
“Now look, sir, who the fuck do you–?”
Littell jammed the biscuit in his mouth. Ruby chewed on it to keep from gagging.
“I’m going to make demands of you, Jack. If you don’t comply, the IRS will audit you, Federal agents will pat-search your customers every night and the Dallas Morning News will expose your sexual bent for dogs.”
Ruby chewed. Ruby sprayed crumbs. Littell kicked his legs out from under him.
Ruby went down on his knees. Littell kicked the door open and kicked him inside.
Ruby tried to stand up. Littell kicked him back down. The room was ten-by-ten and littered with piles of sthptease gowns.
Littell kicked a pile in Ruby’s face. Littell dropped a fresh dog biscuit in his lap.
Ruby put it in his mouth. Ruby made horrible choking sounds.
Littell said, “Answer this question. Have you ever referred borrowers to higher-end loan sharks than yourself?”
Ruby nodded–yes yes yes yes yes.
“Sal D’Onofrio lent you the money to buy this place. Nod if that’s true.”
Ruby nodded. His feet were snagged up in soiled brassieres.
“Sal kills people routinely. Did you know that?”
Ruby nodded. Dogs started barking one room over.
“He tortures people, Jack. He enjoys inflicting pain.”
Ruby thrashed his head. His cheeks bulged like that dead boy on the morgue slab.
“Sal burned a man to death with a blowtorch. The man’s wife came home unexpectedly. Sal shoved a gasoline-soaked rag in her mouth and ignited it. He said she died shooting flames like a dragon.”
Ruby pissed in his pants. Littell saw the lap stain spread.
“Sal wants you to know a few things. One, your debt to him is erased. Two, if you don’t cooperate with me or you rat me to the Outfit or any of your cop friends, he’ll come to Dallas and rape you and kill you. Do you understand?”
Ruby nodded-yes yes yes. Biscuit crumbs shot out of his nostrils.
Kemper Boyd always said DON’T FALTER.
“You’re not to contact Sal. You’re not to know my name. You’re not to tell anyone about this. You’re to contact me every Tuesday at 11:00 a.m. at a pay phone in Chicago. I’ll call you and give you the number. Do you understand?”
Ruby nodded–yes yes yes yes yes yes. The dogs keened and clawed at a door just a few feet in front of him.
“I want you to find a high-end borrower for Sal. Somebody Sal can send up to Giancana and the Pension Fund. Nod if you agree to do it, and nod twice if you understand the whole situation.”
Ruby nodded three times.
Littell walked out.
The dog noise went cacophonous.
o o o
His return flight landed at midnight. He drove home, keyed up and exhausted.
Helen’s car was parked out front. She’d be up; she’d be earnest; she’d be eager to reconcile.
Littell drove to a liquor store and bought a half-pint A wino panhandled him. He gave him a dollar–the poor shit looked sort of like Jack Ruby.