American Tabloid - American Tabloid Part 19
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American Tabloid Part 19

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?" 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.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.

2409 Kenilworth in Oak Park 84 Wolverton in Evanston.

Iannone lived in Oak Park--that fact made the papers. The Evanston address was a strong fuck-pad possibility.

The locksmith supplied easy-to-follow directions. Littell found the address in just a few minutes.

It was a garage apartment behind a Northwestern U frat house. The neighborhood was dark and dead quiet.

The key fit the door. Littell let himself in, gun first The place was uninhabited and musty.

He turned on the lights in both rooms. He tossed every cupboard, drawer, shelf, cubbyhole and crawl space. He found dildoes, whips, spiked dog collars, amyl nitrite ampules, twelve jars of K-Y Jelly, a bag of marijuana, a brass-studded motorcycle jacket, a sawed-off shotgun, nine rolls of Benzedrine, a Nazi armband, oil paintings depicting all-male sodomy and soixante-neuf and a snapshot of Icepick Tony Iannone and a college boy nude cheek-to-cheek.

Kemper Boyd always said PROTECT YOUR INFORMANTS.

Littell called Celano's Tailor Shop. A man answered-- "Yeah?"-- unmistakably Butch Montrose.

Littell disguised his voice. "Don't worry about Tony Iannone. He was a fucking faggot. Go-to 84 Wolverton in Evanston and see for yourself."

"Hey, what are you say--?"

Littell hung up. He nailed the snapshot to the wall for the whole world to see.

16

(Los Angeles, 1/11/59)

H Hush-Hush was cramming toward deadline. The office staff was buzzing on Benzedrine-spiked coffee. was cramming toward deadline. The office staff was buzzing on Benzedrine-spiked coffee.

"Artists" were pasting up a cover: "Paul Robeson--Royal Red Recidivist." A "correspondent" was typing copy: "Wife Beater Spade Cooley--Will the Country Stomper Stomp Too Far?" A "researcher" was browsing pamphlets, trying to link nigger hygiene to cancer.

Pete watched.

Pete was bored.

MIAMI bopped through his head. Hush-Hush Hush-Hush felt like a giant cactus shoved up his ass. felt like a giant cactus shoved up his ass.

Sol Maltzman was dead. Gail Hendee was long gone. The new Hush-Hush Hush-Hush staff was 100% geek. Howard Hughes was frantic to find a dirt digger. staff was 100% geek. Howard Hughes was frantic to find a dirt digger.

His prospects all said NO. Everybody knew the L.A. fuzz seized the Kennedy smear issue. Hush-Hush Hush-Hush was the leper colony of scandal-sheet journalism. was the leper colony of scandal-sheet journalism.

Hughes CRAVED dirt. Hughes CRAVED slander skank to share with Mr. Hoover. What Hughes CRAVED, Hughes BOUGHT.

Pete bought an issue's worth of dirt. His cop contacts supplied him with a one-week load of lackluster skank.

"Spade Cooley, Boozefried Misogynist!" "Marijuana Shack Raid Nets Sal Mineo!" "Beatnik Arrests Shock Hermosa Beach!"

It was pure bullshit. It was very un-Miami.

Miami was goood. Miami was this drug he got withdrawals from. He left Miami with a mild concussion--not bad for the pounding he took.

Jimmy Hoffa called him in to restore order. He got out of jail and did it.

The cabstand demanded order--political rifts had business fucked six ways from Sunday. The riots sputtered out, but Tiger Kab still simmered with factional jive. He had pro-Batista and pro-Castro guys to deal with--left- and right-wing ideologue thugs who needed to be toilet-trained and broken in to the White Man's Rule of Order.

He laid down laws.

No drinking and placard waving on the job. No guns or knives--check your weapons with the dispatcher. No political fraternizing--rival factions must remain segregated.

One Batistaite challenged the rules. Pete beat him half-dead.

He laid down more laws.

No pimping on duty--leave your whores at home. No B&Es or stickups on duty.

He made Chuck Rogers the new day dispatcher. He considered it a political appointment.

Rogers was a CIA contract goon. Co-dispatcher Fulo Machado was CIA-linked.

John Stanton was a mid-level CIA agent--and a new cabstand habitue. He got Fulo's murder-one beef squelched with a snap of his fingers.

Stanton's pal Guy Banister hated Ward Littell. Banister and Stanton were hipped on Kemper Boyd.

Jimmy Hoffa owned Tiger Kab. Jimmy Hoffa had points in two Havana casinos.

Littell and Boyd made him him for two killings. Stanton and Banister probably didn't know that. Stanton fed him that little teaser: "I may ask a favor of you one day." for two killings. Stanton and Banister probably didn't know that. Stanton fed him that little teaser: "I may ask a favor of you one day."

Things were dovetailing tight and cozy. His feelers started perkperk-perking.

Pete buzzed the receptionist. "Donna, get me long distance person-to-person. I want to talk to a man named Kemper Boyd at the McClellan Committee office in Washington, D.C. Tell the operator to try the Senate Office Building, and if you get through, say I'm the caller."

"Yes, sir."

Pete hung up and waited. The call was a longshot--Boyd was probably out somewhere, conniving.

His intercom light flashed. Pete picked up the phone.

"Boyd?"

"Speaking. And surprised."

"Well, I owe you one, so I thought I'd deliver."

"Keep going."

"I was in Miami last week. I ran into two men named John Stanton and Guy Banister, and they seemed real interested in you."

"Mr. Stanton and I have already spoken. But thanks. It's nice to know they're still interested."

"I gave you a good reference."

"You're a sport. Is there anything I can do for you?"

"You can find me a new dirt digger for Hush-Hush Hush-Hush."

Boyd hung up, laughing.

17

(Miami, 1/13/59)

T The Committee booked him into a Howard Johnson's. Kemper upgraded to a two-room suite at the Fontainebleau.

He made up the difference out of his own pocket. He was closing in on three salaries--it wasn't that big an extravagance.

Bobby sent him back to Miami. He instigated the trip himself-- and promised to return with some key Sun Valley depositions. He didn't tell Bobby that the CIA was thinking about recruiting him.

The trip was a little vacation. If Stanton was good, they'd connect.

Kemper carried a chair out to the balcony. Ward Littell had mailed him a report--he needed to edit it before sending it on to Bobby.

The report was twelve typed pages. Ward included a longhand preface.

K.B.,Since we're partners in this gentle subterfuge, I'm giving you a verbatim account of my activities. Of course, you'll want to omit mention of my more flagrant illegalities, given Mr. Kennedy's proviso. As you'll note, I have made substantial progress. And believe me, given the extreme circumstances, I have been very careful.

Kemper read the report. "Extreme circumstances" didn't quite cover it.

Littell witnessed a homosexual murder. The victim was a Chicago Mob underboss. The killer was a Mob fringe dweller named Lenny Sands.

Sands was now Littell's snitch. Sands had recently partnered up with a bookie/loan shark named "Mad Sal" D'Onofrio. D'Onofrio shepherded gambling junkets to Las Vegas and Lake Tahoe-- Sands was to accompany the groups as their "traveling lounge act." Sands had keys to mobster "fuck pads." Littell coerced him into making duplicates and surreptitiously entered three fuck pads to look for evidence. Littell observed and left untouched: weapons, narcotics, and $14,000 in cash--hidden in a golf bag at the fuck pad of one Butch Montrose.

Littell located Tony Iannone's fuck pad: a garage apartment littered with homosexual paraphernalia. Littell was determined to protect his informant from potential reprisals. Littell disclosed the fuck pad's location to Chicago Mob members and staked it out to see if they followed up on his anonymous tip. They did: Sam Giancana and two other men broke down the fuck pad door an hour later. They undoubtedly saw Iannone's homosexual contraband.

Amazing. Fully emblematic of the Ward Littell Trinity: luck, instinct, naive courage.

Littell concluded: My ultimate goal is to facilitate a loan seeker "up the ladder" to the Teamsters' Central States Pension Fund. This loan seeker will be, ideally, my own legally compromised informant. Lenny Sands (and potentially "Mad Sal" D'Onofrio) may prove to be valuable allies in recruiting such an informant. My ideal loan seeker would be a crooked businessman with Organized Crime connections, a man susceptible to physical intimidation and threats of Federal prosecution. Such an informant could help us determine the existence of alternative Pension Fund books contaming hidden, thus illegal, assets. This avenue of approach presents Robert Kennedy with unlimited opportunities at prosecution. If such books do exist, the administrators of the hidden assets will be indictable on numerous counts of Grand Larceny and Federal Tax Fraud. I agree with Mr. Kennedy: this may pmve to be the way to link Jimmy Hoffa and the Teamsters to the Chicago Mob and break their collective power. If monetary collusion on such a rich and pervasive scale can be proven, heads will roll.

The plan was ambitious and stratospherically risky. Kemper snapped to a possible glitch straight off.

Littell exposed Icepick Tony's sexual bent. Did he consider all all the potential ramifications? the potential ramifications?

Kemper called the Miami airport and altered his D.C. flight for a Chicago stopover. The move felt sound: if his hunch proved right, he'd need to give Ward a good thrashing.

Dusk came on. Room service brought his standing order up-- punctual to the minute.