by James Ellroy
Fuck it—for now.
Jack’s dogs yapped. Jack baby-talked Yiddish. The noise carried outside. A Fed sled pulled up. Ward got out. His coat pockets bulged.
He walked up. He unloaded his pockets—rogue-cop show-and-tell.
Brass knucks/a sash cord/a pachuco switchblade.
“I went by the property room at the PD. Nobody saw me.”
“You thought it through.”
Ward restuffed his pockets. “If he doesn’t agree.”
Pete lit a cigarette. “We’ll cut him up and make it look like a heist.”
A dog yipped. Ward flinched. Pete blew on his cigarette. The tip flared red.
They walked up. Ward knocked on the door. Pete put on a drawl: “Jack! Hey, Jack, I think I left my wallet!”
The dogs barked. The door opened. There’s Jack. He saw them. He said, “Oh.” His mouth dropped and held.
Pete flicked his butt in. Jack gagged on it. Jack coughed it out wet.
Pete shut the door. Ward grabbed Jack. Pete shoved him. Pete frisked him. Pete pulled a piece off his belt.
Ward hit him. Jack fell down. Jack curled up and sucked air.
The dogs ran. The dogs crouched by the runway. Ward grabbed the gun. Ward dumped five shells.
He knelt down. Jack saw the gun. Jack saw the one shell. Ward shut the drum. Ward spun it. Ward aimed at Jack’s head.
He pulled the trigger. The hammer clicked. Jack sobbed and sucked air. Ward twirled the gun. Ward pulled the trigger. Ward dry-shot Jack’s head.
Pete said, “You’re going to clip Oswald.”
Jack sobbed. Jack covered his ears. Jack shook his head. Pete grabbed his belt. Pete dragged him. Jack kicked out at tables and chairs.
Ward walked over. Pete dumped Jack by the runway. The dogs yapped and growled.
Pete walked to the bar. Pete grabbed a fifth of Schenley’s. Pete grabbed some dog treats.
He dumped the treats. The dogs tore in. Ward scoped the jug. Ward was a lush. Ward was on the wagon. Booze turned him to mush.
They pulled chairs up. Jack sobbed. Jack wiped his schnoz. The dogs snarfed the treats. The dogs waddled and wheezed. The dogs crapped out cold by the runway.
Jack sat up. Jack hugged his knees. Jack braced his back on the slats. Pete grabbed a stray glass. Pete dumped ice dregs and poured Schenley’s.
Jack studied his shoes. Jack squeezed his Jew star on a chain.
Pete said, “L’chaim.”
Jack looked up. Pete waved the glass. Jack shook his head. Ward twirled the gun. Ward cocked the hammer.
Jack grabbed the glass. His hand shook. Pete clamped it down. Jack imbibed. Jack coughed and gasped. Jack held it down.
Ward said, “You’ve been saying someone should do it all weekend.”
Pete said, “You’ll do eighteen months tops. You’ll get your own fucking motorcade when you get out.”
Ward said, “You’ll own this town.”
Pete said, “He clipped that Tippit guy. Every cop in Dallas will love you.”
Ward said, “Your money worries are over as of this moment.”
Pete said, “Think about it. A tax-free pension for life.”
Jack said, “No.” Jack shook his head.
Ward waved the gun. Ward spun the drum. Ward aimed at Jack’s head. He pulled the trigger two times. He got two dry clicks.
Jack sobbed. Jack prayed—heavy-duty hebe shit.
Pete poured him a refill—three fingers of Schenley’s—Jack shook his head. Pete grabbed his neck. Pete cleared his pipes. Pete force-fed him hard.
Jack kept it down. Jack coughed and gasped.
Pete said, “We’ll fix up the club and let your sister Eva run it.”
Ward said, “Or we’ll kill all your brothers and sisters.”
Pete said, “She’ll make a mint. This place will be a national monument.”
Ward said, “Or we’ll torch it to the ground.”
Pete said, “Are you getting the picture?”
Ward said, “Do you understand your options?”
Pete said, “If you say no, you die. If you say yes, you’ll have the world by the balls. If you blow the job, it’s ‘Shalom, Jack,’ you tried, but we don’t appreciate failure, and it’s too bad we have to take out your whole fucking family, too.”
Jack said, “No.”
Pete said, “We’ll find a nice home for your dogs. They’ll be glad to see you when you get out.”
Ward said, “Or we’ll kill you.”
Pete said, “Your tax troubles will disappear.”
Ward said, “Or everyone you love will die.”
Jack said, “No.” Pete cracked his knuckles. Ward pulled a belt sap—a hose chunk packed with double-aught buck.
Jack stood up. Pete pushed him down. Jack reached for the jug. Pete poured it out. Pete saved a chaser.
Jack said, “No. No no no no no.”
Ward sapped him—one rib shot—whap.
Jack balled up. Jack kissed his Jew star. Jack bit his tongue.
Ward grabbed his belt. Ward dragged him. Ward kicked him into his office. Ward kicked the door shut.
Pete laughed. Jack lost a shoe and a tie clip. Ward lost his glasses.
Pete heard thump sounds. Jack screamed. The dogs woke up. Pete popped aspirin and Schenley’s. The dogs yapped. The noise got all mixed up.
Pete shut his eyes. Pete rolled his neck. Pete worked his headache—fuck.
He smelled smoke. He opened his eyes. Smoke blew out a wall vent. Ash sifted through.
Arden.
Ward got Jack alone. Pete knew why. Do what we want/do what I want/don’t talk about HER. He torched Jack’s files. He torched HER name. He torched Arden WHO?
Jack screamed. The dogs yapped. Smoke blew out the vent. Smoke seeped and pooled.
The door popped open. Smoke whooshed out. Wet ashes flew. Sink sounds. Screams. Loose shot pellets hurled.
Ward walked out. His sap leaked buckshot. The shaft dripped blood. He stumbled. He rubbed his eyes. He stepped on his glasses.
He said, “He’ll do it.”
10
(Dallas, 11/24/63)
Hangover.
The room light hurt. The TV noise hurt. Alka-Seltzer helped. Wayne dosed up and replayed the fight.
He swung. He hit Moore. Moore swung bourbon-blind. Pete got between them. Pete fucking laughed.
Wayne watched TV. Room service was late—SOP for the hotel.
A cop faced a mike. He said we’re moving him. Clear a path now.
Willis Beaudine didn’t call. Buddy Fritsch did. Buddy had an update. Buddy talked to the border cops.
Wendell Durfee: Still at large.
Wayne dropped his plan: I’ve got a car/I’ll drive to McAllen/I’ll liaise with the border cops there.
Fritsch said, “Take Moore with you. If you cap that nigger, you’d better have a Texas cop in your pocket.”
Wayne argued. Wayne almost said it: My plan is a shuck. Fritsch said, “Take him out. Earn your fucking keep.”
Fritsch won. Wayne lost. He stalled. He watched TV. He never called Moore up.
Wayne sipped Alka-Seltzer. Wayne saw cops with Stetsons. The TV picture jumped.
He slapped the box. He tapped the dials. The picture cohered.
Oswald stepped out. Oswald wore handcuffs. Two cops flanked him. They walked through the basement. They faced some reporters. They cleared a path fast.
A man jumped out. Dark suit/fedora. Right arm outstretched. He stepped up. He aimed a gun. He shot near point-blank.
Wayne blinked. Wayne saw it—oh fuck.
Oswald doubled up. Oswald went “Oooh.”
The cops blinked. They saw it—oh fuck.
Commotion. Dogpile. The gunman’s down. He’s prone. He’s disarmed. He’s pinned flat.
Rerun that. I think I—
The hat. The bulk. The profile. The dark eyes. The fat.
Wayne grabbed the TV. Wayne shook the sides. Wayne focused in tight.
Jerky
shots/camera jumps/a low zoom.
The bulk grew. The profile blossomed. Someone yelled, “Jack!”
No. Asshole Jack Ruby—the dive club/the dogshit/the—
Someone yelled, “Jack!” A man snared his hat. Cops wrestled him. Cops cuffed him. Cops stood him up. Cops went through his pants.
The picture jumped. Wayne slapped the antenna. The picture went flat.
Reruns:
Moore muscles Jack. Jack prowls the PD. Jack knows Pete. Moore knows Pete gooood. Bowers. The thumb. The Kennedy hit—
The picture jumped. The tubes buzzed. The fucking phone rang.
The picture settled. A newsman yelled, “Local nightclub”—
Wayne stood up. Wayne tripped. Wayne grabbed the phone. Wayne snagged the receiver.
“Yeah, this is Tedrow.”
“It’s Willis Beaudine. Remember, you met me—”
“Yeah, I remember.”
“Well, that’s good, because Wendell’s going for that offer you made. He don’t know why you’re doing it, but I told him my dog liked you.”
The sound died. Jack moved his lips. Cops gave him the big two-cop flank.
Beaudine said, “Man, are you there?”
“I’m here.”
“Good. Then you be at rest stop number 10, eighty miles south on I-35. Make it three o’clock. Oh, and Wendell wants to know if you’ve got money.”
The cops dwarfed Jack—big men—boots up to six-four.
“Hey, man. Are you there?”
“Tell him I’ve got six thousand dollars.”
“Hey, you have to like that!”
Wayne hung up. The TV jumped. Oswald rode a white sheet on a cot.
11
(Dallas, 11/24/63)
He saw it live.
He’d tuned in Channel 4. He squinted to see. He broke his glasses at Jack’s club.
He sat in his room. He watched the show. It capped his interview—one hour back.
He sat with Lee Oswald. They talked.
Littell drove I-35. Freeway signs blurred. He hit the slow lane and crawled.
Arden called last night. Oswald died at Parkland. Ruby was under arrest.
Oswald bit his nails. Littell uncuffed him. Oswald rubbed his wrists.
I’m a Marxist. I’m a patsy. I won’t elaborate. I’m pro-Fidel. I indict the U.S. I scorn her Cuban misdeeds. I scorn the exiles. I scorn the CIA. National Fruit is evil. The Bay of Pigs was insane.
Littell agreed. Oswald warmed up. Oswald craved perspective. Oswald craved friends.
Littell faltered then. Oswald craved friends. Guy’s cutout knew it. Littell shut down. Oswald caught his tone. Oswald threw it back.
Some sound facts. Some nut talk mixed in. You don’t love me—so I’ll kill you with The Truth.
Littell walked out then. Littell recuffed Oswald. Littell squeezed his hands.
Freeway signs blurred. Signposts popped. Exit posts slithered. Littell saw “Grandview.” Littell pulled right. Littell cut down a ramp.
He saw the Chevron sign. He saw the HoJo’s.
There—
The shape between them—motel rooms—one long row.
He crossed an access lane. He parked by the HoJo’s. He walked by the rooms. He squinted. He saw the “14.”
There—the door’s ajar. That’s Arden on the bed. Littell walked in.
Littell shut the door. Littell bumped a TV set. The juice was off. The box was warm. He smelled cigarettes.
Arden said, “Sit here.”
Littell sat down. The bedsprings sagged. Arden moved her legs.
“You look different without your glasses.”
“I broke them.”
She had her hair up. She wore a green sweater-dress.
Littell turned a lamp on. Arden blinked. Littell bent the lamp down. It shaded the glare.
“What did you do with your things?”
“I rented a storage garage.”
“In your own name?”
“You’re being disingenuous. You know I’m better than that.”
Littell coughed. “You’ve been watching television.”
“Along with the whole country.”
“You know some things they don’t.”
“We’ve got our version, they’ve got theirs. Is that what you’re saying?”
“You’re being disingenuous now.”
Arden hugged a pillow. “How did they convince him? How do you make someone do something so crazy on live television?”
“He was crazy to start with. And sometimes the stakes are so high that they play in your favor.”
Arden shook her head. “I don’t want to get more specific.”
Littell shook his head. “We don’t have to discuss it.”
Arden smiled. “I’m wondering why you’re going to so much trouble to help me.”
“You know why.”
“I may ask you to say it.”
“I will. If we go forward on this.”
“ ‘This?’ Are we going to define any of our terms at all?”
Littell coughed—full ashtrays/stale smoke.
“Confirm something for me. You’ve been in trouble, you’ve run before, you know how to do it.”
Arden nodded. “It’s something I’m good at.”
“That’s good, because I can get you a completely new identity.”
Arden crossed her legs. “Is there a disclosure clause in all ‘this’? ”
Littell nodded. “We can hold back some secrets.”
“That’s important. I don’t like to lie unless I have to.”
“I’m going to Washington for a few days. Then I’ll be setting up a base in Las Vegas. You can meet me there.”
Arden grabbed her cigarettes. The pack was empty—she tossed it.
“We both know who’s behind this. And I know they all pass through Vegas.”
“I do work for them. It’s one reason why you’ll be safe with me.”
“I’d feel safer in L.A.”
Littell smiled. “Mr. Hughes lives there. I’ll need to get a house or apartment.”
“I’ll meet you, then. I’ll trust you that far.”
Littell checked his watch—1:24 p.m.—Littell grabbed the phone by the bed.
Arden nodded. He pulled the phone to the bathroom. The cord almost snapped. He shut the door. He dialed the Adolphus. The switchboard patched him through.
Pete picked up. “Yes?”
“It’s me.”
“Yeah, and you’re the white man of the week. I wasn’t a hundred percent sure that he’d do it.”
“What about Moore?”
“He goes. I’ll tail him and get him alone.”
Littell hung up. Littell walked back. Littell dropped the phone on a chair.
He sat on the bed. Arden slid close.
Arden said, “Say it.”
He squinted. Her freckles jumped. Her smile blurred.
“I’ve got nothing but the wrong things, and I want to take something good out of this.”
“That’s not enough.”
Littell said, “I want you.” Arden touched his leg.
12
(Dallas, 11/24/63)
Reruns:
The thumb. Pete and Moore. Killer Jack and Killer Lee.
Wayne drove I-35. The reruns hit. A soundtrack sputtered:
He calls Moore. He says, “Meet me. I’ve got a lead on Durfee.” He lies. He drops details. Static fries the line and blows the connection.
Moore gets the last word. Moore says, “… have us big fun.”
The freeway was flat. Flat blacktop/flat empty. Flat sand adjacent. Sand flats and scrub. Jackrabbit bones. Sand grit in circulation.
The soundtrack distorted. He’d fucked up the call. The Jack and Lee Show fucked with him.
A rabbit jumped. It hit the road. It cleared his wheels clean. A wind kicked up. It tossed scrub balls and waxed paper.
There’s the sign: Rest Stop #10.
Wayne pulled in. Wayne scoped the pa
rking lot slooooow.
Gravel paving. No cars. Tire tracks on sand adjacent. Flat sand. Drift sand. Scrub balls hip-high.
Goooood cover spots.
A men’s room. A ladies’ room. Two stucco huts and a crawl space between. The huts fronted sand drifts. Said drifts ran way inland. The wind stirred loose sand.
Wayne parked. Beaudine said 3:00. He told Moore to meet him at 4:00. The current time—2:49.
He pulled his piece. He popped the glove box. He pulled out the money—six cold.
He got out. He walked through the men’s room. He checked the stalls gun-first. The wind kicked cellophane through.
He walked out. He hit the ladies’ room. Empty stalls/dirty sinks/bugs pooled in Lysol.
He walked out. He hugged the walls. He moved around back. Shitfire—there’s Wendell Durfee.
He’s got pimp threads. He’s got a hair net. He’s got a jigaboo conk. He’s got a piece—it’s a quiff automatic.
Durfee stood by the wall. Durfee ducked sand. It messed up his conk good.
He saw Wayne. He said, “Well, now.”
Wayne drew down on him. Durfee raised his hands. Wayne walked up slow. Sand filled his shoes.
Durfee said, “Why you doin’ this for me?”
Wayne grabbed his piece. Wayne popped the clip. Wayne tucked it down his pants barrel first.
The wind tore a scrub pile. Durfee’s sled got exposed. It’s a ’51 Merc. It’s sand-scraped. It’s sunk to the hubs.
Wayne said, “Don’t talk to me. I don’t want to know you.”
Durfee said, “I might need me a tow truck.”
Wayne heard gravel crunch—back in the lot. Durfee futzed with his hair net. Durfee heard shit.
“Willis said you had money.”
Gravel crunch—tire crunch—Durfee missed the sounds dead.
“I’ll get it. You wait here.”
“Shit. I ain’t goin’ nowhere without it. You fuckin’ Santa Claus, you know that?”
Wayne holstered his piece. Wayne circled back to the lot. Wayne saw Moore’s 409.
It’s upside his car. It’s idling hard. It’s throbbing on hi-end shocks. There’s Moore. He’s at the wheel. He’s chomping Red Man.
Wayne stopped. His dick fluttered. Piss leaked out.
He saw something.
A speck—up the freeway—some kind of mirage or a car.
He anchored his legs. He walked up jerky. He leaned on Moore’s car.
Moore rolled down his window. “Hey, boy. What’s new and noteworthy?”