The Cold Six Thousand: Underworld USA 2

by James Ellroy

  WJL: I’ll begin work immediately, Sir.

  JEH: The President will announce a commission to investigate King Jack’s death. I will hand-pick the field agents. Your report will provide the President with a snappy preview of their findings.

  WJL: Has he formed an opinion, Sir?

  JEH: He suspects Mr. Castro or unruly Cuban exiles. In his view, the killing stemmed from King Jack’s reckless blunders in the Caribbean.

  WJL: It’s an informed perspective, Sir.

  JEH: I’ll concede the point and concede that Lyndon Johnson is no dummy. He has a conveniently dead assassin and a citizenry avenged on national television. What more could he ask for?

  WJL: Yes, Sir.

  JEH: And he’s appropriately fed up with the Cuban boondoggle. He’s going to drop it as a national-security issue and concentrate on the situation in Vietnam.

  WJL: Yes, Sir.

  JEH: Your tone did not escape me, Mr. Littell. I know that you disapprove of American colonialism and consider our God-given mandate to contain global communism as ill-conceived.

  WJL: That’s true, Sir.

  JEH: The attendant irony has not escaped me. A closet leftist as front man for Howard Hughes and his colonialist designs.

  WJL: Strange bedfellows, Sir.

  JEH: And how would you describe his designs?

  WJL: He wants to circumvent anti-trust laws and purchase all the hotel-casinos on the Las Vegas Strip. He won’t spend a dime until he settles his stock-divestment suit with TWA and accrues at least 500 million dollars. I think the suit will resolve in three or four years.

  JEH: And your job is to pre-colonize Las Vegas?

  WJL: Yes, Sir.

  JEH: I would like a blunt assessment of Mr. Hughes’ mental state.

  WJL: Mr. Hughes injects codeine in his arms, legs and penis. He eats only pizza pies and ice cream. He receives frequent transfusions of “germ-free” Mormon blood. His employees routinely refer to him as “the Count,” “Count Dracula” and “Drac.”

  JEH: A vivid assessment.

  WJL: He’s lucid half the time, Sir. And he’s single-mindedly fixed on Las Vegas.

  JEH: Bobby’s anti-Mob crusade may have repercussions there.

  WJL: Do you think he’ll remain in the cabinet?

  JEH: No. He hates Lyndon Johnson, and Lyndon Johnson more than reciprocates. I think he’ll resign his appointment. And his successor may have Las Vegas plans that I will be powerless to curtail.

  WJL: Specifically, Sir?

  JEH: Bobby had been considering skim operations.

  WJL: Mr. Marcello and the others have plans for Mr. Hughes’ holdings.

  JEH: How could they not? They have a drug-addicted vampire to victimize, and you to help them suck his blood.

  WJL: They know that you bear them no rancor, Sir. They’ll understand that some of Bobby’s plans will be implemented by his successor.

  JEH: Yes. And if the Count buys into Las Vegas and cleans up its image, those plans might be abandoned.

  WJL: Yes, Sir. The thought had occurred to me.

  JEH: I would like to know what the Dark Prince thinks about his brother’s death.

  WJL: So would I.

  JEH: Of course you would. Robert F. Kennedy is both your savior and your bête noire, and I’m hardly the one to indict you as a voyeur.

  WJL: Yes, Sir.

  JEH: Would a bug-and-tap approach work?

  WJL: No, Sir. But I’ll talk to my other clients and see what they suggest.

  JEH: I need someone with a “fallen liberal” image. I may ask a favor of you.

  WJL: Yes, Sir.

  JEH: Good day, Mr. Littell.

  WJL: Good day, Sir.

  14

  (Las Vegas, 12/4/63)

  They worked him. Two pros: Buddy Fritsch and Captain Bob Gilstrap.

  They used the chief’s office. They hemmed Wayne in. They deployed the chief’s couch.

  He’d stalled the meeting. He’d filed a report and filled lies in. He downplayed Moore’s vanishing act.

  He drove Moore’s car to the dump. He stripped the plates. He pulled out Moore’s teeth. He dug out his bullets. He stuffed shotgun shells in his mouth. He gas-soaked a rag. He lit it.

  Moore’s head blew. He fucked up would-be forensics. He dumped the car in a sludge pit. It sunk fast.

  The pit steamed. He knew chemistry. Caustics ate flesh and sheet metal.

  He mock-chased Wendell D. He called Buddy Fritsch and lied. He said I can’t find him. I can’t find Maynard Moore.

  He leaned on Willis Beaudine. He told him to split Dallas. Beaudine grabbed his dog and skedaddled. He drove by DPD. He pulled some file sheets. He obscured Wendell Durfee’s KAs. He buttonholed cops—you seen Maynard Moore?

  Fritsch de-Wendellized him. Fritsch pulled the plug. Fritsch called him back home.

  They worked him. They hemmed him in. They cracked JFK jokes. JFK groped a nurse and a nun. JFK’s last word was “pussy.”

  Fritsch said, “We read your report.”

  Gilstrap said, “You must have had some time. I mean, the Kennedy deal and you trading shots with that spook.”

  Wayne shrugged. Wayne played it frosty. Fritsch lit a cigarette. Gilstrap bummed one.

  Fritsch coughed. “You didn’t care much for Officer Moore.”

  Wayne shrugged. “He was dirty. I didn’t respect him as a policeman.”

  Gilstrap lit up. “Dirty, how?”

  “He was drunk half the time. He pressed people too hard.”

  Fritsch said, “By your standards?”

  “By the standards of good police work.”

  Gilstrap smiled. “Those boys do things their own way.”

  Fritsch smiled. “You can tell a Texan.”

  Gilstrap said, “But not much.”

  Fritsch laughed. Gilstrap slapped his knees.

  Wayne said, “What about Moore? Did he show up?”

  Fritsch shook his head. “That question is unworthy of a smart boy like you.”

  Gilstrap blew smoke rings. “Try this one on. Moore didn’t like you, so he went after Durfee himself. Durfee killed him and stole his car.”

  Fritsch said, “You got a six-foot-four nigger in an easily identifiable hot rod and a tristate APB out. Tell me it’s anything else and you’re stupid. And tell me the first cop who spots him won’t kill him, just so he can brag about it.”

  Wayne shrugged. “That’s what DPD thinks?”

  Fritsch smiled. “Them and us. And we’re the only two who count.”

  Wayne shook his head. “You find the half-dozen Dallas cops who aren’t in the Klan and ask them what they think of Moore. They’ll tell you how dirty he was, how many people he pissed off, and how many suspects you’ve got.”

  Gilstrap picked a hangnail. “That’s your pride talking, son. You’re blaming yourself because Durfee got away and killed a brother officer.”

  Fritsch stubbed his cigarette. “DPD’s working it hard. They wanted to send one of their IA men up to talk to you, but we said no.”

  Gilstrap said, “They’re talking negligence, son. You scuffled with Moore at the Adolphus, so he went out solo and got himself killed.”

  Wayne kicked a footrest. An ashtray flew.

  “He’s trash. If he’s dead, he deserved it. You can tell those redneck cops I said that.”

  Fritsch grabbed the ashtray. “Whoa, now.”

  Gilstrap scooped up butts. “Nobody’s blaming you. You proved yourself to my satisfaction.”

  Fritsch said, “You showed some poor judgment, and you showed some stones. You did your reputation in this man’s police department a whole lot of good.”

  Gilstrap smiled. “Tell your daddy the story. Running fire with one baaaad mother humper.”

  Fritsch winked. “I feel lucky.”

  Gilstrap said, “I won’t tell.”

  Fritsch grabbed the chief’s desk bandit. Gilstrap pulled the handle. Gears spun. Three cherries clicked. Dimes blew out the chute. Gilstrap caught
them. “There’s my lunch money.” Fritsch winked. “You mean there’s rank. Captains get to steal from lieutenants.”

  Gilstrap nudged Wayne. “You’ll be a captain one day.”

  Fritsch said, “Could you have done it? Killed him, I mean.”

  Wayne smiled. “Durfee or Moore?”

  Gilstrap whooped. “Wayne Junior’s a fireball today.”

  Fritsch laughed. “Some folks don’t think so, but I say he’s his daddy’s son after all.”

  Gilstrap stood up. “Tell true, boy. What did you spend that cold six on?”

  Wayne grinned. Wayne said, “Liquor and call girls.”

  Fritsch stood up. “He’s got Wayne Senior’s blood in his veins.”

  Gilstrap winked. “We won’t tell Lynette.”

  Wayne stood up. His legs hurt. He had fucking tension cramps. Gilstrap walked out. Gilstrap whistled and jiggled his dimes.

  Fritsch said, “Gil likes you.”

  “He likes my father.”

  “Don’t sell yourself short.”

  “Did my father tell you to send me to Dallas?”

  “No, but he sure liked the idea.”

  He worked them back—bait-and-switch—diversion. His heartbeat hit 200. His blood pressure soared. “Lone assassin”—shit. I SAW Dallas.

  Wayne drove home. Wayne dawdled. Fremont was packed. Rubes waved bingo sheets. Rubes hopped casinos.

  Wayne was brain-fucked. Wayne was brain-fucked off Dallas. Pete says, “Kill him.” He can’t. He runs PD checks. He gets Pete’s name. He queries three intel squads: L.A./New York/Miami.

  Pete Bondurant: Ex-cop/ex-CIA/ex–Howard Hughes goon. Current mobbed-up enforcer.

  He runs hotel registrations. 11/25: Pete and Frau Pete hit the Stardust. Their suite is comped. Pete’s mobbed up. Chi-Mob connections implied.

  Car traffic was bad. Foot traffic ditto. Rubes lugged highballs and beers.

  Tail Pete. Do it discreet. Hire a patrolman. Pay him in Land o’ Gold chips.

  Wayne circled back. Wayne recruised Fremont. Wayne dodged Lynette and his dinner.

  Lynette was running trite. Lynette ran trite lines verbatim. Jack was young. Jack was brave. Jack realllly loved Jackie.

  Jack and Jackie lost their baby. Circa ’62. Lynette fell for them then. He didn’t want kids. Lynette did. She got pregnant in ’61.

  It froze him up. It shut him down. He froze her out. He told her to get an abortion. She said no. He addressed the Latter-day Saints. He prayed for a dead baby.

  Lynette caught the gist. Lynette ran to her folks. Lynette mailed off chatty letters. She came home bone skinny. She said she miscarried. He went along with the lie.

  Daddy Sproul called him. Daddy waxed revisionist. Daddy dropped details. He said Lynette got scraped in Little Rock. He said she hemorrhaged and almost died.

  The marriage survived. Trite shit would tear it for real.

  Lynette set up TV trays. LBJ crashed their dinner. He announced some Warren probe.

  Wayne killed the sound. LBJ moved his lips. Lynette toyed with her food.

  “I thought you’d want to follow it more.”

  “I had too much stuff going on. And it’s not like I had a stake in the man.”

  “Wayne, you were there. It’s the kind of thing people tell their grand …”

  “I told you, I didn’t see anything. And we’re not in the grandchild business.”

  Lynette balled her napkin. “You’ve been nothing but sullen since you got back, and don’t tell me it’s just Wendell Durfee.”

  “I’m sorry. That crack was ugly.”

  Lynette wiped her lips. “You know I gave up on that front.”

  “Tell me what it is, then.”

  Lynette turned the TV off. “It’s the new sullen you, with that patronizing attitude that all the cops have. You know, ‘I’ve seen things that my schoolteacher wife just wouldn’t understand.’ ”

  Wayne jabbed his roast beef. Wayne twanged the fork.

  Lynette said, “Don’t play with your food.”

  Wayne sipped Kool-Aid. “You’re so goddamn smart in your way.”

  Lynette smiled. “Don’t curse at my table.”

  “You mean your TV tray.”

  Lynette grabbed the fork. Lynette mock-stabbed him. Blood juice dripped and pooled.

  Wayne flinched. Wayne hit the tray. His glass tipped and doused his food.

  Lynette said, “Shit.”

  Wayne walked to the kitchen. Wayne dumped his tray in the sink. He turned around. He saw Lynette by the stove.

  She said, “What happened in Dallas?”

  Wayne Senior lived south—Paradise Valley with land and views.

  He had fifty acres. He grazed steers. He butchered them for bar-b-que meat. The house was tri-level—redwood and stone—wide decks with wide views.

  The carport covered an acre. A runway adjoined it. Wayne Senior flew biplanes. Wayne Senior flew flags: The U.S./the Nevada/the Don’t-Tread-on-Me.

  Wayne parked. Wayne killed his lights. Wayne skimmed the radio. He caught the McGuire Sisters—three-part harmony.

  Janice had a dressing room. It faced the carport. She got bored. She changed clothes. She left her lights on to draw looks.

  Wayne settled in. The Sisters crooned. “Sugartime” merged with “Sincerely.” Janice walked through the light. Janice wore tennis shorts and a bra.

  She posed. She dropped her shorts. She picked up capris. Her panties stretched and slid low.

  She put the capris on. She unpinned her hair and combed it back. Her gray streak showed—silver in black—the pink capris clashed.

  She pirouetted. Her breasts swayed. The Sisters supplied a soundtrack. The lights dimmed. Wayne blinked. It all went too fast.

  He calmed down. He turned the car off. He walked through the house. He went straight back. Wayne Senior always perched outside. The north-deck view magnetized.

  It was cold. Leaves strafed the deck. Wayne Senior wore a fat sweater. Wayne leaned on the rail. Wayne killed his view.

  “You never get bored with it.”

  “I appreciate a good vista. I’m like my son that way.”

  “You never called and asked about Dallas.”

  “Buddy and Gil briefed me. They were thorough, but I’d still like to hear your version.”

  Wayne smiled. “In time.”

  Wayne Senior sipped bourbon. “The crap-game ruckus tickled me. You chasing that colored boy.”

  “I was brave and stupid. I’m not sure you would have approved.”

  Wayne Senior twirled his walking stick. “And I’m not sure you want my approval.”

  Wayne turned around. The Strip beamed. Neon signs pulsed.

  “My son rubbed shoulders with history. I wouldn’t mind a few details.”

  Cars left Vegas—the losers’ exodus—southbound headlights.

  “In time.”

  “Mr. Hoover saw the autopsy pictures. He said Kennedy had a small pecker.”

  Wayne heard gunshots north-northeast. Broke gambler blows town. Broke gambler pulls gun. Broke gambler unwinds.

  “LBJ told Mr. Hoover a good one. He said, ‘Jack was a strange bedfellow long before he entered politics.’ ”

  Wayne turned around. “Don’t gloat. It’s fucking undignified.”

  Wayne Senior smiled. “You’ve got a foul mouth for a Mormon.”

  “The Mormon Church is a crock of shit, and you know it.”

  “Then why’d you ask the Saints to kill your baby?”

  Wayne grabbed the rail. “I forgot that I told you that.”

  “You tell me everything—‘in time.’ ”

  Wayne dropped his hands. His wedding band slid. He missed meals. He dropped weight. He fretted up Dallas.

  “When’s your Christmas party?”

  Wayne Senior twirled his stick. “Don’t divert conversation so abruptly. You tell people what you’re afraid of.”

  “Don’t press on Lynette. I know where you’re going.”

  “T
hen I’ll go there. It’s a kid marriage that you’re bored with, and you know it.”

  “Like you and my mother?”

  “That’s right.”

  “I’ve heard it before. You’re here and you’ve got what you’ve got. You’re not a cluck selling real estate in Peru, Indiana.”

  “That’s right. Because I knew when to fold my hand with your mother.”

  Wayne coughed. “You’re saying I’ll meet my Janice and walk like you did.”

  Wayne Senior laughed. “Shitfire. Your Janice and my Janice are one and the same.”

  Wayne blushed. Wayne’s ears fucking singed.

  “Shitfire. Just when I think I’ve lost sway with my boy, I light him up like a Christmas tree.”

  A shotgun blew somewhere. It roused some coyote yells.

  Wayne Senior said, “Someone lost money.”

  Wayne smiled. “He probably lost his stake at one of your joints.”

  “One of? You know I only own one casino.”

  “The last I heard, you had points in fourteen. And the last time I checked, that was illegal.”

  Wayne Senior twirled his stick. “There’s a trick to lying. Hold to the same line, regardless of who you’re with.”

  “I’ll remember that.”

  “You will. But you’ll remember who told you right about the same time.”

  A flying bug bit Wayne. Wayne swatted it.

  “I don’t see your point.”

  “You’ll remember that your father told you, and speak some godawful truth out of pure cussedness.”

  Wayne smiled. Wayne Senior winked. He twirled his stick. He dipped it. He ran his stick repertoire.

  “Are you still the only policeman who cares about those beat-up colored whores?”

  “That’s right.”

  “Why is that?”

  “Pure cussedness.”

  “That and your spell in Little Rock.”

  Wayne laughed. “You should have been there. I broke every states’ rights law on the books.”

  Wayne Senior laughed. “Mr. Hoover’s going after Martin Luther King. He’s got to find himself a ‘fallen liberal’ first.”

  “Tell him I’m booked up.”

  “He told me Vietnam’s heating up. I said, ‘My son was in the Eighty-Second Airborne. But don’t hold your breath for him to re-enlist—he’d rather fight rednecks than Reds.’ ”