The Cold Six Thousand: Underworld USA 2

by James Ellroy

  He informed Wayne Junior. Wayne Junior said no. He told Wayne Senior that. It angered him. That was good. He might need Wayne Senior. The “no” knocked him flat.

  Wayne Junior was good. Wayne Junior pissed off Dwight Holly. Littell called Lyle Holly. They talked last night. They discussed the Bayard Rustin meet. Lyle said Dwight was mad. The killings fucked with him. Wayne Junior deep-sixed his surveillance.

  He chatted Lyle up. He said, “I’m Junior’s lawyer.” Lyle laughed. Lyle said, “Dwight never liked you.”

  Littell checked his notes. The room was cold. His breath fogged and steamed. Bob Gilstrap walked in. Dwight Holly followed him. They sat down and kicked back.

  Holly stretched. His coat gapped. He wore a blued .45.

  “You’ve aged, Ward. Those scars put some years on you.”

  “They’re hard-earned, Dwight.”

  “Some men learn the hard way. I hope you have.”

  Littell smiled. “Let’s discuss Wayne Tedrow Junior.”

  Holly scratched his neck. “He’s a punk. He’s got all of his daddy’s arrogance and none of his charm.”

  Gilstrap lit a cigarette. “They broke the mold on Senior and him. I’ve never been able to figure either one of them.”

  Holly laced his hands. “Something happened with him and Durfee. Where or when, I don’t know.”

  Gilstrap nodded. “That likelihood is what scares me.”

  A vent thumped. The heat kicked on. Holly hack-coughed.

  “The kid mouths off to me and passes his bug on.”

  Gilstrap said, “You’ll survive.”

  Holly said, “Let’s cut the shit. I’m the only one who doesn’t want to bury this.”

  “It’s not your agency he hung out to dry.”

  “Shit, he hung me out.”

  The room warmed up. Holly took his coat off.

  “Say something, Ward. You look like the cat who ate the canary.”

  Littell popped his briefcase. Littell showed the Vegas Sun. There’s a headline. It runs 40 points. There’s a subhead 16:

  “POLICEMAN HELD IN TRIPLE SLAYING—CIVIL-RIGHTS PROTESTS FEARED.”

  “NAACP: ‘KILLINGS SPRINGBOARD TO EXPLICATE RACISM IN LAS VEGAS.’ ”

  Gilstrap said, “Shit.”

  Holly laughed. “Big words and colored bullshit. Give them a dictionary and they think they run the world.”

  Littell tapped the paper. “I don’t see your name, Dwight. Is that a blessing or a curse?”

  Holly stood up. “I see where this is going, and if it does go there, I’ll go to the U.S. Attorney. Civil-rights abridgement and obstruction of justice. I’ll look bad, you’ll look worse, the kid will do time.”

  A vent thumped. The heat kicked off. Holly walked out.

  Gilstrap said, “The cocksucker means it.”

  “I don’t think so. He goes back too far with Wayne Senior.”

  “Dwight don’t go back, Dwight goes forward. Wayne Senior could squawk and go to Mr. Hoover, who’d most likely pooh-pooh it because, according to my sources, he’s got a real soft spot for Dwight.”

  Littell flipped the paper over. Littell squared the fold. There’s the hard news and AP pix: Police dogs/angry Negroes/tear gas.

  Gilstrap sighed. “Okay, I’ll play.”

  “Does the DA want to file?”

  “Nobody wants that. We’re just afraid that we’re too far exposed already.”

  “And?”

  “And there’s two schools of thought. Bury it and ride out all the Commie bullshit, or file and take our lumps.”

  Littell drummed the table. “Your department could get hurt very badly.”

  Gilstrap blew smoke rings. “Mr. Littell, you’re leading me. You’re playing me and holding back your face cards.”

  Littell tapped the paper. “Tell me Dallas doesn’t scare you. Tell me Junior didn’t fuck up there and give Durfee a motive to kill him. Tell me this won’t come out in court. Tell me you’re convinced that Junior didn’t kill Maynard Moore. Tell me you didn’t put a bounty on Durfee and pay Junior six thousand dollars to kill him. Tell me you want all this exposed and tell me Junior won’t expose it just to flush his life down the toilet.”

  Gilstrap squeezed his ashtray. “Tell me Dallas PD will just go away.”

  “Tell me Junior wasn’t smart enough to hide the body. Tell me the first cop who spots Durfee won’t kill him and eliminate DPD’s one potential witness.”

  Gilstrap slapped the table. “Tell me how we do this.”

  Littell tapped the paper. “I’ve read the accounts. There’s no specified sequence of events. All you have is four killings in one evening.”

  “That’s right.”

  “The evidence can be reworked to support self-defense. There may be a chance to divert demonstrations.”

  Gilstrap sighed. “I don’t want to owe Wayne Senior.”

  Littell said, “You won’t.”

  Gilstrap stuck his hand out.

  He brewed a plan. He called Pete and told him. Pete said okay. Pete asked one favor.

  I want to see Lynette. It’s my fault. I fucked up in Dallas.

  Buddy Fritsch had morgue shots. Littell looked at them. Durfee raped her. Durfee gutted her. Durfee shaved her.

  He saw the pix. He studied them. He scared himself. He put Jane’s face on Lynette’s body.

  He sent Pete a morgue pass. Pete said he’d talked to Wayne Junior. Wayne Junior pledged him his files.

  Littell called east. Littell pulled strings. Littell buzzed Lyle Holly. He said the snuffs might hurt Dwight—so hear my plan now.

  Call Bayard Rustin. Offer this advice: Do not protest the killings—call Ward Littell instead.

  Rustin called him. Littell lied. Littell offered a rationale. A Negro man killed a white woman. Three more killings derived. The cop killed in self-defense. It’s all certified.

  Rustin got it—don’t build hate—don’t martyr an angry white cop. Vegas wasn’t Birmingham. Negro junkies weren’t four girls in church.

  Rustin was savvy. Rustin was gracious. Littell pledged more money. Littell praised Dr. King.

  He met Rustin once. He charmed and entrapped him. He used him forthwith.

  I believe. I have horrible debts. I’ll try to help more than I hurt.

  34

  (Las Vegas, 1/19/64)

  He saw Lynette.

  He saw the flaps. He saw the sheared ribs. He saw where the knife snapped bone. Wayne Junior didn’t blame him. Wayne Junior blamed himself.

  Pete stood by the freeway. Pete ate gas fumes. Pete had a replacement sled—a boss new Lincoon.

  A prowl car pulled up. A cop got out. He fed Pete three guns. Three calibers: .38/.45/.357 mag.

  Throwdown guns. Taped and initialed: L.W./O.S./C.S.

  The cop knew the plan. They had two crime scenes. They had viable blood—good Red Cross stock.

  The cop split. Pete drove to Henderson. Pete hit a gun shop. Pete bought ammo.

  He loaded the guns. He rigged silencers. He drove back to Vegas.

  Wayne Junior was out. He saw him yesterday. The DA dumped his case. They met. They talked. They hit Wayne’s bank vault. Wayne dumped his board files and briefed him.

  Spurgeon dug jailbait. Peavy was larcenous. Hinton whacked a nigger whore. Three board members—swing votes plus—good news for Count Drac.

  Spurgeon vibed easy. Hinton vibed tough sell. Peavy vibed grief. Monarch Cab as Tiger Kab—hold that good thought.

  Wayne looked frazzled. His eyes roamed. He strafed jigaboos. They ate lunch and talked.

  Neutral shit—Clay versus Liston. Pete liked Liston in two. Wayne said three tops. A shine cleared their table. Wayne fucking seized up.

  Pete drove to the car dump. The cop met him there. The dump was closed. The sun was up. A breeze wafted through.

  They schmoozed. They jumped the crime-scene rope. Wayne’s car was gone. The Buick was cut into scrap.

  The cop taped a body—white tape on cement. Pete aimed th
e .45.

  He popped six shots. He nailed a tree. He grabbed the slugs. He gauged trajectories. He dropped the slugs. He chalked them. The cop took pix.

  Pete spritzed the body tape. Pete watched the blood dry. The cop took pix.

  They drove to the shack. They jumped the crime-scene rope. The cop taped two bodies. The cop spritzed the tape.

  Pete shot the .38. Pete popped four rounds. Pete hit the walls and dug the slugs out. The cop bagged them. The cop lab-logged them. The cop took pix.

  They drove to the County Morgue. The cop greased the attendant geek. Said geek had three fish. Said fish reposed on three trays.

  Leroy had no head. Leroy wore a dashiki. The cop pulled a sap. The cop broke Leroy’s right hand. The cop flexed the fingers free.

  Pete rolled the fingertips. Pete smudged the magnum. Pete laid two butt spreads.

  Curtis was stiff. Otis was stiff. They wore Dodger T-shirts and morgue sheets.

  Pete squeezed their hands. Pete broke their fingers. Pete flexed the tips. The cop rolled prints—barrel spreads—the cop rolled the .45 and .38.

  The stiffs stunk of morgue rouge and sawdust. Pete coughed and sneezed.

  Ward set it up. We’ll meet at Wilt’s Diner—it’s out near Davis Dam.

  They showed early. They grabbed a booth. They cleared table space and sipped coffee. Ward propped the bag up. Tabletop center—très hard to miss.

  Dwight Holly showed. Punctual—2:00 p.m. straight.

  He parked his car. He looked through the window glass. He saw them and walked straight in.

  Pete made room. Holly sat beside him. Holly eyeballed the bag.

  “What’s that?”

  Pete said, “Christmas.”

  Holly made the jack-off sign. Holly spread out.

  He stretched. He made elbow room. He hard-nudged Pete.

  He coughed. “I caught the fucking Tedrow kid’s bug.”

  Ward smiled. “Thanks for coming out.”

  Holly tugged his cuff links. “Who’s the big guy? The Wild Man of Borneo?”

  Pete laughed. Pete slapped his knees.

  Ward sipped coffee. “Have you spoken to the U.S. Attor—”

  “He called me. He said Mr. Hoover told him not to file on the kid. I think Wayne Senior interceded, and I hope you didn’t run me out here to gloat.”

  Ward tapped the bag. “Congratulations.”

  “For what? The investigation your client fucked up?”

  “You must have talked to the U.S. Attorney yesterday.”

  Holly tugged his law-school ring. “You’re stringing me, Ward. You’re reminding me why I never liked you.”

  Ward stirred his coffee. “You’re the new Chief Investigator for the Southern Nevada Office. Mr. Hoover told me this morning.”

  Holly tugged his ring. It fell off. It hit the floor. It traveled.

  Ward smiled. “We want to make friends in Nevada.”

  Pete smiled. “You took down Leroy Williams and the Swasey brothers. They were out on bail when Wayne killed them.”

  Ward tapped the bag. “The reports have been predated. You’ll be reading about it.”

  Pete tapped the bag. “It’s a white Christmas.”

  Holly grabbed the bag. Holly grabbed a steak knife. Holly stabbed one brick. Holly dipped one finger.

  He licked it. He tasted it. He got the Big “H” bite.

  “You convinced me. But I’m not done with the kid, and I don’t care who he’s got on his side.”

  DOCUMENT INSERT: 1/23/64. Las Vegas Sun article.

  NARCOTICS LINK TO NEGRO KILLINGS REVEALED

  At a joint news conference, spokesmen for the Las Vegas Police Department and the Southern Nevada District of the U.S. Attorney’s Office announced that Leroy Williams and Otis and Curtis Swasey, the three Negro men killed on the night of January 15th, had been recently arrested by agents of the Federal Bureau of Narcotics and were out on bail at the time of their deaths.

  “The three men had been the focus of a long-term investigation,” Agent Dwight C. Holly said. “They had been selling large quantities of heroin in nearby cities and were preparing to sell it in Las Vegas. They were apprehended in the early morning hours of January 9th, and three kilos (6½ pounds) of heroin were seized at their residence in West Las Vegas. Williams and the Swasey brothers made bail on the afternoon of January 13th and returned to their residence.”

  Captain Robert Gilstrap of the LVPD went on to clarify events on the night of January 15th. “Newspaper reporters and local television commentators have assumed that the three men killed that night were killed by LVPD Sergeant Wayne Tedrow Jr. as revenge for the murder of his wife, Lynette, who was raped and killed, presumably by a male Negro named Wendell Durfee,” he said. “This is not the case. Durfee was a known associate of Williams and the Swasey brothers, and the brothers paid him to kill Mrs. Tedrow. What has not been revealed until now is that Mrs. Tedrow’s death postdated the deaths of Williams and the Swasey brothers and that Sergeant Tedrow, as part of a combined LVPD-Narcotics Bureau operation, had Williams and the Swasey brothers under constant surveillance in an effort to insure that they did not abscond on their bail.”

  “Sergeant Tedrow heard a ruckus inside their residence, late on the evening of January 15th,” Agent Holly said. “He investigated and was fired upon by the Swasey brothers. No shots were heard, because both men fired silencer-fitted pistols. Sergeant Tedrow managed to disable both men and killed them with makeshift weapons he found on the premises. Leroy Williams entered the residence at that time. Sergeant Tedrow chased him to an automobile dump on Tonopah Highway and exchanged gunfire with him. Williams died in the process.”

  Agent Holly and Captain Gilstrap displayed photographic evidence compiled at both death scenes. Mr. Randall J. Merrins of the U.S. Attorney’s Office went on to say that it had been assumed that Sergeant Tedrow was being kept in custody while possible homicide charges against him were being discussed and prepared.

  “This is not the case,” Merrins said. “Sergeant Tedrow was held for his own safety. We were afraid of reprisals from other unknown members of the Williams-Swasey dope gang.”

  Sergeant Tedrow, 29, could not be reached for comment. Mrs. Tedrow’s presumed slayer, Wendell Durfee, was identified by fingerprints and other physical evidence found in the Tedrow home. Durfee is now the subject of a nationwide all-points bulletin and is also wanted by Texas authorities for the November 1963 disappearance of Dallas Police Officer Maynard D. Moore.

  Agent Holly’s long pursuit of the Swasey brothers and Leroy Williams was praised by Assistant U.S. Attorney Merrins, who announced that Holly, 47, will soon take the position of Chief Investigator for that agency’s Southern Nevada Office. Captain Gilstrap announced that Sergeant Tedrow has been awarded the LVPD’s highest accolade, its “Medal of Valor,” for “conspicuous gallantry and bravery in his surveillance and subsequent deadly confrontation with three armed and dangerous narcotics pushers.”

  Mrs. Tedrow is survived by one sister and her parents, Mr. and Mrs. Herbert D. Sproul, of Little Rock, Arkansas. Her body will be shipped to Little Rock for interment.

  DOCUMENT INSERT: 1/26/64. Las Vegas Sun article.

  GRAND JURY CLEARS POLICEMAN

  The standing Clark County Grand Jury today announced that no criminal indictments will be filed against Las Vegas Policeman Wayne Tedrow Jr. for the deaths of three Negro dope pushers.

  The Grand Jury heard six hours of testimony from members of the Las Vegas Police Department, Clark County Sheriff’s Department and U.S. Bureau of Narcotics. Members were in unanimous agreement that Sergeant Tedrow’s actions were warranted and justifiable. Grand Jury foreman D. W. Kaltenborn said, “We believe that Sergeant Tedrow acted with great resolve and under all the due guidelines of the laws of the State of Nevada.”

  A Las Vegas Police Department spokesman attending the grand jury proceedings said that Sergeant Tedrow had resigned from the LVPD that morning. Sergeant Tedrow could not be reached for commen
t.

  DOCUMENT INSERT: 1/27/64. Las Vegas Sun article.

  NO PROTESTS, NEGRO LEADERS SAY

  At a hastily arranged press conference in Washington, D.C., a spokesman for the National Association for the Advancement of Colored People (NAACP) announced that that organization and several other civil-rights groups will not protest the January 15th killings of three Negro men by a white policeman in Las Vegas.

  Lawton J. Spofford told assembled reporters, “Our decision is not based upon the recent decree from the Clark County Grand Jury, which exonerated Sergeant Wayne Tedrow Jr. for the deaths of Leroy Williams and Curtis and Otis Swasey. That body is a ‘rubber-stamp’ implement of the Clark County political establishment and as such has no sway with us. Our decision is based on information we have received from a friendly anonymous source, who told us that Sergeant Tedrow, under great personal duress, acted in a somewhat heedless but recognizably non-malicious manner that did not include racist designs.”

  The NAACP, along with the Congress of Racial Equality (CORE) and the Southern Christian Leadership Conference (SCLC), had previously announced their intention to stage protests in Las Vegas, in order to “shed light on a horribly segregated city, where Negro citizens live in deplorable circumstances.” The killings, Spofford said, “were to have been our point of redress and overall explication.”

  Other Negro leaders present at the press conference said that they did not rule out the possibility of future civil-rights protests in Las Vegas. “Where there’s smoke, there’s fire,” spokesman Welton D. Holland of CORE said. “We do not expect Las Vegas to change its ways without some notable confrontations.”

  DOCUMENT INSERT: 2/6/64. Verbatim FBI telephone call transcript. Marked: “Recorded at the Director’s Request”/“Classified Confidential 1-A: Director’s Eyes Only.” Speaking: Director Hoover, Ward J. Littell.

  JEH: Good morning, Mr. Littell.

  WJL: Good morning, Sir.

  JEH: You’ve been meeting some charming new people and rediscovering old friends. That might be a good place to start.

  WJL: “Charming” might describe Mr. Rustin, Sir. “Old friend” would never describe Dwight Holly.