The Cold Six Thousand: Underworld USA 2
Page 20
JEH: I could have predicted that response. And I doubt that Lyle Holly will become your lifelong chum.
WJL: We share a wonderful friend in you, Sir.
JEH: You’re feeling frisky this morning.
WJL: Yes, Sir.
JEH: Did Mr. Rustin bemoan my efforts against Mr. King and the SCLC?
WJL: He did, Sir.
JEH: And you were properly deplored?
WJL: Cosmetically, Sir, yes.
JEH: I’m sure you were entirely convincing.
WJL: I established a rapport with Mr. Rustin, Sir.
JEH: I’m sure you will sustain it.
WJL: I hope so, Sir.
JEH: Have you spoken to him again?
WJL: Lyle Holly facilitated a second conversation. I utilized Mr. Rustin to forestall some trouble in Las Vegas. It pertained to a client of mine.
JEH: I know elements of the story. We’ll discuss it momentarily.
WJL: Yes, Sir.
JEH: Do you still consider it impossible to re-tape the Dark Prince?
WJL: Yes, Sir.
JEH: I would enjoy some glimpses of his private pain.
WJL: I would, too.
JEH: I doubt that. You’re a voyeur, not a sadist, and I suspect that you’ll never reconcile your old crush on Bobby.
WJL: Yes, Sir.
JEH: Lyndon Johnson finds him difficult to reconcile. Many of his advisors think he should include him on the fall ticket, but he hates the Dark Lad too much to succumb.
WJL: I understand how he feels, Sir.
JEH: Yes, and you disapprove, in your uniquely non-disapproving way.
WJL: I’m not that complex, Sir. Or that compromised in my emotions.
JEH: You delight me, Mr. Littell. I will nominate your last statement for Best Falsehood of 1964.
WJL: I’m honored, Sir.
JEH: Bobby may run for Kenneth Keating’s Senate seat in New York.
WJL: If he runs, he’ll win.
JEH: Yes. He’ll form a coalition of the deluded and morally handicapped and emerge victorious.
WJL: Is he maintaining his work at Justice?
JEH: Not vigorously. He still appears to be shell-shocked. Mr. Katzenbach and Mr. Clark are doing most of his work. I think he’ll resign, in a timely fashion.
WJL: Is he monitoring the agents for the Warren Commission?
JEH: I haven’t discussed the investigation with him. Of course, he receives summaries of all my field agents’ reports.
WJL: Edited summaries, Sir?
JEH: You are frisky today. Impertinent might describe it better.
WJL: I apologize, Sir.
JEH: Don’t. I’m enjoying the conversation.
WJL: Yes, Sir.
JEH: Edited summaries, yes. With all contradictory elements deleted to conform to the thesis we first discussed in Dallas.
WJL: I’m happy to hear that.
JEH: Your clients should be, as well.
WJL: Yes, Sir.
JEH: We can’t send your plant in again. You’re certain?
WJL: Yes, Sir.
JEH: I mourn the missed opportunity. I would like to hear a private assessment of King Jack’s death.
WJL: I suspect we’ll never know, Sir.
JEH: Lyndon Johnson continues to share his thoughts with me, in his inimitably colorful manner. He has said, quote, It all came out of that pathetic little shithole, Cuba. Maybe it’s that cocksucker with the beard or those fucking lowlife exiles, unquote.
WJL: A lively and astute analysis.
JEH: Mr. Johnson has developed a distaste for all things Cuban. The exile cause has succumbed to factionalism and has scattered to the wind, which pleases him no end.
WJL: I share his delight, Sir. I know many people who were seduced by the cause.
JEH: Yes. Gangsters and a French-Canadian chap with homicidal tendencies.
WJL: Yes, Sir.
JEH: Cuba appeals to hotheads and the morally impaired. It’s the cuisine and the sex. Plantains and women who have intercourse with donkeys.
WJL: I have no fondness for the place, Sir.
JEH: Mr. Johnson has developed a fondness for Vietnam. You should inform Mr. Hughes. Some military contracts may be coming his way.
WJL: He’ll be delighted to hear that.
JEH: You should inform him that I’ll keep you abreast of the Justice Department’s plans in Las Vegas.
WJL: I’m delighted to hear that.
JEH: On a need-to-know basis, Mr. Littell. As is the case with all our transactions.
WJL: I understand, Sir. And I neglected to thank you for your help in the Tedrow matter. Dwight Holly was determined to do the boy some harm.
JEH: You deserve an accolade. You bypassed Wayne Senior very effectively.
WJL: Thank you, Sir.
JEH: I understand that he has asked you to lunch.
WJL: Yes, Sir. We haven’t scheduled yet.
JEH: He thinks you’re weak. I told him that you are a bold and occasionally reckless man who has learned the value of restraint.
WJL: Thank you, Sir.
JEH: Dwight feels quite ambivalent. He got the job he wanted, but he’s developed quite a dislike for Wayne Junior. My sources in the U.S. Attorney’s Office tell me that he is determined to bypass Senior and do Junior some harm in the long run.
WJL: Despite his friendship with Senior?
JEH: Or because of it. You never know with Dwight. He’s quite the provocateur and the rogue, so I indulge him.
WJL: Yes, Sir.
JEH: The same way I indulge you.
WJL: I caught the implication, Sir.
JEH: You dislike Dwight and Wayne Senior, so I’ll give you added cause. Their fathers belonged to the same Klan Klavern in Indiana. That said, I should add that it was probably more genteel than the Klan groups currently marauding down south.
WJL: I’m sure they never lynched any Negroes.
JEH: Yes, although I’m certain they would have enjoyed it.
WJL: Yes, Sir.
JEH: Most people have entertained the notion. You must credit their restraint.
WJL: Yes, Sir.
JEH: You might discuss the Indiana Klan with Bayard Rustin. I want you to make another donation.
WJL: I’ll bring it up, Sir. I’m sure he’ll acknowledge it as a genteel institution.
JEH: You are assuredly frisky today.
WJL: I hope I haven’t offended you, Sir.
JEH: Anything but. And I hope I haven’t offended you with Junior.
WJL: Sir?
JEH: I had to throw Dwight Holly a bone. He wanted Junior expelled from the LVPD, so I arranged it.
WJL: I assumed that you had, Sir. The newspapers were kind, though. They said he resigned.
JEH: Did you befriend Junior to get at his files? For Mr. Hughes’ sake?
WJL: Yes, Sir.
JEH: I’m sure that Senior will enjoy Junior’s expulsion. They have an odd relationship.
WJL: Yes, Sir.
JEH: Good day, Mr. Littell. I’ve enjoyed this conversation.
WJL: Good day, Sir.
35
(Las Vegas, 2/7/64)
The Lincoln gleamed. New paint/new chrome/new leather.
The car jazzed him. The car distracted him. He kept seeing Lynette. Flaps and sheared ribs. Durfee’s knife severed bone.
Pete cruised. Pete tried gadgets. The lighter worked. The heater worked. The seats reclined.
Vegas looked good. Cool air hits mountains and sunshine. Secure-the-Vote Day—one down so far.
He muscled Webb Spurgeon. He explained stat-rape statutes. He detailed consent laws. Spurgeon gulped. Spurgeon kowtowed. Spurgeon pledged votes.
All good so far. One down—two to go.
Pete drove by Monarch Cab. Pete got electrified. Dollar signs boogied and bipped.
Cabs peeled in. Cabs peeled out. Cabs refueled. Drivers ate pills. Drivers drank lunch. Drivers palmed waistband gats.
Monarch Cab. Maybe: Tiger Kab redux.
A cash base. A racket hub. Bent personnel. Monarch as Tiger—hold that heady thought.
Pete cruised. Pete meandered. Pete hit West LV. Pete checked out that vacant lot.
There’s the trailer. The paint’s gone. The shell’s cracked. The siding’s all scorched.
A kid walked up. Pete jollied him. The kid sermonized.
The trailer smell bad. That be wrong. Somethin’ dead be inside. This dude torch it. The stink go. He burn the stink out. No cops come. No firemen. Somethin’ dead still be in there.
The kid buzzed off. Pete scoped the trailer. A breeze kicked up. The trailer creaked. Paint chips cracked and blew.
Pete cruised. Pete meandered. Pete drove south. Pete hit Duane Hinton’s house.
He parked. He walked up. He knocked on the door. He pulled out Wayne’s snapshot.
There’s a fat whore bound and gagged. She’s sucking a handball.
Hinton opened the door. Pete flashed the photo eye-level.
Hinton plotzed. Pete grabbed his hair. Pete raised one knee. Pete broke his nose up.
Hinton went down. Bones cracked. Cartilage blew.
Pete decreed:
Vote our way. Do not touch whores. Do not hurt whores. Do not kill whores—OR I’LL KILL YOU.
Hinton tried to talk. Hinton gagged. Hinton bit through his tongue.
36
(Little Rock, 2/8/64)
Devoted wife. Schoolteacher. Loving daughter.
The preacher ran on. The casket sat ready. Lakeside Cemetery: cheap burials and segregated plots.
The Sprouls wore black. Janice wore black. Wayne Senior wore blue. The Sprouls stood alone. Wayne stood alone. Daddy Sproul watched him.
Soldier boy. Yankee. She was seventeen. You wooed her. She killed your baby. You made her do it.
Loving spirit. Sacred child. Blessed in Christ’s name.
The service was short. The casket was cheap. The plot was low-rent. The Tedrows shipped the body home. The Tedrows lost control.
Lynette despised religion. Lynette loved movie stars and John Kennedy.
A chauffeur stood around. A Negro man. Tall like Wendell Durfee.
The preacher braced Wayne pre-service. The preacher counseled him.
I feel your loss. I know your grief. I understand.
Wayne said it: “I’m going to kill Wendell Durfee.”
God’s will. The ides of fate. Snatched in her prime.
The plots adjoined Central High. He met Lynette there. Soldiers and rednecks. Negro kids scared.
The chauffeur stood around. The chauffeur filed his nails. The chauffeur wore a hair net. He had Durfee hair. He had Durfee skin. He had Durfee’s lank frame.
Wayne watched him. Wayne retouched his hair. Wayne retouched his skin. Wayne made him Wendell D.
The preacher prayed. The Sprouls wept. The Tedrows stood calm. The chauffeur buffed his nails.
Wayne watched him.
He burned his face. He smashed his teeth. He fed him Big “H.”
37
(Las Vegas, 2/9/64)
The DI count room.
Money—coin bins and hampers stuffed. A swivel spy-camera hooked up.
Your host—Moe Dalitz.
The count men were out. The camera was off. Money sat waist-high. Littell sneezed—the fumes were bad—sting off cash dye and tin.
Moe said, “It’s not that complicated. The count guys are in cahoots with the camera guys. The camera goes on the fritz, accidental on purpose, so the count guys can get the skim out and retally it. You don’t need a college education.”
Mesh hampers—laundry-size. Forty hampers/forty grand per.
Moe dipped in. Moe snagged ten grand—C-notes all.
“Here, for your civil-rights deal. What’s their fucking motto, ‘We Shall Overcome’?”
Littell grabbed the cash. Littell packed his briefcase.
“The skim interests me.”
“You are not alone in that. Certain Federal agencies have been known to be curious.”
“Are you looking for couriers?”
Moe said, “No. We use civilians, exclusive. Squarejohns who owe casino markers. They run the skim and pay off their debts at 7½% of the transport.”
Littell shot his cuffs. “I was thinking of Mr. Hughes’ Mormons, or other trustworthy ones, at a 15% rate.”
Moe shook his head. “I don’t like to fuck with success, but I’ll hear you out anyway.”
Littell sneezed. Moe supplied a Kleenex. Littell wiped his nose.
“You’re going to sell Mr. Hughes some hotels. He’ll want his Mormons or some Mormons to run them. You’ll want your men, you’ll compromise, you’ll want to escalate your skim operations.”
Moe twirled a dime. “Don’t be a cock tease. You’ve got this tendency to string things out.”
Littell hugged his briefcase. “I want to enlist some Mormons, over time, and have them ready by the date you sell Mr. Hughes the hotels. You’d have a pool of potential inside men with skim experience.”
“That’s not enough inducement to pay 15%.”
“At face value, no.”
Moe rolled his eyes. “So, lay it out. Jesus Christ, don’t make me coax you.”
“All right. Mr. Hughes’ people travel on Hughes Aircraft charter flights. I could hire some Mormons to work for Mr. Hughes now, and you could ship the skim bulk and avoid airport security risks.”
Moe flipped the dime. Moe caught it heads-up.
“At face value, I like it. I’ll talk to the other guys.”
“I’d like to get started soon.”
“Take a breather. Don’t wear yourself out.”
“I’m sure that’s a good tip, but I’d—”
“Here’s a better one. Bet Clay over Liston. You’ll make a fucking mint.”
“Is the fight fixed?”
“No, but Sonny’s got some very bad habits.”
Littell flew to L.A.
He flew solo. He booked a Hughes plane. The Hughes fleet moored in Burbank. Cessna Twins—six seats each—ample skim space.
The flight ran smooth. No clouds and desert sparkling up.
Moe took the bait. Moe missed the dodge. Moe thought the dodge was pro-Drac. Wrong—the dodge was pro–civil rights.
Call it:
Bagmen. Potential “casino consultants.” Hughes men. All charter-flight cleared.
He could skim off the skim. He could feed Bayard Rustin. He could blunt Mr. Hoover’s damage. Wayne Senior ran Mormon thugs. Wayne Senior knew bagmen types. He could coopt them.
The long-term goal: damage abatement.
Mr. Hoover filmed Dr. King. Mr. Hoover tried to entrap him. Mr. Hoover dirt-fed his “correspondents”: congressmen/reporters/clergymen.
Mr. Hoover schooled them. Mr. Hoover taught them restraint. Let’s collude and leak covert data. Let’s leak it smart. Don’t leak strict bug-and-tap data. Don’t jeopardize bug-and-tap mounts.
Mr. Hoover held dirt. Mr. Hoover leaked dirt. Mr. Hoover caused pain. Mr. Hoover hated Dr. King. Mr. Hoover exposed his one weakness:
Sadism. Sustained. Inflicted over TIME.
TIME worked two ways. There was TIME to inflict harm. There was TIME to countermand the effects.
The skim plan might work. The skim plan sparked a question: Hughes money—a potential tithe source?
The plane banked. Littell pared an apple. Littell sipped coffee.
Pete had Wayne’s files. Pete squeezed Spurgeon and Hinton. Spurgeon fed Pete some dirt. Key legislators and their pet charities—dirt per their philanthropy.
Pete said he bypassed Eldon Peavy. Peavy was cop-sanctioned. Peavy might balk at threats. Pete was disingenuous. Pete’s threats worked. Pete craved Monarch Cab. Pete was gauging a takeover shot.
The plane dipped low. Burbank showed sunshine and smog.
He’d lunched with Wayne Senior. Wayne Senior praised him—you saved my son.
Junior declined Senior’s help. Junior rebuffed his connections. Junior nixed good job offers
. Junior nixed work in chemistry. Junior sought his own work. Junior found low-end employment.
The Wild Deuce Casino—night bouncer—6:00 to 2:00 a.m. The Deuce was rough. The Deuce welcomed Negroes. Junior welcomed pain.
Wayne Senior bought Littell’s lunch. Wayne Senior made nice. Wayne Senior said ugly things.
Wayne Senior derided the civil-rights movement. Wayne Senior brought up the King film.
Littell smiled. Littell made nice. Littell thought I will make you all pay.
Jane said, “I got a job.”
The terrace was cold. The view compensated. Littell leaned on the rail.
“Where?”
“Hertz rent-a-car. I’m doing the books for the West L.A. branches.”
“Did your Tulane degree help?”
Jane smiled. “It got me the extra thousand a year I asked for.”
She used hard vowels. She eschewed slurs. She dropped her southern drawl. She’d reworked her voice and diction—he just noticed it.
She said, “It feels good to rejoin the work force.”
Hard g’s. Regionless. Pure consonants.
Littell smiled. Littell popped his briefcase. Littell pulled out six sheets.
He landed. He drove to Hughes Tool. He stopped at the bookkeeping pool and stole forms.
Invoices. Bill sheets. All standard paper.
He got in. He got out. He shaped his upcoming lie.
“Would you look at these when you get a chance? I need your advice on a few things.”
Jane scanned the sheets. “They’re all boilerplate. Cost-outs, overruns, that kind of thing.”
Hard b’s and p’s. Lazy o’s deleted.
“I want to discuss embezzling techniques and how to use these forms. There’s going to be a buildup in Vietnam, and Mr. Hughes will probably be awarded some contracts. He’s afraid of embezzlements, and he asked me to study up.”
Jane smiled. “Did you tell him your girlfriend’s an embezzler?”
“No. Just that she keeps a good secret.”
“God, the way that we live.”
Short a’s and e’s. Crisp inflections.
Jane laughed. “Have you noticed? I gave up my accent.”
Jane read in bed. Jane dozed off early. Littell played his tapes.
He got crazy. Two times of late. He ran two crazy risks.
He passed through D.C. He wired Doug Eversall. He squeezed him. He cajoled him. He paid him five G’s.