The Cold Six Thousand: Underworld USA 2
Page 32
The Riviera—bug job #9. A big suite—three rooms in. Bugwork—Vegas-wide. Bribed access—four hotels in.
Moe Dalitz bribed managers. Milt Chargin bribed clerks. Mr. Hoover bribed the Vegas SAC. Said SAC pledged agents. Said SAC pledged speed. Said SAC pledged copied tapes.
Tapes to Mr. Hoover. Tapes to Ward Littell.
Turentine looped wires. Littell ran the TV. The news ran on. They caught LBJ’s landslide. They caught Bobby’s Senate sweep.
Turentine picked his nose. “I hate spackle mounts. The fucking paste stings.”
LBJ praised the voters. Ken Keating conceded. Bobby hugged his kids.
“I guess I’m lucky to get the work. It’s not like the scandal-rag days. Freddy Otash had me wire every fucking toilet in L.A.”
Goldwater conceded. Hubert Humphrey smiled. LBJ hugged his kids.
Turentine flicked snot. “Freddy’s scuffling. Pete’s got him running leads on some woman. Her husband screwed Jimmy H. on a deal.”
Littell killed the sound. Humphrey went mute. LBJ moved his lips.
“Who has the old scandal-rag morgue files? Would Freddy know?”
Turentine hooked wires. “You mean the hot dirt? The unprintable shit that never got published?”
“That’s right.”
“Why do you—”
“The information could help us. The rags always kept stringers in Vegas.”
Turentine popped a neck zit. “If you’re willing to pay, Freddy’d be willing to look.”
“Call him, will you? Tell him I’ll pay double his day rate and expenses.”
Turentine nodded. Turentine popped a chin zit. Littell goosed the TV. LBJ praised Bobby. Bobby praised LBJ. Bobby praised the Great Society.
Littell miked a nightstand. Littell miked a couch leg. Littell miked a lamp.
Morgue dirt was old. Morgue dirt was still ripe. Morgue dirt might help Mr. Hughes. They needed dirt. Dirt incurred debt. Let’s call Moe D. Let’s call Milt C. Let’s bug more rooms yet.
Grind joints next—bedroom mounts—Milt to retrieve. Let’s bug Vegas. Let’s cull dirt. Let’s extort.
Littell miked a chair. Turentine flipped channels. There’s Mr. Hoover in the flesh.
He said, “King.” He said, “Communist sympathizer.” He looked old. He looked weak.
The news ran late. Bobby’s segments ran long.
Littell went “home.” Littell called room service. Littell ate dinner and watched TV.
Home-suite-home. Room service and valets.
He missed Jane. He pressed her to come for Thanksgiving. She agreed. It scared her. The Boys owned the town.
She told lies. It disturbed him in L.A. He missed her and wanted her here.
Bobby praised LBJ. Bobby praised his programs. Bobby praised Dr. King.
He played his Bobby tapes. He played them most nights. Sometimes Jane overheard. He punted. He lied. He described depositions.
Lies:
Bayard Rustin pressed him—meet Dr. King—Bayard proposed a dinner. He declined. He lied. He stressed nonexistent engagements. He lied. He never said “distance.”
Distance balanced his risk. Distance balanced his commitment. He subverted King. He aided King. He worked for a balance.
Personal moments would kill it. Affection would blitz respect. Compartments would burn. The risk would grow exponential.
Bobby promised legislation. Bobby promised hard work. Bobby did not mention organized crime. Bobby did not mention Jack.
He knew Bobby. Bobby knew the Boys killed Jack. Bobby on tape: “When the time’s right I’ll jump on it, and devil take the hindmost.”
Don’t. Please. Don’t risk your safety. Don’t risk yourself.
Littell flipped channels. Littell saw LBJ. Littell saw Blatz beer and Vietnam. U.S. advisors. More troops pledged. Buddhist monks on fire.
Pete called him this morning. Pete pitched a plan: Call Drac/work Drac/help me work this new plan.
He agreed. He called Drac and snowed him. Drac agreed to Pete’s “plan.” Pete dropped the name Clark Kinman. Bypass Wayne Senior through him.
He called Kinman. He pitched a meet. He deciphered the gist of Pete’s “plan.”
Heroin/Vietnam. “Ordnance”/hidden dope/cosmetic donations.
It meant one thing. The Boys waived the no-dope rule. The Boys never told him.
Pete sounded happy. Pete came off engaged. Pete built airtight compartments. There’s Betty Mac. There’s heroin. There’s the partition.
Littell flipped channels. Bobby waved. Bobby hugged his kids.
Kinman served drinks. Littell sipped club soda. Kinman sipped scotch himself.
“I know about you. You brought the Hughes charter deal to Wayne Senior.”
The den was stuffy. The den was GI. Airplane models and airplane wall plaques.
Littell smiled. “I hope your compensation sufficed.”
Kinman sipped scotch. “I’m an officer in the United States Air Force. I’m not going to tell a perfect stranger if, where, or how I was compensated, if in fact I was.”
Littell twirled his coaster. “You could call Wayne Senior for a reference.”
“We’re not on good terms. He told me he doesn’t like you, which refers you pretty good these days.”
A door slammed upstairs. Music kicked on. A female voice hummed along.
Littell stirred his drink. “Do you know who I work for?”
“I was informed that it was Howard Hughes, who folks say has designs on Las Vegas. I figured he was good for the town, which is why I facilitated the charter deal.”
“For which you were or were not compensated.”
The music dipped. Footsteps tapped downstairs. A woman hummed along.
Kinman smiled. “I’ve got a friend here. That means you’ve got five minutes to state your case and skedaddle.”
Littell toed his briefcase. “Mr. Hughes wants to donate U.S.-supplied Vietnamese Army surplus to the Air National Guard. He wants to publicize the donations and credit you with inspiring the gift. All he requires is expanded ground clearance for periodic courier flights from Saigon.”
Kinman chewed ice. “With no contraband checks?”
“He would appreciate that courtesy, yes.”
“ ‘That courtesy’ will cost $5,000 per month, in cash, nonrefundable.”
Littell popped his briefcase. Littell dumped forty grand. Drac gave him fifty. He kept and tithed ten.
Kinman whooped. Janice Tedrow walked in.
She limped. She swung a cane. She rubbed a scar on her lips.
62
(Dak Sut, 11/7/64)
Heat. Bugs. Bullshit.
Dak Sut featured peasants. Dak Sut featured clay-mud. Dak Sut featured thirty-three huts.
ARVNs called peasants que lam. Chaffee called ARVNs “Marvin.” Pete called them “Marv.” Chuck called them “Marv.” Bob Relyea called them “Sahib.”
Wayne itched. Wayne slapped bugs. Wayne scoped Dak Sut. He saw pigs. He saw rice bins. He saw the Dak Poko River.
A bridge. Brown water. Thick jungle ahead.
They flew up. Three Marvs came along. Chaffee hired a Huey. The pilot slurped wine. Chuck and Bob tossed hate tracts out.
Wayne itched. Wayne slapped bugs. Wayne wore fatigues and a .45. Wayne packed a 12-gauge pump.
GI gear—kadre kustomized. Dum-dums and beehive rounds—steel darts encased.
Laos was close. The Marvs knew the way. The Marvs had their guide—some ex-Cong stashed in a hut.
Tran Dinh camped near Saravan. Tran Dinh had men. Tran Dinh had two Hueys prepped. They’d fly to Joe Warlord’s camp. They’d “negotiate.”
Wayne itched. Wayne slapped bugs. Wayne scoped Dak Sut. Peasants hovered. Mesplède dispensed Kools. Pete hit hut 16. Pete hauled the Cong out.
Chuck deshackled him. Bob rigged a collar. The Marvs leashed him up. Nice collar—poodle-sized and spiked.
Chuck fucked with the leash. Chuck laid some slack in. Chuck cinched the Cong up.
Chuck said, “Bow wow.”
Bob sang “Walkin’ the Dog.”
They moved out.
They walked single-file. They crossed the Dak Poko. They hit the province hut. The Marvs greased the hut boss—five bucks U.S. The hut boss swooned.
They hit Laos. They walked foot trails. Hills and brush cover. Krazy Glue clay.
The Cong walked ahead. Chuck snapped his leash. Chuck named him “Fido.” Fido tugged. Fido walked barefoot. Fido stretched his leash.
Wayne walked rear point. My craaaazy life—Army Airborne to this.
He killed time in Saigon. He read his chemistry texts. He hit the USO. He ordered the Vegas and Dallas papers. He moved into the lab. He stored his Durfee file.
He filed tips. He summarized tips. He ate at the Go-Go. He dug on the weird food. He offered the owner some help.
The fried monk caused damage. The fried monk burned beams. The fried monk scorched the paint job.
Wayne repainted. Wayne redrilled beams. The pimp hung around. Wayne watched him. Wayne learned his stats:
Maurice Hardell/aka Bongo/ex-QM PFC. Stockade time and a pervert DD.
He watched Bongo. He watched the kadre men. The kadre men watched him. They knew his stats. They dug on them. Chuck spieled them out.
He got their stats. Pete supplied them:
Guéry hated Reds. Mesplède hated Reds. They killed Congo rebels. They killed Algerians. Chuck hated Reds. Chuck was ex-CIA. Chuck killed Fidelistos.
Flash hated Reds. Flash killed Reds. Flash used to pimp girls in Havana. Flash split Cuba. Flash hit the U.S. Flash robbed liquor stores.
Flash knew Guéry. Flash met Pete. Flash met John Stanton. Chuck knew Bob. Bob pushed hate tracts. Bob mailed hate tracts to prisons.
Chaffee was a blueblood. Chaffee went Army. Stanton was a blueblood. Stanton went to Yale. Stanton knew Chaffee’s dad. Stanton owned United Fruit stock. The Beard kicked UF out of Cuba. The Beard fucked with their stock.
Cuba drove them. Cuba drove Pete. Cuba drove the dope plan. Cuba drove Viet ops. Something said Cuba drove Dallas.
They talked:
Guéry and Mesplède/Chuck and Pete/Flash Elorde. They spoke English. They stopped. They spoke Spanish and French. They said “Dallas” trilingual.
Dallas—a noun—a city in Texas. Dallas—the break point for him.
He waited since childhood. He notched a fast fuck. He dropped his Dallas punchline. He fucked Janice. He jeopardized her. They both wanted out from Wayne Senior. They fucked to burn their lives down.
He bought the Vegas papers. He checked the missing persons logs and obits. Wayne Senior killed Wardell Gray. Wayne Senior did not kill Janice.
He cut them off. He left them. He walked. He ignored them. He thought about Bongo. He thought about Wendell D.
The kadre trudged. The trail swerved. Bush hemmed them in. Chaffee read his compass. They held northwest.
They crossed clearings. They spread out. They flanked. Wayne switched positions. Wayne took Fido’s leash.
Fido walked fast—good dog—most ricky-tick.
Wayne walked fast. Fido tugged. Wayne caught up and ran abreast. Fido went darty. Wayne tracked his eyes. Fido lurched. Fido weaved.
Marv One yelled, “Chuyen gi vay?”
Marv Two yelled, “Chuyen, chuyen?”
Fido yelled, “Khong co chuyen gi het.”
They hit a clearing. They reflanked. Fido tugged left. Fido squatted. Fido dropped his pants.
Wayne saw a turd drop. Wayne saw a tree stump. Wayne saw an X. Fido grabbed something. Fido threw something. Something blew up.
Fuck—smoke/shrapnel/gunfire.
Chaffee caught metal scraps. Chaffee went down. Two Marvs caught it tight. An arm flew. A foot flew. Stumps spattered.
Wayne proned out. Wayne rolled. Wayne pulled his .45. Pete proned out. Chuck proned out. Marv Three fired wide.
Pete fired. Chuck fired. Fido tugged his leash. Wayne dug in. Wayne pulled the leash. Wayne reeled him in.
He’s close—there’s his neck/there’s his eyes.
Wayne aimed. Wayne popped four shots off. Fido’s teeth shattered. Fido’s neck blew.
Wayne heard yells. Wayne saw three VC.
They charged. They aimed carbines. They got kadre klose. Pete stood up. Chuck stood up. Mesplède waved come on.
Bob stood up. Bob aimed his pump. Bob shot low. A beehive blew—darts blew—darts on fire.
The spread cohered. The spread hit. The spread severed legs. Three trunk sections detached and fell.
Pete fired. Chuck fired. Mesplède fired tight. They popped full clips—.45 ACPs—they ten-ringed head shots.
Wayne walked over. Wayne kicked a loose leg. Wayne saw a Ho Chi Minh tattoo. Wayne saw needle marks.
Pete said no burials. Chuck said no evidence. Mesplède said guts lured wild pigs.
Bob disemboweled the Marvs. Pete disemboweled Chaffee. Bob disemboweled the VC. Wayne flipped a coin. Marv Three called heads. Wayne got tails—tough luck.
He disemboweled Fido. He thought of Maynard Moore. He smelled the rest stop near Dallas.
They walked away. Chuck left hate tracts. Bob left an ace of spades.
They walked.
They lost Chaffee’s compass. They tracked off the sun. Dusk hit. They tracked off starlight.
A haze hit. The stars died. The foot trail bisected. They veered instinct-right. Ursa Minor broke through. They resighted and cut back.
They walked. They used flashlights. They hit undergrowth. Thick shit—leaves and roots.
They kicked through it. A haze hit. The stars died. They cut back. They fried their flashlights. They walked in the dark. They saw lights. Marv Three called it:
Two clicks over—village—que lam beaucoup. I go now. I get village help. I bring guide back.
Pete said go. Marv Three walked. They waited. Nobody talked. Nobody smoked. Wayne clocked off forty-six minutes.
Marv Three walked back. Marv Three brought Fido Two. An old guy—the papa-san type—Ho beard and tire-tread shoes.
Chuck leashed him up. Chuck named him “Rover.” Chuck fed him cigarettes. Rover had good wind. Rover walked fast. Rover leaped limbs and brush piles.
They hit a clearing. They flanked wide. They aimed in a 360 arc. A flare popped at ten o’clock—pink light streaked and poofed.
They cut loose. They blew beehives. Darts disinterred.
Somebody yelled, “Friend!”
Somebody yelled, “Tran Dinh!”
Tran had a campsite. Pete called it Tran’s Fontainebleau.
One acre. Weeds and mulched dirt. Bug nets and grenade nets. Brushed-steel lean-tos.
They slept hard. They slept late. Tran’s men cooked brunch.
Tran scrounged off Stanton. Stanton scrounged the Army. Stanton scrounged pancake batter. Stanton scrounged pork rinds and Spam.
Tran had six slaves—all ARVN rejects. Tran vibed Baby Caesar. Tran vibed diva.
The slaves served chow. Flapjacks flambé—torched in T-bird wine.
Chuck loved it. Pete went yum-yum. Bob gagged. Mesplède gagged. Marv Three scarfed it up. Wayne took a bite. Wayne gagged. Wayne fed Tran’s pet snake.
Tran spoke English. Tran spoke French. Tran ran the drill:
Two Hueys come. We go then. We co-opt poppy farms. We “negotiate.”
Pete took Tran aside. Wayne watched the tête-à-tête. Wayne heard “improvisation.” Pete grinned. Tran grinned. Tran went tee-hee. Wayne caught the gist—“negotiate,” shit.
Chuck issued ammo. Chuck issued rules: We all carry birdshot—beehives verboten.
Wayne dumped his ammo. Wayne reloaded. Wayne thought it through:
Short-range loads. “Improvisation.” Pete knows/Tran knows/Chuck knows. They all know—but you.
Tran gave a speech. Tran indicted the Cong. Tran indicted the French. Tran excluded Pete and Mesplède. Tran indicted Ho Chi Minh. Tran indicted
Ngo Dinh Diem. Tran indicted gnarly Charlie de Gaulle.
Tran eulogized Preston Chaffee. Tran indicted the Beard. Tran extolled boss-man LBJ. Tran yelled. Tran coughed. Tran chewed an hour up and went hoarse.
Wayne heard chopper thumps. Wayne saw the Hueys.
They closed in. They hovered. They landed and perched. The doors popped. The pilot Marvs motioned them up.
Tran said a prayer. Tran issued bullet-proof vests. Wayne looked at Pete. Pete smiled and winked.
They did staggered takeoffs. Bob took Flight #1. Bob packed a 7-65 sniper-scope.
Pete clocked off ten minutes. Flight #2 readied. Tran yelled, “All aboard!”
They climbed in. Wayne grabbed a door spot. Chuck rode the door gun. Pete got a back seat. Mesplède stuck close. Tran stuck by the Pilot Marv and Marv Three.
The Pilot Marv goosed it. The rotors whipped. They climbed. They leveled. They held.
3K level—check that green—green valleys/green hills/green brush.
Wayne looked down. Wayne saw soil rows and hollows. Wayne caught the gray tint.
Sweet soil. Good alkalines—low pH all. Poppy food. Dope slaves burn trees. Ash feeds the soil.
Calcium and potassium. High phosphate counts. Spring burns and fall plantings. Beans and corn for interim crops.
They passed Saravan. Wayne saw tin roofs and spires. Wayne saw stick figures and grids. Saravan came and went fast. The ground regreened.
Chuck got airsick. Chuck puked in a bag. Wayne looked away and looked down.
There—
Dope fields/row furrows/coolie-hat slaves.
Pete grabbed the Pilot Marv’s headset. He listened. He laughed. He held three fingers up. Tran laughed. Chuck laughed. Mesplède laughed. Marv Three went bang-bang.
Wayne got the gist:
Bob’s up in chopper 1. Bob’s got a rifle. Bob’s popping outland guards. Bob’s toppled three.
The Pilot Marv banked. Wayne saw huts. Wayne saw a landing strip. He pulled his .45. He checked the clip. He jacked a round in.
The Pilot Marv leveled. The Pilot Marv rotored down.
There—
A barracks. A slave jail. A volleyball court. A welcome line—Li’l Tojo plus six. Little Laotians/fatigues and jump boots/World War II Nazi lids.
Pete laughed. Chuck pointed way east—check the brush/catch that glint.