The Cold Six Thousand: Underworld USA 2
Page 39
She said, “I saw Wayne Senior at the DI. He was making a phone call.”
Littell smiled. “Why are you telling me this?”
“Because you hate him, and you’re curious about the men I’ve slept with.”
Littell sipped coffee. “I hope I haven’t been prying.”
“That’s impossible with me. You know how I love to divulge.”
“I do know. It’s something that separates—”
“Me from Jane, I know.”
Littell smiled. “Tell me what you heard.”
Janice teed a ball. “He was in the casino, and he was using one of those courtesy phones. He didn’t see me behind him.”
“And?”
“And he was talking to a man named Chuck. He was talking about the bad reception from Vietnam, and he was cracking jokes about Bogalusa and ‘Bombalusa.’ ”
Littell stirred his coffee. “That’s it?”
“That and the way he was gloating, with that Indiana drawl of his.”
Hold it. Stop right—
Littell stirred his coffee. Littell thought it through. Bogalusa was East Louisiana. Bogalusa was Klan kountry.
Vote drives—right now—fronted by SCLC. BLACK RABBIT on go. Wayne Senior as FATHER RABBIT.
Hold it. Stop right—
You’re CRUSADER RABBIT. Bayard Rustin’s PINK. You taped PINK. PINK told you about Bogalusa. You told Mr. Hoover.
Mr. Hoover knows. Mr. Hoover never calls. Mr. Hoover pledges memos. Mr. Hoover sends none.
Janice built a martini. “Is there room for two in that trance of yours, or should I leave you alone?”
Littell coughed. “Do you have any idea who Chuck is?”
“Well, I’d say he’s that little man who flew a plane to Wayne Senior’s Christmas party, and showed up with your caveman friend Pete.”
Hold it. Stop right—
Chuck Rogers: Pilot/killer/racist nut/Dallas shooter. Vietnam and Pete’s gig—covert CIA.
FATHER RABBIT runs WILD RABBIT. WILD RABBIT is Army. WILD RABBIT serves “overseas.” Mr. Hoover talked rabbits. Mr. Hoover talked dates. WILD RABBIT to leave the Army—5/65. WILD RABBIT to go Klan then.
“Ward, am I going to have to do a striptease to pull you out of that trance?”
He worried it. He tested it. He dreamed RABBITS. He carried it with him. He brought it home. He slept with it.
BOMBalusa. BOMBingham: September ’63. A bomb blows at 16th Street Baptist Church. Four Negro girls die.
He woke up. He made coffee. He built rationales:
Don’t call Mr. Hoover. Don’t raise an alarm. Don’t call Pete. Don’t mention Chuck. Don’t breach need-to-know. Don’t call Bayard. Don’t probe Bogalusa. Don’t sound his alarm.
Don’t call BLUE RABBIT. Don’t call WHITE RABBIT. Don’t rouse the Holly boys. They hate Negroes. They love Mr. Hoover.
Wayne Senior’s FATHER RABBIT. FATHER knows Chuck. FATHER runs WILD RABBIT. WILD RABBIT runs a klavern. The Feds fund it and impose rules:
“Operational guidelines.” “Violence to sustain informant credibility.” BOMBingham/BOMBalusa/BOMB—
Littell grabbed the phone. Littell called Barb. Littell ran a riff:
Laos. Pete’s dope clique. Is Chuck Rogers in?
Barb said, “Yes.”
Littell hung up. Littell called the switchboard. Littell braced an operator: Get me U.S. Customs—the passport office—New Orleans.
The operator ran it. Littell got the number. Littell dialed direct.
A man picked up. “Customs, Agent Bryce.”
“My name’s Ward Littell. I’m ex-FBI, with reserve credentials. I was hoping you’d do me a favor.”
“Well, sure, if I can.”
Littell grabbed a pen. “I need you to check your recently collated entries for flights from Laos and Vietnam. I’m looking for commercial or military landings at Customs-manned facilities in your jurisdiction, and I need the names on the passport-check lists.”
Bryce coughed. “Can you hold? I doubt if we’ve had more than three or four of those, tops.”
Littell said, “I’ll hold.”
Bryce hit a button. The connection fuzzed. Static hit the line. Littell held. Littell checked his watch. Littell counted rabbits.
BLUE RABBIT/WILD RABBIT/RED RABBIT. Three minutes/forty-two sec—
Bryce picked up. “Sir? We’ve only got one. I—”
“Can you give—”
“One ordnance flight. Saigon to the Air National Guard facility near Houston. The crew plus one passenger, a man named Charles Rogers.”
72
(Saravan, 6/19/65)
Poly test—pure impromptu—John Stanton dropped in.
He cleared the hut. He rolled graph sheets. He rigged the machine. He fired the needle. He fired the pulse clip. He fired the dials.
Pete rigged a chair. Laurent Guéry sat down. Stanton rigged the blood-pressure cuff.
Stanton clamped the cuff. Pete looped the chest cord. Stanton pumped the cuff. Stanton read the dial:
Normal stats—110/80.
A wind stirred. Dope seeds blew. Pete shut the window.
Stanton grabbed a chair. Stanton pulse-clipped Guéry. Pete grabbed a chair. Pete watched the needle.
Stanton said, “Do you drink water?”
Guéry said, “Yes.”
The needle bumped. The needle slid. The needle flatlined. Stanton read the cuff and clip:
Okay—normal signs.
Stanton said, “Are you a citizen of the Republic of France?”
Guéry said, “Yes.”
The needle bumped. The needle slid. The needle flatlined. Stanton read the cuff and clip:
Okay—normal signs.
Pete stretched. Pete yawned—fuck this pro-forma jive.
Stanton said, “Are you a committed anti-Communist?”
Guéry said, “Yes.”
Flatline.
Stanton said, “Are you pro–Viet Cong?”
Guéry said, “No.”
Flatline.
Stanton said, “Have you ever stolen from the kadre?”
Guéry said, “No.”
The needle dipped two inches. The needle laid swerve lines. Stanton pumped the cuff. Stanton read the dial.
Not okay—140/110—non-normal signs.
Guéry squirmed. Pete eyeballed him. Pete read his signs: Chills/goose bumps/sweat.
Stanton said, “Have you ever stolen from kadre-adjunct personnel?”
Guéry said, “No.”
The needle dipped three inches. The needle laid swerve lines.
Stanton hit the intercom switch. Stanton talked gook: “Quon, Minh. Mau len. Di, thi, di.”
Two gooks ran in—one Marv and one Cong doubletime. Guéry squirmed. Pete read signs: Wet hands/wet armpits/crotch leaking sweat.
Stanton nodded. The gooks flanked Guéry. The gooks pulled batons.
Stanton said, “Do you have knowledge of such thefts?”
Guéry said, “No.”
The needle dipped six inches. The needle laid swerve lines.
Stanton said, “Do you have knowledge that Pete Bondurant perpetrated such thefts?”
Guéry said, “No.”
Needle bump. Flatline.
Stanton said, “Do you have knowledge that Jean Philippe Mesplède perpetrated such thefts?”
Guéry said, “No.”
Needle bump. Flatline.
Stanton said, “Do you have knowledge that Wayne Tedrow Junior perpetrated such thefts?”
Guéry said, “No.”
Needle bump. Flatline.
Stanton said, “Do you have knowledge that Chuck Rogers perpetrated such thefts?”
Guéry said, “No.”
The needle dipped eight inches. The needle laid swerve lines.
Guéry squirmed. Stanton cued the gooks. They grabbed ropes. They looped them. They tied Guéry to the chair.
Stanton pulled his piece. Stanton cocked it. Pete grabbed the field phone. Pete patched the lab.
Chuck was gone. Chuck split to Saigon. Chuck split four days back. Chuck bunked with Guéry now. Chuck hassled Guéry. Chuck drove Guéry nuts.
Pete got a dial tone. Pete got line fuzz. Pete got a click.
Wayne picked up. “Yeah?”
“It’s me. Have you seen Chuck?”
“No. Was he supposed—”
“He was supposed to go through Bao Loc and Saigon and pick up some guns.”
“I haven’t seen him at all. He always comes by the Go-Go when he’s—”
Pete hung up. Stanton cued him—go check the hooch.
Pete ran over. Pete popped the door. Pete tripped on the mat. He caught himself. He eyeball-walked. He quadrant-scanned.
Four walls/two fart sacks/two nightstands/two lockers/one shitter/one sink.
Pete dumped the nightstands. Pete combed debris. Toothpaste/rubbers/stroke books/hate tracts/Ring magazines.
Two passports—both Guéry’s—CIA/French.
Pete dumped the lockers. Pete combed debris. Hate tracts/bug spray/beaver pix/gun oil/Swank magazines.
No Chuck passports. No Chuck ID.
Pete grabbed the field phone. Pete patched Saigon direct. He got Ops South. They repatched him. He got Tan Son Nhut. They repatched him. He got static. He got Customs.
He got a gook. He spoke French. The gook spoke strict Viet. The gook repatched him. He got static. He got a white man.
“Customs, Agent Lierz.”
“This is Sergeant Peters, CID. I’m checking on a civilian who might’ve cleared Customs within the past four days.”
Lierz coughed. The line coughed. Static brizzed.
“You got a name?”
“Rogers. First name Charles.”
Lierz coughed. “I’ve got my log here. Hold on … Rice, Ridgeway, Rippert … yeah, Rogers. He flew out four days ago. He showed manifest docs, loaded explosive material and caught a transport to the National Guard strip in Houston, Tex—”
Pete hung up. Pete got it: Thefts/fake docs/explosives.
Guéry screamed. Pete heard it loud. It carried from forty yards up.
He ran back. He smelled smoke and piss. He cracked the door and saw it.
There’s Guéry.
He’s tied up. He’s pantless. He’s scared. Stanton’s got the hot box. Stanton’s got the switch. Stanton’s got the clamps on his balls.
The gooks watched. The gooks smoked bootjack Kools. The gooks slurped gook wine.
Stanton said, “What did Chuck Rogers steal?”
Guéry shook his head. Stanton hit the switch. Stanton tossed volts. Guéry buckled and screamed.
Stanton said, “If the theft is kadre-adjunct and you didn’t participate or report it, I’d be inclined to go easy.”
Guéry shook his head. Stanton hit the switch. Stanton tossed volts. Guéry buckled and screamed.
Stanton said, “Where’s Rogers now? What did he steal and who did he steal it from?”
Guéry shook his head. Stanton hit the switch. Stanton tossed volts. Guéry buckled and screamed.
Pete got it—for real now.
Chuck and Guéry worked Dallas. Stanton’s got no clue. Guéry won’t talk. Guéry won’t rat Chuck for anything.
Stanton said, “Is Rogers in-country? Did he fly back to the States?”
Guéry shook his head. Stanton hit the switch. Stanton tossed volts. Guéry buckled and screamed.
The gooks laughed—he claaazy—he dinky dau.
Stanton hit the switch. Stanton tossed volts. Guéry buckled. Guéry screamed. Guéry yelled, “Assez!”
Stanton cued the gooks. The gooks pulled the clamps. The gooks untied Guéry. The gooks sprayed his balls with baby oil. The gooks fed him gook wine.
He slurped it. He stood up. He teetered. He fell back in his chair.
Stanton leaned in. “If I said it hurt me more than it hurt you, I’d be a fucking liar.”
Pete sneezed—the hut smelled—fried ball hair and sweat.
Guéry said, “The ammo dump … Bao Loc … Chuck, qu’est-ce que c’est, burglarized bomb material … from François.”
Stanton shook his head. “Did he tell you what he had in mind?”
Pete leaned in. “Chuck flew to the States. If you let me talk to him alone, I’ll get the rest of it.”
Stanton nodded. Stanton stood up. Stanton cued the gooks—venez, venez.
They walked out together. Pete grabbed the bottle. Guéry snatched it. Guéry drained it. Guéry hitched his pants up.
“I will never have children now.”
“It’s not like you want them.”
“No. The world has become too communistic.”
“I think I know why you held back.”
Guéry wiped his nose. “I did not betray the kadre.”
“I know you didn’t.”
Guéry rubbed his balls. “Chuck … qu’est-ce … received a letter from his parents. I think they are not sane.”
Pete lit two cigarettes. Guéry snatched one.
“Chuck lives at their house. They said they found his … journal?”
“Journal, right.”
“Which described our operation in Dallas … for which … they demanded an explanation … which … Chuck said he would fly home and … qu’est-ce … take care of it.”
Pete kicked a doorpost. “He stole bomb ordnance for that?”
Guéry coughed. “No. For something else. He would not tell me.”
Pete walked outside. Slaves double-timed past him. Guards popped rubber rounds.
Stanton straddled a fence rail. “How bad?”
Pete shrugged. “You tell me. Laurent said it’s a family grudge, and Chuck flew out with explosives.”
Stanton chewed a hangnail. “There’s a courier flight leaving for Fort Sam Houston. You and Wayne go find him and kill him.”
73
(Houston, 6/21/65)
Gulf heat:
Low clouds and thick air. Air as bug propellant.
And bug catalyst. And bug haven. And bug launching pad. Bug heat—80 at 2:12 a.m.
The freeway was dead. Bugs bipped off the car. Pete drove. Wayne read maps.
Chez Chuck was on Driscoll. Chez Chuck was close. Chez Chuck was near Rice U.
Wayne yawned. Pete yawned. They yawned contrapuntal. They flew eighteen hours—Saigon to Houston—they plowed six time zones.
They flew transport. They sat on crates. They ate canned corn exclusive. Stanton set a car up—a ’61 Ford—there at Fort Sam.
Bum wheels altogether. No muffler. No fucking Air King.
Stanton knew some of it. Pete said so. Pete said he withheld the key shit. Maybe Chuck’s here. Maybe Chuck’s not. Maybe Chuck’s in Bogalusa.
With Bob Relyea—kadre-ex—kurrent Klan klown. Bob ran a snitch-Klan. Wayne Senior ran Bob. That meant he could WATCH.
They ditched the freeway. They took side streets. They ran their high beams. Houston was the shits—brick cribs and bug lights abundant.
Stanton shot them filework: stats per Chez Chuck. Chuck’s dad and mom were Fred and Edwina. They had a ’53 Olds.
Texas plates: DXL-841.
They hit Kirby Street. They hit Richmond. They turned hard right. There—Driscoll—1780/1800/1808.
1815 was glazed brick. No palace/no slum. Two floors and no lights extant.
Pete parked. Wayne grabbed two flashlights. They got out. They circled the house. They flashed the windows. They flashed the doors.
Bugs stirred. Owls stirred. Wasps bombed a nest.
Wayne flashed the back porch. Pete flashed a hedge. Wayne caught a glint—light on steel—Pete threw his beam down.
Wayne reached in. Wayne grabbed and pulled. Wayne sliced two fingers up.
There—
One Texas license plate—stuffed in a hedge. Bingo on DXL-841.
Pete said, “He changed plates on the Olds.”
Wayne sucked his fingers. “Let’s go in. We might find something.”
Pete flashed the back door. Wayn
e walked up and looked. Okay: One lock/flat bolt/wide keyhole.
Pete cupped his light. Wayne pulled his picks and jabbed at the hole. Two missed. One hit. One slid in deep.
He twisted it. He turned it. He popped the bolt. They popped the door and walked in.
They flashed the floor. They flashed a stairwell. Wayne smelled mold. Wayne smelled baked beans.
They turned left. They hit a hall. They hit a kitchen. Wayne felt trapped heat. Moonlight sieved through venetian blinds.
Pete pulled the blinds. Wayne hit the lights. There:
Sink water—dark pink—carving knives afloat. Baked beans and fruit flies on mold. Hair in a colander. Dots on the floor. Dots by the fridge.
Pete opened it. Wayne smelled it. They saw it:
The severed legs. The diced hips. Mom’s head in the vegetable bin.
74
(Bogalusa, 6/21/65)
Phone work:
Room 6—the Glow Motel—direct calls out. Outside noise as direct counterpoint.
Shouts. Rebel yells. Nigger! Nigger! Nigger! We Shall Overcome!
We’re in BOMBalusa now. We remember BOMBingham.
He slept with the riddle. He lived with it. He ran.
To: Marches and pray-ins and cross burns. To: Beatings and hecklings and shouts.
He assumed a Fed presence. He laid cover tracks. He called Carlos. He set up a meet. He flew through New Orleans.
BLUE RABBIT might be here. Add BLUE’s Brother WHITE. Add Hoover confidants. Add local Feds.
He laid tracks. I was close. It was close. I had to see. I’m CRUSADER RABBIT. I’m a fool for civil rights.
Littell checked his phone book. Littell ran motels. He called the Texas DMV this morning. He got Chuck Rogers’ stats.
Houston/Driscoll Street/one Oldsmobile. Texas plates: DXL-841.
He got the stats. He got the room. He called motels. Forty-two local—dull phone-book stats.
He played Fed. He dropped his stats. He checked registrations. He made 19 calls. He got all nos. He hit Clerk 20.
“You the second police type who called ’bout that Olds. Only this other guy didn’t give me no DXL number, he said it’d have hot Texas plates.”
He brainstormed the response. He ran RABBITS. FATHER RABBIT’s Wayne Senior. FATHER knows Chuck. FATHER runs WILD RABBIT. WILD RABBIT’s close. WILD RABBIT’s Klan.