The Cold Six Thousand: Underworld USA 2

by James Ellroy

  Barb stepped back. “You’re going to do things that you won’t be able to live with.”

  “Maybe I have already.”

  “It gets worse. And you’ll do worse things, just to prove you can take it.”

  Test run:

  Four collections. Four junkie deadbeats. Sonny’s collection debut.

  Said junkies annexed a church basement. Said junkies had squatters’ rights. Their pastor skin-popped Demerol. Said junkies geezed up in church.

  Wayne drove. Sonny cleaned his nails with a switchblade. Sonny sipped scotch. West LV sizzled. Folks soaked in kiddie pools. Folks lived in air-cooled cars.

  Wayne said, “I killed a colored guy in Saigon.”

  Sonny said, “I killed a white guy in St. Louis.”

  There’s the church. It’s dilapidated. It’s sandblasted. It’s neon-signed. Dig the prayer hands and crosses. Dig the Jesus rolling dice.

  They parked. They walked back to the basement door. They picked the lock. They walked in.

  They saw four junkies. They’re crapped out on car seats—scavenged off old Cadillacs. They saw spoons and matchbooks. They saw spikes and tube ties. They saw bindles and white dregs.

  There’s a hi-fi. There’s some LPs. It’s all gospel wax.

  The junkies reposed—one per seat—the land of Naugahyde Nod. They saw Sonny. They saw Wayne. They snickered. They giggled. They sighed.

  Wayne said, “Go.”

  Sonny whistled. Sonny stomped. Sonny stormed Naugahyde Nod.

  “You motherfuckers have got ten seconds to quit fucking with this house of worship and pay up what you owe.”

  One junkie giggled. One junkie scratched. One junkie chuckled. One junkie yawned.

  Wayne turned on the hi-fi. Wayne flipped a disc. Wayne laid the needle down. It was loud shit. It was ecstatic—Crawdaddy’s Christian Chorale.

  Wayne said, “Go.”

  Sonny kicked the car seats. Sonny dumped the junkies. Sonny threw the junkies down. They squirmed. They squealed. They evacuated Naugahyde Nod.

  Sonny kicked them. Sonny picked them up. Sonny dropped them. Sonny grabbed the car seats. Sonny aimed. Sonny dropped them on their heads.

  They squealed. They screeched. They howled and bled.

  Sonny slapped them. Sonny picked their pockets. Sonny tossed pocket trash. One guy turned his pockets out. One guy ran pleas.

  Sonny picked him up. Sonny dropped him. Sonny kicked him. Sonny bent down. Sonny caught his pleas.

  Sonny stood up. Sonny smiled. Sonny signaled Wayne. Crawdaddy crescendoed. Wayne pulled the plug and walked up.

  Sonny smiled. “As of spring, Wendell Durfee was running a string of wetback whores in Bakersfield, California.”

  80

  (Bon Secour, 7/22/65)

  Boats:

  Charter jobs. Teak hulls and big motors. Forty slips / thirty bare / thirty boats out.

  Pete strolled dockside. Pete scoped slip 19. There’s the Ebbtide. It runs fifty feet. Dig those high gunwales.

  Nice shit. Mounted poles and cargo space. Spiffy brass fittings.

  A guy worked on deck. He was mid-size. He ran mid-forties. He had a bum leg. He had a bad limp.

  It was hot. The air dripped. Clouds densified. Mobile Bay—Shitsville—bait shacks and congestion.

  Pete strolled deckside. Pete scoped slip 19.

  He traced Jane’s call. He flew in. He ran checks. “Dave Burgess” owned the Ebbtide. “Dave Burgess” chartered out. “Dave Burgess” knew guys in New Orleans. Add 2 and 2. Add D.B. “Dave Burgess” was Danny Bruvick.

  The T&C Corp owned the Ebbtide. Carlos owned T&C. Carlos was New Orleans.

  He bribed a cop. He checked phone sheets. He ran phone checks. “Burgess” was good. “Burgess” used pay phones—right off the dock.

  “Burgess” called Carlos. “Burgess” called Carlos frequent. “Burgess” called Carlos four times last month.

  Pete walked slip 19. “Burgess” scrubbed fishhooks. Pete stepped on deck. “Burgess” looked up.

  He tweaked a bit. He perked a bit. His antennae twitched.

  That speargun—watch.

  “Burgess” reached for it. “Burgess” grabbed. “Burgess” nailed the grip. Pete aimed. Pete kicked out. Pete nailed the grip.

  The speargun skittered. “Burgess” said, “Shit.”

  Pete walked up. Pete grabbed the speargun. Pete popped the spear out to sea.

  “Burgess” said, “Fuck.”

  Pete pulled his shirt up. Pete showed his piece.

  “You’re thinking ‘Jimmy Hoffa sent this guy,’ and you’re wrong.”

  “Burgess” sucked a thumbnail. “Burgess” flexed his hand. Pete checked the boat out. The boat enticed. The boat seduced.

  Nice: Steel hull/grappling posts/fittings. Nice: Hardwood from the Philippines.

  “Burgess” flexed his wrist. “She’s an old rum-runner. She’s got all the—”

  Pete pulled his shirt up. Pete showed his piece. Pete pointed below-deck. “Burgess” stood up. “Burgess” sighed. “Burgess” squared his bum leg and limped.

  He wore shorts. Dig his scars. Dig his bullet-pocked knee.

  He crossed the deck. He passed the wheelhouse. He took back stairs down. Pete tailed him. Pete scoped details.

  Two wheel stands/control posts/full instruments. Teak walls/hall space/rear cabins. Rear engines/rear storage/rear cargo traps.

  Pete walked ahead. Pete saw an office: two chairs/one desk/one booze shelf.

  He pulled “Burgess” in. He grabbed a chair. He pushed “Burgess” down. He tucked “Burgess” in. He poured a libation.

  The boat swayed. Pete sloshed Cutty. “Burgess” grabbed it. “Burgess” drained it. “Burgess” liquor-flushed.

  Pete poured a refill. Pete poured big. “Burgess” refueled. “Burgess” sucked Cutty up.

  Pete cocked his piece. “You’re Danny Bruvick. I’m Pete Bondurant, and we’ve got some friends in common.”

  Bruvick burped. Bruvick flushed. Bruvick vibed lush.

  Pete twirled his piece. “I want the whole story of you, ‘Arden,’ and Carlos Marcello. I want to know why Arden is shacked up with Ward Littell.”

  Bruvick eyed the bottle. Pete poured him a pop. Bruvick refueled. The boat dipped. Bruvick doused his lap.

  “You shouldn’t let me drink too much. I might get courageous.”

  Pete shook his head. Pete pulled his silencer. Pete tapped his piece. Bruvick gulped. Bruvick pulled beads out. Bruvick rosaried.

  Pete shot the Cutty. Pete shot the Gilbey’s. Pete shot the Jack D. Bottles spritzed. Teakwood cracked. Soft-points tore holes.

  The room shook—sonic booms—the boat aftershocked.

  Bruvick spazzed out. Bruvick squeezed his beads. Bruvick grabbed his ears.

  Pete pulled his hands down. “Start with Arden. Give me her real name and lay out some perspective.”

  Bruvick sneezed. Gunpowder tickled noses. Gun cordite stung.

  “Her real name’s Arden Breen. Her old man was a labor agitator. You know, a Commie type.”

  Pete cracked his knuckles. “Keep going.”

  Bruvick tossed his hair. Glass shards flew.

  “Her mother died. She got rheumatic fever. The old man raised Arden. He was a drunk and a whore chaser. He had a different name for every day of the week, and he raised Arden in whorehouses and union halls, meaning bad union halls, meaning the old man talked Red, but cut management deals every chance he got, which was—”

  “Arden. Get back to her.”

  Bruvick rubbed his knees. “She quit school early, but she always had a head for figures. She met these two whores who went to the bookkeeping school I went to in Mississippi and picked up some skills from them. She kept some whorehouse and union hall books, you know, gigs her old man got her. She’d work these classier houses and spy on the johns. She’d pump them for stock tips and shit like that. She was good at anything involving numbers and ledgers. You know, money calculations.”

  P
ete cracked his thumbs. “Get to it. You’re working up to something.”

  Bruvick rubbed his bad knee. Scar tissue pulsed.

  “She started working in some classier houses. She met this money guy Jules Schiffrin. He was tied in with—”

  “I know who he was.”

  “Okay, so she started tricking with him regular. He kept her, you know, and she met lots of people in the Life, and she helped him with these so-called ‘real’ pension-fund books that he was working on.”

  Pete cracked his wrists. “Keep going.”

  Bruvick rubbed his knee. “Her old man got killed in ’52. He screwed Jimmy H. on a management deal, so Jimmy had him clipped. Arden didn’t care. She hated the old man for his goddamn hypocrisy and the shitty way he raised her.”

  The boat pitched. Pete grabbed the desk.

  “Arden and Schiffrin. Spill on that.”

  “Spill what? She learned what she could from him and broke it off.”

  “And?”

  “And she started hooking freelance, and got a thing going with Carlos. I met her in ’55. We had mutual friends in those whores who went to school with me. I was working the K.C. local. We got married and cooked up some plans.”

  “Like ‘Let’s embezzle Jimmy.’ ”

  Bruvick lit a cigarette. “I admit it wasn’t the smartest—”

  “You got caught. Jimmy put a contract out.”

  “Right. Some guys cornered me and shot me. I got away, but I almost lost my leg, and the fucking contract’s still out.”

  Pete lit a cigarette. “Jimmy had the K.C. cops run Arden in. Carlos bailed her out and hid you. He didn’t fuck with Jimmy’s contract, because he wanted a wedge on you.”

  Bruvick nodded. Bruvick scoped the booze shelf.

  “You’re a hump. You wasted my liquor.”

  Pete smiled. Pete aimed. Pete cocked his piece. Pete shot Bruvick’s chair.

  The legs sheared. The chair crashed. Wood shattered. Bruvick tumbled. Bruvick yelped. Bruvick rosaried.

  Pete blew smoke rings. “Carlos set up your charter business. What happened to Arden then?”

  The boat pitched. Bruvick dropped his beads.

  “She didn’t trust Carlos. She didn’t want to owe him, so she split to Europe. We worked out a pay-phone thing and kept in touch that way.”

  Pete coughed. “She came back to the States. She couldn’t give up the Life.”

  “Right. She landed in Dallas. She got in trouble there, like late in ’63. She wouldn’t say what happened.”

  Pete flicked his cigarette. Pete nailed Bruvick flush.

  “Come on, Danny. Don’t make me get ugly.”

  Bruvick stood up. His knee went. He stumbled. He braced the wall. He slid back and sat.

  He rubbed his knee. He snuffed Pete’s cigarette.

  “That’s straight. She wouldn’t tell me what happened. All I know is she hooked up with Littell, then around that time Carlos found her. He said we’d both be safe if she watchdogged Littell, but he still refused to square us with Jimmy.”

  Solid. Confirmed. Two-front blackmail. Jimmy’s contract/the safe-house snafu. Arden—that first name unique.

  Carlos knows Arden. Carlos makes her name. Carlos distrusts Littell. Carlos finds Arden. Carlos plants Arden. Arden spies on Littell.

  It vibed solid—90%—it vibed incomplete.

  Pete said, “I don’t want Littell to get hurt.”

  Bruvick stood up. His bad knee held.

  “I don’t think Arden does, either. She’s playing out some weird thing with him.”

  He called Carlos. He got Frau M. He left a message:

  I braced D.B.—Danny the boat man—tell Carlos that. Tell him I’ll be by. Say I’d love to chat.

  He drove to New Orleans. He stopped in libraries. He studied books en route.

  Boats:

  Galleys/bridges/radar/trawl decks/scuppers/masts.

  He studied the nomenclature. He studied engine stats. He studied maps. Pine Island/Cape Sabel/Key West. Pit stops—Cuba due south.

  He detoured. He cruised by Port Sulphur. He saw Tiger Kamp South. He saw the troops. He saw Flash and Laurent. He met Fuentes and Arredondo. They talked night raids. They talked scalp runs. They talked insurgency.

  Wayne was in Saigon—one fast rotation—one scheduled run back. Wayne loves to WATCH. Wayne wants to GO. Wayne wants to SEE Cuba up close.

  Flash had a plan. I’ll do a speedboat run. I’ll drop Fuentes and Arredondo. Fast—off the north shore—Varcadero Beach.

  They reinfiltrate. They build drop zones. They recruit internal. They speedboat back. They funnel arms. They bounce off the Keys. They pull a boat hitch. They lug guns. They fly fast and low. They shuttle. They duck radar—six runs a week.

  Pete said no. Pete said why: It’s high mileage/it wastes two men/it’s low capacity.

  Flash said, “Que?”

  Laurent said, “Quoi?”

  Fuentes said, “Que pasa?”

  Pete talked hold nets. Pete talked gunwales. Pete talked fuel efficiency.

  Pete talked boats.

  Carlos said, “Sure, she’s my watchdog. Tell me Ward don’t play angles, then tell me I don’t need one.”

  Galatoire’s was dead. They hogged a prime table. Carlos dipped his cigar. Mecundo meets anisette.

  “Ward’s fund-book thing is a fucking extravaganza, and Arden is a brilliant fucking bookkeeper. I’m protecting my franchise, and Ward gets some good cooze in the process.”

  Pete lit a cigarette. “He’s in love with her. I don’t want him to get hurt.”

  Carlos winked. “I don’t want you to get hurt. We go back like Ward and me go back. Some guys would have been miffed at what you did to Danny B., but I am not one of them.”

  Pete smiled. “I copped to it, didn’t I? I called you.”

  “That is correct. You did the wrong thing and covered your bets.”

  “I just don’t want—”

  “He won’t be. They’re good for each other. I know Arden, and Arden knows she can’t shit me. Arden tells me Ward’s not scheming against me, so I believe her. I’ve always had this feeling that Ward was skimming Howard Hughes, but Arden says it’s not so, so I believe her.”

  Pete burped. Pete undid his belt—rich Creole food.

  “Give me the warning. Let’s get it over with.”

  Carlos burped. Carlos undid his belt—rich Creole food.

  “Don’t tell Ward about this. Don’t make me peeved at you.”

  “This”—still solid—still incomplete.

  A waiter cruised by. Pete nixed a comped brandy.

  Carlos belched. “What’s this about ‘ideas’?”

  Pete cleared some plates. Pete laid his map out. Pete swamped the table.

  “Speedboat runs waste man-hours. You can’t move ordnance in bulk. I want to refit and camouflage Bruvick’s boat and run it out of Bon Secour. I want to move guns in quantity and pull terror missions.”

  Carlos checked the map. Carlos lit his cigar. Carlos burned a big hole in Cuba.

  81

  (Las Vegas, 8/7/65)

  Lyle Holly: Dwight Holly built small. BLUE to WHITE RABBIT. A Hoosier/a loudmouth/a fraud.

  They met at the DI. They sat in the lounge. Lyle was blunt. Lyle was coarse. Lyle was buzzed at noon.

  Lyle said, “I think I’m schizophrenic. I work for the SCLC, I work for Mr. Hoover. I’m on Black Rabbit one minute, voting-rights drives the next. Dwight says I’m psychically unhinged.”

  Littell sipped coffee. Littell smelled Lyle’s scotch.

  “Did Mr. Hoover send you in to spy on me?”

  Lyle slapped his knees. “Dwight suggested it. He knew I was coming to Vegas, so what the hell.”

  “Is there anything you’d like me to reveal?”

  “Shit, no. I’ll tell Dwight that the Ward I saw is the same Ward I allegedly knew back in Chicago, except now he’s just as schizo as I am, and for all the same reasons.”

  Littell laughed. Sammy Dav
is Jr. walked by. Lyle stared at him.

  “Look at that. He’s ugly, he’s got one eye, and he’s colored and Jewish. I heard he gets lots of white pussy.”

  Littell smiled. Lyle waved to Sammy. Sammy waved back.

  Lyle sipped Johnnie Red. “Marty gives this speech in New York. He’s got a captive audience of liberal Jews with deep pockets. He starts attacking the Vietnam War and pissing all the hebes off with words like ‘genocide.’ He’s going outside his civil-rights bailiwick and biting the hand that feeds him.”

  Pete was in Laos. Wayne was in Saigon. The war hid them there. He called Carlos. Carlos talked up Pete. Carlos said they’d just schemed plans for Cuba.

  Littell said let me retire. Carlos said okay. Carlos dittoed Sam’s consent. Carlos talked up the ’68 election.

  Lyle sipped scotch. Peter Lawford walked by. Lyle stared at him.

  “He used to pimp for Jack Kennedy. That makes us comrades-in-arms. I get Marty all his white snatch, and sometimes I dig up young meat for Bayard Rustin. Mr. Hoover’s got a photo of Bayard with a dick in his mouth. He made a dupe for President Johnson.”

  Littell smiled. Lyle hailed a waitress. Lyle shagged a quick refill.

  “Dwight said they blew that church up with C-4 explosive. Bayard told me it really was a leaky gas main, which makes me think you told him.”

  Littell sipped coffee. “I told him, yes.”

  Lyle sipped scotch. “Crusader Rabbit’s a white man. I’ll tell Dwight that.”

  Littell smiled. Lyle grinned. Lyle pulled out a checkbook.

  “I feel lucky. You think you can cash a check into play chips for me?”

  “How much?”

  “Two grand.”

  Littell smiled. “Put my initials and ‘suite 108’ on the check. Tell the cashier I’m a permanent resident.”

  Lyle smiled. Lyle wrote the check. Lyle got up and walked—half-steady.

  Littell watched.

  Lyle weaved. Lyle slurped scotch. Lyle trekked the casino. Lyle braced the teller’s cage. Lyle passed the check. Lyle got his chips.

  Littell watched. Littell let some thoughts stir—CRUSADER RABBIT/White Man/gas main.

  Lyle braced a roulette stand. Lyle stacked his chips. Red chips—hundreds—two G’s. The wheelman bowed. The wheelman twirled. The wheel spun. The wheel stopped. The wheelman raked chips.